The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, and The Republic of Thieves are works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Del Rey eBook Edition

The Lies of Locke Lamora copyright © 2006 by Scott Lynch

Red Seas Under Red Skies copyright © 2007 by Scott Lynch

The Republic of Thieves copyright © 2013 by Scott Lynch

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

DEL REY and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, and The Republic of Thieves were each published separately by Spectra and Del Rey, imprints of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York, in 2006, 2007, and 2013.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-8129-8790-4

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v3.1

THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA
A Bantam Spectra Book / July 2006

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2006 by Scott Lynch

Book design by Lynn Newmark
Map by Robert Bull

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lynch, Scott.
The lies of Locke Lamora / Scott Lynch.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-553-80467-6
ISBN-10: 0-553-80467-7
eISBN: 978-0-553-90271-6
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. 2. Robbers and outlaws—Fiction. 3. Orphans—Fiction. 4. Gangsters—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3612.Y5427 L54 2006
813.’6 22       2006042653

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1_r3

For Jenny, this little world that was blessed
to have you peeking over my shoulder while it took shape—
Love always.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue: The Boy Who Stole Too Much

I: Ambition

Chapter One: The Don Salvara Game

Interlude: Locke Explains

Chapter Two: Second Touch at the Teeth Show

Interlude: Locke Stays for Dinner

Chapter Three: Imaginary Men

Interlude: The Last Mistake

II: Complication

Chapter Four: At the Court of Capa Barsavi

Interlude: The Boy Who Cried for a Corpse

Chapter Five: The Gray King

Interlude: Jean Tannen

Chapter Six: Limitations

Interlude: Brat Masterpieces

Chapter Seven: Out the Window

Interlude: Up the River

Chapter Eight: The Funeral Cask

Interlude: The Half-Crown War

III: Revelation

Chapter Nine: A Curious Tale for Countess Amberglass

Interlude: The Schoolmaster of Roses

Chapter Ten: Teeth Lessons

Interlude: The Tale of the Old Handball Players

Chapter Eleven: At the Court of Capa Raza

Interlude: The Lady of the Long Silence

IV: Desperate Improvisation

Chapter Twelve: The Fat Priest from Tal Verrar

Interlude: The White Iron Conjurers

Chapter Thirteen: Orchids and Assassins

Chapter Fourteen: Three Invitations

Interlude: The Daughters of Camorr

Chapter Fifteen: Spiderbite

Interlude: The Throne in Ashes

Chapter Sixteen: Justice is Red

Interlude: A Minor Prophecy

Epilogue: Falselight

Afterword

PROLOGUE

THE BOY WHO STOLE TOO MUCH

1

AT THE HEIGHT of the long wet summer of the Seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, the Thiefmaker of Camorr paid a sudden and unannounced visit to the Eyeless Priest at the Temple of Perelandro, desperately hoping to sell him the Lamora boy.

“Have I got a deal for you!” the Thiefmaker began, perhaps inauspiciously.

“Another deal like Calo and Galdo, maybe?” said the Eyeless Priest. “I’ve still got my hands full training those giggling idiots out of every bad habit they picked up from you and replacing them with the bad habits I need.”

“Now, Chains.” The Thiefmaker shrugged. “I told you they were shit-flinging little monkeys when we made the deal, and it was good enough for you at the—”

“Or maybe another deal like Sabetha?” The priest’s richer, deeper voice chased the Thiefmaker’s objection right back down his throat. “I’m sure you recall charging me everything but my dead mother’s kneecaps for her. I should’ve paid you in copper and watched you spring a rupture trying to haul it all away.”

“Ahhhhhh, but she was special, and this boy, he’s special, too,” said the Thiefmaker. “Everything you asked me to look for after I sold you Calo and Galdo. Everything you liked so much about Sabetha! He’s Camorri, but a mongrel. Therin and Vadran blood with neither dominant. He’s got larceny in his heart, sure as the sea’s full of fish piss. And I can even let you have him at a … a discount.”

The Eyeless Priest spent a long moment mulling this. “You’ll pardon me,” he finally said, “if the suggestion that the minuscule black turnip you call a heart is suddenly overflowing with generosity toward me leaves me wanting to arm myself and put my back against a wall.”

The Thiefmaker tried to let a vaguely sincere expression scurry onto his face, where it froze in evident discomfort. His shrug was theatrically casual. “There are, ah, problems with the boy, yes. But the problems are unique to his situation in my care. Were he under yours, I’m sure they would, ahhhh, vanish.”

“Oh. You have a magic boy. Why didn’t you say so?” The priest scratched his forehead beneath the white silk blindfold that covered his eyes. “Magnificent. I’ll plant him in the fucking ground and grow a vine to an enchanted land beyond the clouds.”

“Ahhhhh! I’ve tasted that flavor of sarcasm before, Chains.” The Thiefmaker gave an arthritic mock bow. “That’s the sort you spit out as a bargaining posture. Is it really so hard to say that you’re interested?”

The Eyeless Priest shrugged. “Suppose Calo, Galdo, and Sabetha might be able to use a new playmate, or at least a new punching bag. Suppose I’m willing to spend about three coppers and a bowl of piss for a mystery boy. But you’ll still need to convince me that you deserve the bowl of piss. What’s the boy’s problem?”

“His problem,” said the Thiefmaker, “is that if I can’t sell him to you, I’m going to have to slit his throat and throw him in the bay. And I’m going to have to do it tonight.”

2

ON THE night the Lamora boy had come to live under the Thiefmaker’s care, the old graveyard on Shades’ Hill had been full of children, standing at silent attention and waiting for their new brothers and sisters to be led down into the mausoleums.

The Thiefmaker’s wards all carried candles; their cold blue light shone through the silver curtains of river mist as streetlamps might glimmer through a smoke-grimed window. A chain of ghostlight wound its way down from the hilltop, through the stone markers and ceremonial paths, down to the wide glass bridge over the Coalsmoke Canal, half-visible in the blood-warm fog that seeps up from Camorr’s wet bones on summer nights.

“Come now, my loves, my jewels, my newlyfounds, keep the pace,” whispered the Thiefmaker as he nudged the last of the thirty or so Catchfire orphans over the Coalsmoke Bridge. “These lights are just your new friends, come to guide your way up my hill. Move now, my treasures. There’s darkness wasting, and we have so much to talk about.”

In rare moments of vain reflection, the Thiefmaker thought of himself as an artist. A sculptor, to be precise, with orphans as his clay and the old graveyard on Shades’ Hill as his studio.

Eighty-eight thousand souls generated a certain steady volume of waste; this waste included a constant trickle of lost, useless, and abandoned children. Slavers took some of them, hauling them off to Tal Verrar or the Jeremite Islands. Slavery was technically illegal in Camorr, of course, but the act of enslavement itself was winked at, if there was no one left to speak for the victim.

So, slavers got some, and plain stupidity took a few more. Starvation and the diseases it brought were also common ways to go, for those who lacked the courage or the skill to pluck a living from the city around them. And then, of course, those with courage but no skill often wound up swinging from the Black Bridge in front of the Palace of Patience. The duke’s magistrates disposed of little thieves with the same rope they used on bigger ones, though they did see to it that the little ones went over the side of the bridge with weights tied to their ankles to help them hang properly.

Any orphans left after dicing with all of those colorful possibilities were swept up by the Thiefmaker’s own crew, one at a time or in small, frightened groups. Soon enough they would learn what sort of life awaited them beneath the graveyard that was the heart of his realm, where seven score of cast-off children bent the knee to a single bent old man.

“Quick-step, my lovelies, my new sons and daughters; follow the line of lights and step to the top. We’re almost home, almost fed, almost washed up and bedded down. Out of the rain and the mist and the stinking heat.”

Plagues were a time of special opportunity for the Thiefmaker, and the Catchfire orphans had crawled away from his very favorite sort: Black Whisper. It fell on the Catchfire district from points unknown, and the quarantine had gone up (death by clothyard shaft for anyone trying to cross a canal or escape on a boat) in time to save the rest of the city from everything but unease and paranoia. Black Whisper meant a miserable death for anyone over the age of eleven or twelve (as near as physikers could figure, for the plague was not content to reap by overly firm rules) and a few days of harmless swollen eyes and red cheeks for anyone younger.

By the fifth day of the quarantine, there were no more screams and no more attempted canal crossings, so Catchfire evaded the namesake fate that had befallen it so many times before in years of pestilence. By the eleventh day, when the quarantine was lifted and the duke’s Ghouls went in to survey the mess, perhaps one in eight of the four hundred children previously living there had survived the wait. They had already formed gangs for mutual protection, and had learned certain cruel necessities of life without adults.

The Thiefmaker was waiting as they were corralled and led out from the sinister silence of their old neighborhood.

He paid good silver for the best thirty, and even more good silver for the silence of the Ghouls and constables he relieved of the children. Then he led them, dazed and hollow-cheeked and smelling like hell, into the dark steambath mists of the Camorri night, toward the old graveyard on Shades’ Hill.

The Lamora boy was the youngest and smallest of the lot, five or six years old, nothing but jutting bones under skin rich with dirt and hollow angles. The Thiefmaker hadn’t even chosen him; the boy had simply crept away with the others as though he belonged. The Thiefmaker was not unaware of this, but he’d lived the sort of life in which even a single free plague orphan was a windfall not to be overlooked.

It was the summer of the Seventy-seventh Year of Gandolo, Father of Opportunities, Lord of Coin and Commerce. The Thiefmaker padded through the shrouded night, shepherding his ragged line of children.

In just two years he would be all but begging Father Chains, the Eyeless Priest, to take the Lamora boy off his hands—and sharpening his knives in case the priest refused.

3

THE EYELESS Priest scratched his gray-stubbled throat. “No shit?”

“None whatsoever.” The Thiefmaker reached down the front of a doublet that was several years past merely shabby and pulled out a leather pouch on a fine leather cord; the pouch was dyed the rust red of dried blood. “Already went to the big man and got permission. I’ll do the boy ear to ear and send him for teeth lessons.”

“Gods. It’s a sob story after all.” For an Eyeless Priest, the fingers he jabbed into the Thiefmaker’s sternum struck swift and sure. “Find some other lackwit to shackle with the chains of your conscience.”

“Conscience can go piss up a chimney, Chains. I’m talking avarice, yours and mine. I can’t keep the boy, and I’m offering you a unique opportunity. A genuine bargain.”

“If the boy’s too unruly to keep, why can’t you just pound some wisdom into him and let him ripen to a proper age of sale?”

“Out of the question, Chains. Limited options. I can’t just slap him around, because I can’t let any of the other little shits know what he’s, ahhh, done. If any of them had the slightest inclination to pull what he’s pulled … gods! I’d never be able to control them again. I can either kill him quick, or sell him quicker. No profit versus a paltry sum. So guess which one I prefer?”

“The boy’s done something you can’t even mention in front of the others?” Chains massaged his forehead above the blindfold and sighed. “Shit. This sounds like something I might actually be interested in hearing.”

4

AN OLD Camorri proverb has it that the only constant in the soul of man is inconstancy; anything and everything else can pass out of fashion—even something as utilitarian as a hill stuffed full of corpses.

Shades’ Hill was the first graveyard of quality in Camorr’s history, ideally situated to keep the bones of the formerly well-fed above the salty grasp of the Iron Sea. Yet over time, the balance of power shifted in the families of vault-carvers and morticians and professional pallbearers; fewer and fewer of the quality were interred on Shades’ Hill, as the nearby Hill of Whispers offered more room for larger and gaudier monuments with commensurately higher commissions. Wars, plagues, and intrigues ensured that the number of living families with monuments to tend on Shades’ Hill dropped steadily over the decades. Eventually, the only regular visitors were the priests and priestesses of Aza Guilla, who sleep in tombs during their apprenticeships, and the homeless orphans who squatted in the dust and darkness of the ill-tended burial vaults.

The Thiefmaker (though of course he wasn’t known as such just yet) had wound up sharing one of these vaults at the low point of his life, when he was nothing but a miserable curiosity—a pickpocket with nine broken fingers.

At first, his relationship with the Shades’ Hill orphans was half-bullying and half-pleading; some vestigial need for an authority figure kept them from killing him in his sleep. For his part, he grudgingly began to explain to them some of the tricks of his trade.

As his fingers slowly mended (after a fashion, for most of them would forever resemble twice-broken twigs), he began to impart more and more of his crooked wisdom onto the dirty children who dodged the rain and the city watch with him. Their numbers increased, as did their income, and they began to make more room for themselves in the wet stone chambers of the old graveyard.

In time, the brittle-boned pickpocket became the Thiefmaker, and Shades’ Hill became his kingdom.

The Lamora boy and his fellow Catchfire orphans entered this kingdom some twenty years after its founding. What they saw that night was a graveyard no deeper than the dirt piled above the old tombs. A great network of tunnels and galleries had been dug between the major vaults, their hard-packed walls threaded with supports like the ribs of long-dead wooden dragons. The previous occupants had all been quietly disinterred and dropped into the bay. Shades’ Hill was now an ant-mound of orphan thieves.

Down the black mouth of the topmost mausoleum the Catchfire orphans went, down the wood-ribbed tunnel lit by the flickering silver fire of cool alchemical globes, with greasy tendrils of mist chasing at their ankles. Shades’ Hill orphans watched them from every nook and warren, their eyes cold but curious. The thick tunnel air was saturated with the smells of night soil and stale bodies—an odor the Catchfire orphans soon multiplied with their own presence.

“In! In,” cried the Thiefmaker, rubbing his hands together. “My home, your home, and welcome to it! Here we all have one thing in common—no mothers and no fathers. Alas for that, but now you’ll have as many sisters and brothers as you can need, and dry earth over your head. A place … a family.”

A train of Shades’ Hill orphans swept down the tunnel in his wake, snuffing their eerie blue candles as they went, until only the silver radiance of the wall-globes remained to light the way.

At the heart of the Thiefmaker’s realm was a vast, warm hollow with a packed dirt floor, perhaps twice the height of a tall man, thirty yards wide and long. A single high-backed chair of oiled black witchwood stood against the far wall; the Thiefmaker eased himself into this with a grateful sigh.

Dozens of grotty blankets were set out on the floor, covered with food: bowls of bony chicken marinated in cheap almond wine, soft thresher-fish tails wrapped in bacon and soaked in vinegar, and brown bread flavored with sausage grease. There were also salted peas and lentils as well as bowls of past-ripe tomatoes and pears. Poor stuff, in truth, but in a quantity and variety most of the Catchfire orphans had never seen before. Their attack on the meal was immediate and uncoordinated; the Thiefmaker smiled indulgently.

“I’m not stupid enough to get between you and a decent meal, my dears. So eat your fill; eat more than your fill. Make up for lost time. We’ll talk after.”

As the Catchfire orphans stuffed their faces, the Shades’ Hill orphans crowded in around them, watching and saying nothing. Soon the chamber was packed and the air grew staler still. The feasting continued until there was literally nothing left; the survivors of the Black Whisper sucked the last vinegar and grease from their fingers and then turned their eyes warily to the Thiefmaker and his minions. The Thiefmaker held up three crooked fingers, as though on cue.

“Business!” he cried. “Three items of business. You’re here because I paid for you. I paid extra to get to you before anyone else could. I can assure you that every single one of your little friends that I didn’t pay for has gone to the slavers. There’s nothing else to be done with orphans. No place to keep you, nobody to take you in. The watch sells your sort for wine money, my dears; watch-sergeants neglect to mention you in their reports, and watch-captains neglect to give a shit.

“And,” he continued, “now that the Catchfire quarantine’s lifted, every slaver and would-be slaver in Camorr is going to be very excited and very alert. You’re free to get up and leave this hill any time you see fit—with my confident assurance that you’ll soon be sucking cocks or chained to an oar for the rest of your life.

“Which leads me to my second point. All of my friends you see around you”—he gestured to the Shades’ Hill orphans lined up against the walls—“can leave whenever they please, and mostly go wherever they please, because they are under my protection. I know,” he said with a long and solemn face, “that I am nothing especially formidable when considered as an individual, but do not be misled. I have powerful friends, my dears. What I offer is security by virtue of those friends. Should anyone—a slaver, for example—dare to set a hand on one of my Shades’ Hill boys or girls, well … the consequences would be immediate, and gratifyingly, ahhh, merciless.”

When none of his newcomers seemed appropriately enthusiastic, the Thiefmaker cleared his throat. “I’d have the miserable fucking bastards killed. Savvy?”

They were indeed.

“Which brings us neatly to my third item of interest—namely, all of you. This little family always needs new brothers and sisters, and you may consider yourselves invited—encouraged, no less—to, ahhh, condescend to offer us the pleasure of your intimate and permanent acquaintance. Make this hill your home, myself your master, and these fine boys and girls your trusted siblings. You’ll be fed, sheltered, and protected. Or you can leave right now and end up as fresh fruit in some whorehouse in Jerem. Any takers?”

None of the newcomers said anything.

“I knew I could count on you, my dear, dear Catchfire jewels.” The Thiefmaker spread his arms wide and smiled, revealing a half-moon of teeth brown as swampwater. “But of course, there must be responsibilities. There must be give and take, like for like. Food doesn’t sprout from my asshole. Chamber pots don’t empty themselves. Catch my meaning?”

There were hesitant nods from about half the Catchfire orphans.

“The rules are simple! You’ll learn them all in good time. For now, let’s keep it like this. Anybody who eats, works. Anyone who works, eats. Which brings us to my fourth … Oh, dear. Children, children. Do an absentminded old man the favor of imagining that he held up four fingers. This is my fourth important point.

“Now, we’ve got our chores here on the hill, but we’ve got chores elsewhere that also need doing. Other jobs … delicate jobs, unusual jobs. Fun and interesting jobs. All about the city, some by day and some by night. They will require courage, deftness, and, ahhh, discretion. We would so love to have your assistance with these … special tasks.”

He pointed to the one boy he hadn’t paid for, the small hanger-on, now staring up at him with hard, sullen eyes above a mouth still plastered with tomato innards.

“You, surplus boy, thirty-first of thirty. What say you? Are you the helpful sort? Are you willing to assist your new brothers and sisters with their interesting work?”

The boy mulled this over for a few seconds.

“You mean,” he said in a high thin voice, “that you want us to steal things.”

The old man stared down at the little boy for a very long time while a number of the Shades’ Hill orphans giggled behind their hands.

“Yes,” the Thiefmaker said at last, nodding slowly. “I might just mean that—though you have a very, ahhh, uncompromising view of a certain exercise of personal initiative that we prefer to frame in more artfully indeterminate terms. Not that I expect that to mean anything to you. What’s your name, boy?”

“Lamora.”

“Your parents must have been misers, to give you nothing but a surname. What else did they call you?”

The boy seemed to think very deeply about this.

“I’m called Locke,” he finally said. “After my father.”

“Very good. Rolls right off the tongue, it does. Well, Locke-after-your-father Lamora, you come here and have a word with me. The rest of you, shuffle off. Your brothers and sisters will show you where you’ll be sleeping tonight. They’ll also show you where to empty this and where to put that—chores, if you savvy. Just to tidy this hall up for now, but there’ll be more jobs for you in the days to come. I promise it will all make sense by the time you find out what they call me in the world beyond our little hill.”

Locke moved to stand beside the Thiefmaker on his high-backed throne; the throng of newcomers rose and milled about until larger, older Shades’ Hill orphans began collaring them and issuing simple instructions. Soon enough, Locke and the master of Shades’ Hill were as alone as they could hope to be.

“My boy,” the Thiefmaker said, “I’m used to having to train a certain reticence out of my new sons and daughters when they first arrive in Shades’ Hill. Do you know what reticence is?”

The Lamora boy shook his head. His greasy dust-brown bangs were plastered down atop his round little face, and the tomato stains around his mouth had grown drier and more unseemly. The Thiefmaker dabbed delicately at these stains with one cuff of his tattered blue coat; the boy didn’t flinch.

“It means they’ve been told that stealing things is bad, and I need to work around that until they get used to the idea, savvy? Well, you don’t seem to suffer from any such reticence, so you and I might just get along. Stolen before, have you?”

The boy nodded.

“Before the plague, even?”

Another nod.

“Thought so. My dear, dear boy … you didn’t, ahhh, lose your parents to the plague, now, did you?”

The boy looked down at his feet and barely shook his head.

“So you’ve already been, ahhh, looking after yourself for some time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, now. It might even secure you a place of some respect here, if only I can find a means to put you to the test.…”

By way of response, the Lamora boy reached under his rags and held something out to the Thiefmaker. Two small leather purses fell into the old man’s open palm—cheap things, stiff and stained, with frayed cords around their necks.

“Where did you get these, then?”

“The watchmen,” Locke whispered. “Some of the watchmen picked us up and carried us.”

The Thiefmaker jerked back as though an asp had just sunk its fangs into his spine, and stared down at the purses with disbelief. “You lifted these from the fucking city watch? From the yellowjackets?”

Locke nodded, more enthusiastically. “They picked us up and carried us.”

“Gods,” the Thiefmaker whispered. “Oh, gods. You may have just fucked us all superbly, Locke-after-your-father Lamora. Quite superbly indeed.”

5

“HE BROKE the Secret Peace the first night I had him, the cheeky little bastard.” The Thiefmaker was now seated more comfortably in the rooftop garden of the Eyeless Priest’s temple, with a tarred leather cup of wine in his hands. It was the sourest sort of secondhand near vinegar, but it was another sign that genuine negotiations might yet break out. “Never happened before, nor since.”

“Someone taught him to charm a coat, but didn’t tell him that the yellowjackets were strictly off-limits.” Father Chains pursed his lips. “Very curious, that. Very curious indeed. Our dear Capa Barsavi would so love to meet such an individual.”

“I never found out who it was. The boy claimed he’d just taught himself, but that’s crap. Five-year-olds play with dead fish and horse turds, Chains. They don’t invent the finer points of soft-touching and purse-cutting on a whim.”

“What did you do about the purses?”

“I flew back to Catchfire watch station and kissed asses and boots until my lips were black. Explained to the watch-captain in question that one of the newcomers didn’t understand how things worked in Camorr, and that I was returning the purses with interest, begging their magnanimous apologies and all the gracious etcetera etceteras.”

“And they accepted?”

“Money makes a man mirthful, Chains. I stuffed those purses full to bursting with silver. Then I gave every man in the squad drink money for five or six nights and we all agreed they would hoist a few to the health of Capa Barsavi, who surely needn’t be, ahhh, troubled by something as inconsequential as his loyal Thiefmaker fucking up and letting a five-year-old breach the bloody Peace.”

“So,” the Eyeless Priest said, “that was just the very first night of your association with my very own mystery windfall bargain boy.”

“I’m gratified that you’re starting to take a possessive bent to the little cuss, Chains, because it only gets more colorful. I don’t know quite how to put it. I’ve got kids that enjoy stealing. I’ve got kids that don’t think about stealing one way or another, and I’ve got kids that just tolerate stealing because they know they’ve got nothing else to do. But nobody—and I mean nobody—has ever been hungry for it like this boy. If he had a bloody gash across his throat and a physiker was trying to sew it up, Lamora would steal the needle and thread and die laughing. He … steals too much.”

“Steals too much,” the Eyeless Priest mused. “Of all the complaints I never thought I’d hear from a man who trains little thieves for a living.”

“Laugh now,” the Thiefmaker said. “Here’s the kicker.”

6

MONTHS PASSED. Parthis became Festal became Aurim, and the misty squalls of summer gave way to the harder, driving rains of winter. The Seventy-seventh Year of Gandolo became the Seventy-seventh Year of Morgante, the City Father, Lord of Noose and Trowel.

Eight of the thirty-one Catchfire orphans, somewhat less than adept at the Thiefmaker’s delicate and interesting tasks, swung from the Black Bridge before the Palace of Patience. So it went; the survivors were too preoccupied with their own delicate and interesting tasks to care.

The society of Shades’ Hill, as Locke soon discovered, was firmly divided into two tribes: Streets and Windows. The latter was a smaller, more exclusive group that did all of its earning after sunset. They crept across roofs and down chimneys, picked locks and slid through barred embrasures, and would steal everything from coins and jewelry to blocks of lard in untended pantries.

The boys and girls of Streets, on the other hand, prowled Camorr’s alleys and cobbles and canal-bridges by day, working in teams. Older and more experienced children (clutchers) worked at the actual pockets and purses and merchant stalls, while the younger and less capable (teasers) arranged distractions—crying for nonexistent mothers, or feigning illness, or rushing madly around crying “Stop! Thief!” in every direction while the clutchers made off with their prizes.

Each orphan was shaken down by an older or larger child after returning to the graveyard from any visit outside; anything stolen or gathered was passed through the hierarchy of bruisers and bullies until it reached the Thiefmaker, who ticked off names on an eerily accurate mental list as the day’s catch came in. Those who produced got to eat; those who didn’t got to practice twice as hard that evening.

Night after night, the Thiefmaker would parade around the warrens of Shades’ Hill laden down with money pouches, silk handkerchiefs, necklaces, metal coat buttons, and a dozen other sorts of valuable oddments. His wards would strike at him from concealment or by feigned accident; those he spotted or felt in the act were immediately punished. The Thiefmaker preferred not to beat the losers of these training games (though he could work a mean switch when the mood was upon him); rather, they were forced to drink from a flask of unalloyed ginger oil while their peers gathered around and chanted derisively. Camorri ginger oil is rough stuff, not entirely incomparable (as the Thiefmaker himself opined) to swallowing the smoldering ashes of poison oak.

Those who wouldn’t open their mouths had it poured into their noses while older children held them upside down. This never had to happen twice to anyone.

In time, even those with ginger-scalded tongues and swollen throats learned the rudiments of coat-teasing and “borrowing” from the wares of unwary merchants. The Thiefmaker enthusiastically instructed them in the architecture of doublets, waistcoats, frock coats, and belt pouches, keeping up with all the latest fashions as they came off the docks. His wards learned what could be cut away, what could be torn away, and what must be teased out with deft fingers.

“The point, my loves, is not to hump the subject’s leg like a dog or clutch their hand like a lost babe. Half a second of actual contact with the subject is often too long by far.” The Thiefmaker mimed a noose going around his neck and let his tongue bulge out past his teeth. “You will live or die by three sacred rules: First, always ensure that the subject is nicely distracted, either by your teasers or by some convenient bit of unrelated bum-fuckery, like a fight or a house fire. House fires are marvelous for our purposes; cherish them. Second, minimize—and I damn well mean minimize—contact with the subject even when they are distracted.” He released himself from his invisible noose and grinned slyly. “Lastly, once you’ve done your business, clear the vicinity even if the subject is as dumb as a box of hammers. What did I teach you?”

“Clutch once, then run,” his students chanted. “Clutch twice, get hung!”

New orphans came in by ones and twos; older children seemed to leave the hill every few weeks with little ceremony. Locke presumed that this was evidence of some category of discipline well beyond ginger oil, but he never asked, as he was too low in the hill’s pecking order to risk it or trust the answers he would get.

As for his own training, Locke went to Streets the day after he arrived, and was immediately thrown in with the teasers (punitively, he suspected). By the end of his second month, his skills had secured him elevation to the ranks of the clutchers. This was considered a step up in social status, but Lamora alone in the entire hill seemed to prefer working with the teasers long after he was entitled to stop.

He was sullen and friendless inside the hill, but teasing brought him to life. He perfected the use of over-chewed orange pulp as a substitute for vomit; where other teasers would simply clutch their stomachs and moan, Locke would season his performances by spewing a mouthful of warm white-and-orange slop at the feet of his intended audience (or, if he was in a particularly perverse mood, all over their dress hems or leggings).

Another favorite device of his was a long dry twig concealed in one leg of his breeches and tied to his ankle. By rapidly going down to his knees, he could snap this twig with an audible noise; this, followed by a piercing wail, was an effective magnet for attention and sympathy, especially in the immediate vicinity of a wagon wheel. When he’d teased the crowd long enough, he would be rescued from further attention by the arrival of several other teasers, who would loudly announce that they were “dragging him home to Mother” so he could see a physiker. His ability to walk would be miraculously recovered just as soon as he was hauled around a corner.

In fact, he worked up a repertoire of artful teases so rapidly that the Thiefmaker had cause to take him aside for a second private conversation—this after Locke arranged the inconvenient public collapse of a young lady’s skirt and bodice with a few swift strokes of a finger-knife.

“Look here, Locke-after-your-father Lamora,” the Thiefmaker said, “no ginger oil this time, I assure you, but I would greatly prefer your teases to veer sharply from the entertaining and back to the practical.”

Locke merely stared up at him and shuffled his feet.

“I shall speak plainly, then. The other teasers are going out day after day to watch you, not to do their bloody jobs. I’m not feeding my own private theater troupe. Get my crew of happy little jack-offs back to their own teasing, and quit being such a celebrity with your own.”

For a time after that, everything was serene.

Then, barely six months after he arrived at the hill, Locke accidentally burned down the Elderglass Vine tavern and precipitated a quarantine riot that very nearly wiped the Narrows from the map of Camorr.

The Narrows was a valley of warrens and hovels at the northernmost tip of the bad part of the city. Kidney-shaped and something like a vast amphitheater, the island’s heart was forty-odd feet beneath its outer edges. Leaning rows of tenement houses and windowless shops jutted from the tiers of this great seething bowl; wall collapsed against wall and alley folded upon mist-silvered alley so that no level of the Narrows could be traversed by more than two men walking abreast.

The Elderglass Vine crouched over the cobblestones of the road that passed west and crossed, via stone bridge, from the Narrows into the green depths of the Mara Camorrazza. It was a sagging three-story beast of weather-warped wood, with rickety stairs inside and out that maimed at least one patron a week. Indeed, there was a lively pool going as to which of the regulars would be the next to crack his skull. It was a haunt of pipe-smokers and of Gaze addicts, who would squeeze the precious drops of their drug onto their eyeballs in public and lie there shuddering with visions while strangers went through their belongings or used them as tables.

The Seventy-seventh Year of Morgante had just arrived when Locke Lamora burst into the common room of the Elderglass Vine, sobbing and sniffling, his face showing the red cheeks, bleeding lips, and bruised eyes that were characteristic of Black Whisper.

“Please, sir,” he whispered to a horrified bouncer while dice-throwers, bartenders, whores, and thieves stopped to stare. “Please. Mother and Father are sick; I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I’m the only one who can move—you must”—sniff—“help! Please, sir …”

At least, that’s what would have been heard, had the bouncer not triggered a headlong exodus from the Elderglass Vine by screaming “Whisper! Black Whisper!” at the top of his lungs. No boy of Locke’s size could have survived the ensuing orgy of shoving and panic had not the badge of illness on his face been better than any shield. Dice clattered to tabletops and cards fluttered down like falling leaves; tin mugs and tarred leather ale-jacks spattered cheap liquor as they hit the floor. Tables were overturned, knives and clubs were pulled to prod others into flight, and Gazers were trampled as an undisciplined wave of human detritus surged out every door save that in which Locke stood, pleading uselessly (or so it seemed) to screams and turned backs.

When the tavern had cleared of everyone but a few moaning (or motionless) Gazers, Locke’s companions stole in behind him: a dozen of the fastest teasers and clutchers in Streets, specially invited by Lamora for this expedition. They spread out among the fallen tables and behind the battered bar, plucking wildly at anything valuable. Here a handful of discarded coins; there a good knife; here a set of whalebone dice with tiny garnet chips for markers. From the pantry, baskets of coarse but serviceable bread, salted butter in grease-paper, and a dozen bottles of wine. Half a minute was all Locke allowed them, counting in his head while he rubbed his makeup from his face. By the end of the count, he motioned his associates back out into the night.

Riot drums were already beating to summon the watch, and above their rhythm could be heard the first faint flutings of pipes, the bone-chilling sound that called out the duke’s Ghouls—the Quarantine Guard.

The participants in Locke’s smash-and-grab adventure threaded their way through the growing crowds of confused and panicked Narrows dwellers, and scuttled home indirectly through the Mara Camorrazza or the Coalsmoke district.

They returned with the largest haul of goods and food in the memory of the Shades’ Hill orphans, and a larger pile of copper half-barons than Locke had hoped for. He hadn’t known that men who played at dice or cards kept money out in plain view, for in Shades’ Hill such games were the exclusive domain of the oldest and most popular orphans, and he was neither.

For a few hours, the Thiefmaker was merely bemused.

But that night, panicked drunks set fire to the Elderglass Vine, and hundreds tried to flee the Narrows when the city watch was unable to locate the boy who’d first triggered the panic. Riot drums beat until dawn, bridges were blocked, and Duke Nicovante’s archers took to the canals around the Narrows in flat-bottomed boats, with arrows to last all night and then some.

The next morning found the Thiefmaker once again in private conversation with his littlest plague orphan.

“The problem with you, Locke fucking Lamora, is that you are not circumspect. Do you know what circumspect means?”

Locke shook his head.

“Let me put it like this. That tavern had an owner. That owner worked for Capa Barsavi, the big man himself, just like I do. Now, that tavern owner paid the Capa, just like I do, to avoid accidents. Thanks to you, he’s had one hell of an accident—even though he was paying his money and didn’t have an accident forthcoming. So, if you follow me, inciting a pack of drunk fucking animals to burn that place to the ground with a fake plague scare was the opposite of a circumspect means of operation. So now can you venture a guess as to what the word means?”

Locke knew a good time to nod vigorously when he heard it.

“Unlike the last time you tried to send me to an early grave, this one I can’t buy my way out of, and thank the gods I don’t need to, because the mess is huge. The yellowjackets clubbed down two hundred people last night before they all figured out that nobody had the Whisper. The duke called out his fucking regulars and was about to give the Narrows a good scrubbing with fire-oil. Now, the only reason—and I mean the only reason—that you’re not floating in a shark’s stomach with a very surprised expression on your face is that the Elderglass Vine is just a pile of ashes; nobody knows anything was stolen from it before it became that pile of ashes. Nobody except us.

“So, we’re all going to agree that nobody in this hill knows anything about what happened, and you are going to relearn some of that reticence I talked about when you first arrived here. You remember reticence, right?”

Locke nodded.

“I just want nice, neat little jobs from you, Lamora. I want a purse here, a sausage there. I want you to swallow your ambition, shit it out like a bad meal, and be a circumspect little teaser for about the next thousand years. Can you do that for me? Don’t rob any more yellowjackets. Don’t burn any more taverns. Don’t start any more fucking riots. Just pretend to be a coarse-witted little cutpurse like your brothers and sisters. Clear?”

Again, Locke nodded, doing his best to look rueful.

“Good. And now,” the Thiefmaker said as he produced his nearly full flask of ginger oil, “we’re going to engage in some reinforcement of my admonishments.”

And, for a time (once Locke recovered his powers of speech and unlabored breathing), everything was serene.

But the Seventy-seventh Year of Morgante became the Seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, and though Locke succeeded in hiding his actions from the Thiefmaker for a time, on one more specific occasion he again failed spectacularly to be circumspect.

When the Thiefmaker realized what the boy had done, he went to see the Capa of Camorr and secured permission for one little death. Only as an afterthought did he go to see the Eyeless Priest, intent not on mercy but on one last chance for a slim profit.

7

THE SKY was a fading red, and nothing remained of the day save for a line of molten gold slowly lowering on the western horizon. Locke Lamora trailed in the long shadow of the Thiefmaker, who was leading him to the Temple of Perelandro to be sold. At long last, Locke had discovered where the older children had been disappearing to.

A great glass arch led from the northwest base of Shades’ Hill to the eastern edge of the long, vast Temple District. At the apex of this bridge the Thiefmaker paused and stared north, across the lightless houses of the Quiet, across the mist-wreathed waters of the rushing Angevine, to the shaded manors and tree-lined white stone boulevards of the four Alcegrante islands, laid out in opulence beneath the impossible height of the Five Towers.

The Five were the most prominent Elderglass structures in a city thick with the arcane substance. The smallest and least magnificent, Dawncatcher, was merely eighty feet wide and four hundred feet tall. The true color of each smooth tower was mingled now with the sinking furnace-light of sunset, and the weblike net of cables and cargo baskets that threaded the tower tops was barely visible against the carmine sky.

“We’ll wait here a moment, boy,” said the Thiefmaker with uncharacteristic wistfulness in his voice. “Here on my bridge. So few come to Shades’ Hill this way, it might as well be mine.”

The Duke’s Wind that blew in from the Iron Sea by day had turned; the night, as always, would be ruled by the muggy Hangman’s Wind that blew from land to sea, thick with the scents of farm fields and rotting marshes.

“I’m getting rid of you, you know,” the Thiefmaker added after a moment. “Not, ahhh, fooling. Good-bye forever. It’s a pity you’re missing something. Common sense, perhaps.”

Locke said nothing, instead staring up at the vast glass towers as the sky behind them drained of color. The blue-white stars brightened, and the last rays of the sun vanished in the west like a great eye closing.

As the first hint of true darkness seemed to fall over the city, a new light rose faint and glimmering to push it back. This light gleamed from within the Elderglass of the Five Towers themselves, and within the translucent glass of the bridge on which they were standing. It waxed with every passing breath, gaining strength until it bathed the city with the fey half-light of an overcast day.

The hour of Falselight had come.

From the heights of the Five Towers to the obsidian smoothness of the vast glass breakwaters, to the artificial reefs beneath the slate-colored waves, Falselight radiated from every surface and every shard of Elderglass in Camorr, from every speck of the alien material left so long before by the creatures that had first shaped the city. Every night, as the west finally swallowed the sun, the glass bridges would become threads of firefly light; the glass towers and glass avenues and the strange glass sculpture-gardens would shimmer wanly with violet and azure and orange and pearl white, and the moons and stars would fade to gray.

This was what passed for twilight in Camorr—the end of work for the last daylight laborers, the calling of the night watches and the sealing of the landward gates. An hour of supernatural radiance that would soon enough give way to true night.

“Let’s be about our business,” the Thiefmaker said, and the two of them headed down into the Temple District, walking on soft alien light.

8

FALSELIGHT WAS the last hour during which the temples of Camorr traditionally remained open, and the Eyeless Priest at the House of Perelandro was wasting none of the time still left to fill the copper money-kettle sitting before him on the steps of his decrepit temple.

“Orphans!” he bellowed in a voice that would have been at home on a battlefield. “Are we not all orphaned, sooner or later? Alas for those torn from the mother’s bosom, barely past infancy!”

A pair of slender young boys, presumably orphans, were seated on either side of the money-kettle, wearing hooded white robes. The eldritch glow of Falselight seemed to inflame the hollow blackness of their staring eyes as they watched men and women hurrying about their business on the squares and avenues of the gods.

“Alas,” the priest continued, “for those cast out by cruel fate to a wicked world that has no place for them, a world that has no use for them. Slaves is what it makes of them! Slaves, or worse—playthings for the lusts of the wicked and the ungodly, forcing them into half-lives of unspeakable degeneracy, beside which mere slavery would be a blessing!”

Locke marveled, for he had never seen a stage performance or heard a trained orator. Here was scorn that could boil standing water from stone; here was remonstrance that made his pulse race with excited shame, though he was himself an orphan. He wanted to hear the big-voiced man yell at him some more.

So great was the fame of Father Chains, the Eyeless Priest, that even Locke Lamora had heard of him; a man of late middle years with a chest as broad as a scrivener’s desk and a beard that clung to his craggy face like a pad of scrubbing wool. A thick white blindfold covered his forehead and his eyes, a white cotton vestment hung to his bare ankles, and a pair of black iron manacles encircled his wrists. Heavy steel chains led from these manacles back up the steps of the temple, and through the open doors to the interior. Locke could see that as Father Chains gestured to his listeners, these chains were almost taut. He was nearly at the very limit of his freedom.

For thirteen years, popular lore had it, Father Chains had never set foot beyond the steps of his temple. As a measure of his devotion to Perelandro, Father of Mercies, Lord of the Overlooked, he had chained himself to the walls of his inner sanctuary with iron manacles that had neither locks nor keys, and had paid a physiker to pluck out his eyes while a crowd watched.

“The Lord of the Overlooked keeps vigil on every son and daughter of the dead, on that point I can assure you! Blessed in his eyes are those, unbound by the duties of blood, who render aid and comfort to the motherless and the fatherless.…”

Though he was known to be blind as well as blindfolded, Locke could have sworn that Father Chains’ head turned toward himself and the Thiefmaker as they approached across the square.

“Out of the undoubted goodness of their hearts, they nourish and protect the children of Camorr—not with cold-souled avarice, but with selfless kindness! Truly blessed,” he hissed with fervor, “are the protectors of Camorr’s gentle, needful orphans.”

As the Thiefmaker reached the steps of the temple and started up, he was careful to slap his heels against the stones to announce his presence.

“Someone approaches,” Father Chains said. “Two someones, or so say my ears!”

“I’ve brought you the boy we discussed, Father,” the Thiefmaker announced loudly enough for several passersby to hear him, should they be listening. “I’ve prepared him as well as I could for the, ahhhh, tests of apprenticeship and initiation.”

The priest took a step toward Locke, dragging his clattering chains behind him. The hooded boys guarding the money-kettle spared Locke a brief glance, but said nothing.

“Have you, then?” Father Chains’ hand shot out with alarming accuracy, and his calloused fingers spidered themselves over Locke’s forehead, cheeks, nose, and chin. “A small boy, it seems. A very small boy. Though not without a certain measure of character, I venture, in the malnourished curves of his sad orphan’s face.”

“His name,” said the Thiefmaker, “is Locke Lamora, and I wager the Order of Perelandro will find many uses for his, ahhhh, unusual degree of personal initiative.”

“Better still,” the priest rumbled, “that he were sincere, penitent, honest, and inclined to discipline. But I have no doubt that his time in your affectionate care has instilled those qualities in him by example.” He clapped his hands together three times. “My boys, our day’s business is done; gather the offerings of the good people of Camorr, and let’s show our prospective initiate into the temple.”

The Thiefmaker gave Locke a brief squeeze on the shoulder, then pushed him quite enthusiastically up the steps toward the Eyeless Priest. As the white-robed boys carried the jangling copper bowl past him, the Thiefmaker tossed a small leather purse into it, spread his arms wide, and bowed with his characteristic serpentine theatricality. The last Locke saw of him, he was moving rapidly across the Temple District with his crooked arms and bony shoulders rolling gaily: the strut of a man set free.

9

THE SANCTUARY of the Temple of Perelandro was a musty stone chamber with several puddles of standing water; the mold-eaten tapestries on the walls were rapidly devolving into their component threads. It was lit only by the pastel glare of Falselight and the halfhearted efforts of a frosted white alchemical globe perched precariously in a fixture just above the steel plate that chained the Eyeless Priest to the sanctuary wall. Locke saw a curtained doorway on the back wall, and nothing else.

“Calo, Galdo,” said Father Chains, “be good lads and see to the doors, will you?”

The two robed boys set down the copper kettle and moved to one of the tapestries. Working together, they swept it aside and pulled at a concealed device. Some great mechanism creaked in the sanctuary walls, and the twin doors leading out to the temple steps began to draw inward. When they finished sliding together with the scrape of stone against stone, the alchemical globe suddenly flared into brighter luminescence.

“Now,” said the Eyeless Priest as he knelt, letting a great deal of slack chain gather in little steel mounds about him, “come over here, Locke Lamora, and let’s see if you have any of the gifts necessary to become an initiate of this temple.”

With Father Chains on his knees, Locke and he were roughly forehead to forehead. In response to Chains’ beckoning hands, Locke stepped close and waited. The priest wrinkled his nose.

“I see that your former master remains less than fastidious about the pungency of his wards; no matter. That will soon be rectified. For now, simply give me your hands, like so.” Chains firmly but gently guided Locke’s small hands until the boy’s palms rested over Chains’ blindfold. “Now … merely close your eyes and concentrate … concentrate. Let whatever virtuous thoughts you have within you bubble to the surface, let the warmth of your generous spirit flow forth from your innocent hands. Ah, yes, like that …”

Locke was half-alarmed and half-amused, but the lines of Father Chains’ weathered face drew downward, and his mouth soon hung open in beatific anticipation.

“Ahhhhhhh,” the priest whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Yes, yes, you do have some talent … some power.… I can feel it.… It might almost be … a miracle!”

At that, Chains jerked his head back, and Locke jumped in the opposite direction. His chains clanking, the priest lifted manacled hands to his blindfold and yanked it off with a flourish. Locke recoiled, unsure of what eyeless sockets might look like, but the priest’s eyes were quite normal. In fact, Chains squinted in pain and rubbed them several times, wincing at the glare of the alchemical globe.

“Ahhhh-ha-ha-ha!” he cried, finally holding out his hands toward Locke. “I’m healed! I can see! once! more!”

Locke stared, gaping like a slackwit for the second time that night, unsure of what to say. Behind him, the two hooded boys started to giggle, and Locke’s eyebrows bent inward in suspicion.

“You’re not … really blind,” he said.

“And you’re clearly not stupid!” Chains cried, leaping up with a glee that brought wet-sounding pops from his kneecaps. He waved his manacled hands like a bird trying to take flight. “Calo! Galdo! Get these damn things off my wrists so we can count our daily blessings.”

The two hooded boys hurried over and did something to the manacles that Locke couldn’t quite follow; they slid open and fell to the floor with a jarring clatter. Chains gingerly rubbed the skin that had been beneath them; it was as white as the meat of a fresh fish.

“You’re not … really a priest!” Locke added while the older man caressed some color back into his forearms.

“Oh no,” Chains said, “I am a priest. Just not a priest of, um, Perelandro. Nor are my initiates initiates of Perelandro. Nor will you be an initiate of Perelandro. Locke Lamora, say hello to Calo and Galdo Sanza.”

The white-robed boys swept back their hoods, and Locke saw that they were twins, perhaps a year or two older than himself and far sturdier-looking. They had the olive skin and black hair of the true Camorri. Their identical long, hook-ended noses, however, were something of an anomaly. Smiling, they joined hands and bowed in unison from the waist.

“Um, hi,” Locke said. “Which of you is which?”

“Today, I am Galdo,” said the one on Locke’s left.

“Tomorrow, I will probably be Galdo,” said the other one.

“Or perhaps we’ll both want to be Calo,” added the one who had first spoken.

“In time,” Father Chains interrupted, “you’ll learn to tell them apart by the number of dents I’ve kicked in their respective asses; one of them always manages to be ahead of the other, somehow.” He stood behind Locke and placed both of his wide, heavy hands on Locke’s shoulders. “Idiots, this is Locke Lamora. As you can see, I’ve just bought him from your old benefactor, the master of Shades’ Hill.”

“We remember you,” said presumed-Galdo.

“A Catchfire orphan,” said presumed-Calo.

“Father Chains bought us just after you arrived,” they said in unison, grinning.

“Knock that bullshit off,” Father Chains said, his voice somehow regal. “You two have just volunteered to cook dinner. Pears and sausage in oil, and a double portion for your new little brother. Get. Locke and I will deal with the kettle.”

Sneering and gesturing rudely as they went, the twins ran for the curtained door and vanished behind it. Locke could hear their footsteps trailing away down some sort of staircase; then Father Chains motioned for him to sit beside the copper money-kettle.

“Sit, boy. Let’s have a few words about what’s going on here.” Chains eased himself back down to the damp floor, crossing his legs and settling a thoughtful stare on Locke. “Your former master said you could do simple sums. Is this true?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Don’t call me ‘master.’ Makes my balls shrivel and my teeth crack. Just call me Father Chains. And while you’re sitting there, let’s see you tip that kettle and count all the money in there.”

Locke strained to pull the kettle over on one side, seeing now why Calo and Galdo preferred to share the burden. Chains gave the kettle a push on the base, and its contents finally spilled out on the floor beside Locke. “Makes it much harder to snatch, having it weigh that much,” Chains said.

“How can you … how can you pretend to be a priest?” Locke asked while he sorted full copper coins and clipped copper bits into little piles. “Don’t you fear the gods? The wrath of Perelandro?”

“Of course I do,” Chains replied, running his fingers through his round, ragged beard. “I fear them very much. Like I said, I’m a priest, just not a priest of Perelandro. I’m an initiated servant of the Nameless Thirteenth—the Thiefwatcher, the Crooked Warden, the Benefactor, Father of Necessary Pretexts.”

“But … there are only the Twelve.”

“It’s funny just how many people are sadly misinformed on that point, my dear boy. Imagine, if you will, that the Twelve happen to have something of a black-sheep younger brother, whose exclusive dominion happens to be thieves like you and I. Though the Twelve won’t allow his Name to be spoken or heard, they have some lingering affection for his merry brand of fuckery. Thus, crooked old posers such as myself aren’t blasted with lightning or pecked apart by crows for squatting in the temple of a more respectable god like Perelandro.”

“You’re a priest of this … Thirteenth?”

“Indeed. A priest of thieves, and a thieving priest. As Calo and Galdo will be, someday, and as you might be, provided you’re worth even the pittance I paid for you.”

“But …” Locke reached out and plucked the Thiefmaker’s purse (a pouch of rust-red leather) from the piles of copper and passed it to Chains. “If you paid for me, why did my old master leave an offering?”

“Ah. Rest assured that I did pay for you, and you were cheap, and this is no offering.” Chains untied the little pouch and let its contents—a single white shark’s tooth, as long as Locke’s thumb—drop into his hand. Chains waved it at the boy. “Have you ever seen one of these before?”

“No. What is it?”

“It’s a death-mark. The tooth of the wolf shark is the personal sigil of Capa Barsavi—your former master’s boss. My boss and your boss, for that matter. It means that you’re such a sullen, thick-skulled little fuck-up that your former master actually went to the capa and got permission to kill you.”

Chains grinned, as though he were imparting nothing more than a ribald joke. Locke shivered.

“Does that give you a moment of pause, my boy? Good. Stare at this thing, Locke. Take a good, hard look. It means your death is paid for. I bought this from your former master when I got you at a bargain price. It means that if Duke Nicovante himself adopted you tomorrow and proclaimed you his heir, I could still crack your skull open and nail you to a post, and nobody in the city would lift a fucking finger.”

Chains deftly shoved the tooth back into the red pouch, then hung it around Locke’s neck by its slender cord. “You’re going to wear that,” the older man said, “until I deem you worthy to remove it, or until I make use of the power it gives me and—so!” He slashed two fingers across the air in front of Locke’s throat. “Hide it under your clothes, and keep it next to your skin at all times to remind you just how close, how very close, you came to getting your throat slit tonight. If your former master were one shade less greedy than he is vindictive, I don’t doubt you’d be floating in the bay.”

“What did I do?”

Chains did something with his eyes that made Locke feel smaller just for having tried to protest. Locke squirmed and fiddled with the death-mark pouch.

“Please, boy. Let’s not start out with either of us insulting the other’s intelligence. There are only three people in life you can never fool—pawnbrokers, whores, and your mother. Since your mother’s dead, I’ve taken her place. Hence, I’m bullshit-proof.” Chains’ voice grew serious. “You know perfectly well why your former master would have cause to be displeased with you.”

“He said I wasn’t … circumspect.”

“Circumspect,” Chains repeated. “That’s a good word. And no, you’re not. He told me everything.”

Locke looked up from his little piles of coins, his eyes wide and near watering. “Everything?”

“Quite everything.” Chains stared the boy down for a long, difficult moment, then sighed. “So what did the good citizens of Camorr give to the cause of Perelandro today?”

“Twenty-seven copper barons, I think.”

“Hmmm. Just over four silver solons, then. A slow day. But it beats every other form of theft I ever met.”

“You steal this money from Perelandro, too?”

“Of course I do, boy. I mentioned that I was a thief, didn’t I? But not the sort of thief you’re used to. Better. The entire city of Camorr is full of idiots running around and getting hung, all because they think that stealing is something you do with your hands.” Father Chains spat.

“Um … what do you steal with, Father Chains?”

The bearded priest tapped two fingers against the side of his head, then grinned widely. “Brains and a big mouth, my boy, brains and a big mouth. I planted my ass here thirteen years ago, and the pious suckers of Camorr have been feeding me coins ever since. Plus I’m famous from Emberlain to Tal Verrar, which is pleasant, though mostly I like the cold coinage.”

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” Locke asked, looking around at the sad innards of the temple. “Living here, never going out?”

Chains chuckled. “This shabby little backstage is no more the full extent of my temple than your old home was really a graveyard. We’re a different sort of thief here, Lamora. Deception and misdirection are our tools. We don’t believe in hard work when a false face and a good line of bullshit can do so much more.”

“Then … you’re like … teasers.”

“Perhaps, in the sense that a barrel of fire-oil is akin to a pinch of red pepper. And that’s why I paid for you, my boy, though you lack the good sense the gods gave a carrot. You lie like a floor tapestry. You’re more crooked than an acrobat’s spine. I could really make something of you, if I decided I could trust you.”

His searching eyes rested once more on Locke, and the boy guessed that he was supposed to say something.

“I’d like that,” he whispered. “What do I do?”

“You can start by talking. I want to hear about what you did at Shades’ Hill; the shit you pulled to get your former master angry at you.”

“But … you said you already knew everything.”

“I do. But I want to hear it from you, plain and clear, and I want it right the first time, with no backtracking or parts left out. If you try to conceal anything that I know you should be mentioning, I’ll have no choice but to consider you a worthless waste of my trust—and you’re already wearing my response around your neck.”

“Then where,” said Locke with only a slight catch in his voice, “do I start?”

“We can begin with your most recent transgressions. There’s one law that the brothers and sisters of Shades’ Hill must never break, but your former master told me that you broke it twice and thought you were clever enough to get away with it.”

Locke’s cheeks turned bright red, and he stared down at his fingers.

“Tell me, Locke. The Thiefmaker said you arranged the murders of two other Shades’ Hill boys, and that he didn’t pick up on your involvement until the second was already done.” Chains steepled his fingers before his face and gazed calmly at the boy with the death-mark around his neck. “I want to know why you killed them, and I want to know how you killed them, and I want to hear it from your own lips. Right now.”

I

AMBITION

“Why, I can smile, and murder whiles I smile

And cry ‘Content’ to that which grieves my heart,

And wet my cheeks with artificial tears,

And frame my face to all occasions.”

King Henry VI, Part III

CHAPTER ONE

THE DON SALVARA GAME

1

LOCKE LAMORA’S RULE of thumb was this: a good confidence game took three months to plan, three weeks to rehearse, and three seconds to win or lose the victim’s trust forever. This time around, he planned to spend those three seconds getting strangled.

Locke was on his knees, and Calo, standing behind him, had a hemp rope coiled three times around his neck. The rough stuff looked impressive, and it would leave Locke’s throat a very credible shade of red. No genuine Camorri assassin old enough to waddle in a straight line would garrote with anything but silk or wire, of course (the better to crease the victim’s windpipe). Yet if Don Lorenzo Salvara could tell a fake strangling from the real thing in the blink of an eye at thirty paces, they’d badly misjudged the man they planned to rob and the whole game would be shot anyway.

“Can you see him yet? Or Bug’s signal?” Locke hissed his question as lightly as he could, then made a few impressive gurgling sounds.

“No signal. No Don Salvara. Can you breathe?”

“Fine, just fine,” Locke whispered, “but shake me some more. That’s the convincer.”

They were in the dead-end alley beside the old Temple of Fortunate Waters; the temple’s prayer waterfalls could be heard gushing somewhere behind the high plaster wall. Locke clutched once again at the harmless coils of rope circling his neck and spared a glance for the horse staring at him from just a few paces away, laden down with a rich-looking cargo of merchant’s packs. The poor dumb animal was Gentled; there was neither curiosity nor fear behind the milk-white shells of its unblinking eyes. It wouldn’t have cared even had the strangling been real.

Precious seconds passed; the sun was high and bright in a sky scalded free of clouds, and the grime of the alley clung like wet cement to the legs of Locke’s breeches. Nearby, Jean Tannen lay in the same moist muck while Galdo pretended (mostly) to kick his ribs in. He’d been merrily kicking away for at least a minute, just as long as his twin brother had supposedly been strangling Locke.

Don Salvara was supposed to pass the mouth of the alley at any second and, ideally, rush in to rescue Locke and Jean from their “assailants.” At this rate, he would end up rescuing them from boredom.

“Gods,” Calo whispered, bending his mouth to Locke’s ear as though he might be hissing some demand, “where the hell is that damn Salvara? And where’s Bug? We can’t keep this shit up all day; other people do walk by the mouth of this damned alley!”

“Keep strangling me,” Locke whispered. “Just think of twenty thousand full crowns and keep strangling me. I can choke all day if I have to.”

2

EVERYTHING HAD gone beautifully that morning in the run-up to the game itself, even allowing for the natural prickliness of a young thief finally allowed a part in his first big score.

“Of course I know where I’m supposed to be when the action starts,” Bug whined. “I’ve spent more time perched up on that temple roof than I did in my mother’s gods-damned womb!”

Jean Tannen let his right hand trail in the warm water of the canal while he took another bite of the sour marsh apple held in his left. The forward gunwale of the flat-bottomed barge was a choice spot for relaxation in the watered-wine light of early morning, allowing all sixteen stone of Jean’s frame to sprawl comfortably—keg belly, heavy arms, bandy legs, and all. The only other person (and the one doing all of the work) in the empty barge was Bug: a lanky, mop-headed twelve-year-old braced against the steering pole at the stern.

“Your mother was in an understandable hurry to get rid of you, Bug.” Jean’s voice was soft and even and wildly incongruous. He spoke like a teacher of music or a copier of scrolls. “We’re not. So indulge me once more with proof of your penetrating comprehension of our game.”

“Dammit,” Bug replied, giving the barge another push against the gentle current of the seaward-flowing canal. “You and Locke and Calo and Galdo are down in the alley between Fortunate Waters and the gardens for the Temple of Nara, right? I’m up on the roof of the temple across the way.”

“Go on,” Jean said around a mouthful of marsh apple. “Where’s Don Salvara?”

Other barges, heavily laden with everything from ale casks to bleating cows, were slipping past the two of them on the clay-colored water of the canal. Bug was poling them north along Camorr’s main commercial waterway, the Via Camorrazza, toward the Shifting Market, and the city was lurching into life around them.

The leaning gray tenements of water-slick stone were spitting their inhabitants out into the sunlight and the rising summer warmth. The month was Parthis, meaning that the night-sweat of condensation already boiling off the buildings as a soupy mist would be greatly missed by the cloudless white heat of early afternoon.

“He’s coming out of the Temple of Fortunate Waters, like he does every Penance Day right around noon. He’s got two horses and one man with him, if we’re lucky.”

“A curious ritual,” Jean said. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

“Deathbed promise to his mother.” Bug drove his pole down into the canal, struggled against it for a moment, and managed to shove them along once more. “She kept the Vadran religion after she married the old Don Salvara. So he leaves an offering at the Vadran temple once a week and gets home as fast as he can so nobody pays too much attention to him. Dammit, Jean, I already know this shit. Why would I be here if you didn’t trust me? And why am I the one who gets to push this stupid barge all the way to the market?”

“Oh, you can stop poling the barge any time you can beat me hand to hand three falls out of five.” Jean grinned, showing two rows of crooked brawler’s teeth in a face that looked as though someone had set it on an anvil and tried to pound it into a more pleasing shape. “Besides, you’re an apprentice in a proud trade, learning under the finest and most demanding masters it has to offer. Getting all the shit-work is excellent for your moral education.”

“You haven’t given me any bloody moral education.”

“Yes. Well, that’s probably because Locke and I have been dodging our own for most of our lives now. As for why we’re going over the plan again, let me remind you that one good screwup will make the fate of those poor bastards look sunny in comparison to what we’ll get.”

Jean pointed at one of the city’s slop wagons, halted on a canal-side boulevard to receive a long dark stream of night soil from the upper window of a public alehouse. These wagons were crewed by petty criminals whose offenses were too meager to justify continual incarceration in the Palace of Patience. Shackled to their wagons and huddled in the alleged protection of long leather ponchos, they were let out each morning to enjoy what sun they could when they weren’t cursing the dubious accuracy with which several thousand Camorri emptied their chamber pots.

“I won’t screw it up, Jean.” Bug shook his thoughts like an empty coin purse, searching desperately for something to say that would make him sound as calm and assured as he imagined Jean and all the older Gentlemen Bastards always were—but the mouth of most twelve-year-olds far outpaces the mind. “I just won’t, I bloody won’t, I promise.”

“Good lad,” Jean said. “Glad to hear it. But just what is it that you won’t screw up?”

Bug sighed. “I make the signal when Salvara’s on his way out of the Temple of Fortunate Waters. I keep an eye out for anyone else trying to walk past the alley, especially the city watch. If anybody tries it, I jump down from the temple roof with a longsword and cut their bloody heads off where they stand.”

“You what?”

“I said I distract them any way I can. You going deaf, Jean?”

A line of tall countinghouses slid past on their left, each displaying lacquered woodwork, silk awnings, marble facades, and other ostentatious touches along the waterfront. There were deep roots of money and power sunk into that row of three- and four-story buildings. Coin-Kisser’s Row was the oldest and goldest financial district on the continent. The place was as steeped in influence and elaborate rituals as the glass heights of the Five Towers, in which the duke and the Grand Families sequestered themselves from the city they ruled.

“Move us up against the bank just under the bridges, Bug.” Jean gestured vaguely with his apple. “His Nibs will be waiting to come aboard.”

Two Elderglass arches bridged the Via Camorrazza right in the middle of Coin-Kisser’s Row—a high and narrow catbridge for foot traffic and a lower, wider one for wagons. The seamless brilliance of the alien glass looked like nothing so much as liquid diamond, gently arched by giant hands and left to harden over the canal. On the right bank was the Fauria, a crowded island of multitiered stone apartments and rooftop gardens. Wooden wheels churned white against the stone embankment, drawing canal water up into a network of troughs and viaducts that crisscrossed over the Fauria’s streets at every level.

Bug slid the barge over to a rickety quay just beneath the catbridge; from the faint and slender shadow of this arch a man jumped down to the quay, dressed (as Bug and Jean were) in oil-stained leather breeches and a rough cotton shirt. His next nonchalant leap took him into the barge, which barely rocked at his arrival.

“Salutations to you, Master Jean Tannen, and profuse congratulations on the fortuitous timing of your arrival!” said the newcomer.

“Ah, well, felicitations to you in respect of the superlative grace of your entry into our very humble boat, Master Lamora.” Jean punctuated this statement by popping the remains of his apple into his mouth, stem and all, and producing a wet crunching noise.

“Creeping shits, man.” Locke Lamora stuck out his tongue. “Must you do that? You know the black alchemists make fish poison from the seeds of those damn things.”

“Lucky me,” said Jean after swallowing the last bit of masticated pulp, “not being a fish.”

Locke was a medium man in every respect—medium height, medium build, medium-dark hair cropped short above a face that was neither handsome nor memorable. He looked like a proper Therin, though perhaps a bit less olive and ruddy than Jean or Bug; in another light he might have passed for a very tan Vadran. His bright gray eyes alone had any sense of distinction; he was a man the gods might have shaped deliberately to be overlooked. He settled down against the left-hand gunwale and crossed his legs.

“Hello to you as well, Bug! I knew we could count on you to take pity on your elders and let them rest in the sun while you do the hard work with the pole.”

“Jean’s a lazy old bastard is what it is,” Bug said. “And if I don’t pole the barge, he’ll knock my teeth out the back of my head.”

“Jean is the gentlest soul in Camorr, and you wound him with your accusations,” said Locke. “Now he’ll be up all night crying.”

“I would have been up all night anyway,” Jean added, “crying from the ache of rheumatism and lighting candles to ward off evil vapors.”

“Which is not to say that our bones don’t creak by day, my cruel apprentice.” Locke massaged his kneecaps. “We’re at least twice your age—which is prodigious for our profession.”

“The Daughters of Aza Guilla have tried to perform a corpse-blessing on me six times this week,” said Jean. “You’re lucky Locke and I are still spry enough to take you with us when we run a game.”

To anyone beyond hearing range, Locke and Jean and Bug might have looked like the crew of a for-hire barge, slacking their way toward a cargo pickup at the junction of the Via Camorrazza and the Angevine River. As Bug poled them closer and closer to the Shifting Market, the water was getting thicker with such barges, and with sleek black cockleshell boats, and battered watercraft of every description, not all of them doing a good job of staying afloat or under control.

“Speaking of our game,” said Locke, “how is our eager young apprentice’s understanding of his place in the scheme of things?”

“I’ve been reciting it to Jean all morning,” said Bug.

“And the conclusion is?”

“I’ve got it down cold!” Bug heaved at the pole with all of his strength, driving them between a pair of high-walled floating gardens with inches to spare on either side. The scents of jasmine and oranges drifted down over them as their barge slipped beneath the protruding branches of one of the gardens; a wary attendant peeked over one garden-boat’s wall, staff in hand to fend them off if necessary. The big barges were probably hauling transplants to some noble’s orchard upriver.

“Down cold, and I won’t screw it up. I promise! I know my place, and I know the signals. I won’t screw it up!”

3

CALO WAS shaking Locke with real vigor, and Locke’s performance as his victim was a virtuoso one, but still the moments dragged by. They were all trapped in their pantomime like figures out of the richly inventive hells of Therin theology: a pair of thieves destined to spend all eternity stuck in an alley, mugging victims that never passed out or gave up their money.

“Are you as alarmed as I am?” Calo whispered.

“Just stay in character,” Locke hissed. “You can pray and strangle at the same time.”

There was a high-pitched scream from their right, echoing across the cobbles and walls of the Temple District. It was followed by shouts and the creaking tread of men in battle harness—but these sounds moved away from the mouth of the alley, not toward it.

“That sounded like Bug,” said Locke.

“I hope he’s just arranging a distraction,” said Calo, his grip on the rope momentarily slackening. At that instant, a dark shape darted across the gap of sky between the alley’s high walls, its fluttering shadow briefly falling over them as it passed.

“Now what the hell was that, then?” Calo asked.

Off to their right, someone screamed again.

4

BUG HAD poled himself, Locke, and Jean from the Via Camorrazza into the Shifting Market right on schedule, just as the vast Elderglass wind chime atop Westwatch was unlashed to catch the breeze blowing in from the sea and ring out the eleventh hour of the morning.

The Shifting Market was a lake of relatively placid water at the very heart of Camorr, perhaps half a mile in circumference, protected from the rushing flow of the Angevine and the surrounding canals by a series of stone breakwaters. The only real current in the market was human-made, as hundreds upon hundreds of floating merchants slowly and warily followed one another counterclockwise in their boats, jostling for prized positions against the flat-topped breakwaters, which were crowded with buyers and sightseers on foot.

City watchmen in their mustard-yellow tabards commanded sleek black cutters—each rowed by a dozen shackled prisoners from the Palace of Patience—using long poles and harsh language to maintain several rough channels through the drifting chaos of the market. Through these channels passed the pleasure barges of the nobility, and heavily laden freight barges, and empty ones like that containing the three Gentlemen Bastards, who shopped with their eyes as they sliced through a sea of hope and avarice.

In just a few lengths of Bug’s poling, they passed a family of trinket dealers in ill-kept brown cockleshells, a spice merchant with his wares on a triangular rack in the middle of an awkward circular raft of the sort called a vertola, and a Canal Tree bobbing and swaying on the leather-bladder pontoon raft that supported its roots. These roots trailed in the water, drinking up the piss and effluvia of the busy city; the canopy of rustling emerald leaves cast thousands of punctuated shadows down on the Gentlemen Bastards as they passed, along with the perfume of citrus. The tree (an alchemical hybrid that grew both limes and lemons) was tended by a middle-aged woman and three small children, who scuttled around in the branches throwing down fruit in response to orders from passing boats.

Above the watercraft of the Shifting Market rose a field of flags and pennants and billowing silk standards, all competing through gaudy colors and symbols to impress their messages on watchful buyers. There were flags adorned with the crude outlines of fish or fowl or both; flags adorned with ale mugs and wine bottles and loaves of bread, boots and trousers and threaded tailors’ needles, fruits and kitchen instruments and carpenters’ tools and a hundred other goods and services. Here and there, small clusters of chicken-flagged boats or shoe-flagged rafts were locked in close combat, their owners loudly proclaiming the superiority of their respective goods or inferring the bastardy of one another’s children, while the watch-boats stood off at a mindful distance, in case anyone should sink or commence a boarding action.

“It’s a pain sometimes, this pretending to be poor.” Locke gazed around in reverie, the sort Bug would have been indulging in if the boy hadn’t been concentrating on avoiding collision. A barge packed with dozens of yowling housecats in wooden slat cages cut their wake, flagged with a blue pennant on which an artfully rendered dead mouse bled rich scarlet threads through a gaping hole in its throat. “There’s just something about this place. I could almost convince myself that I really did have a pressing need for a pound of fish, some bowstrings, old shoes, and a new shovel.”

“Fortunately for our credibility,” said Jean, “we’re coming up on the next major landmark on our way to a fat pile of Don Salvara’s money.” He pointed past the northeastern breakwater of the market, beyond which a row of prosperous-looking waterfront inns and taverns stood between the market and the Temple District.

“Right as always, Jean. Greed before imagination. Keep us on track.” Locke added an enthusiastic but superfluous finger to the direction Jean was already pointing. “Bug! Get us out onto the river, then veer right. One of the twins is going to be waiting for us at the Tumblehome, third inn down on the south bank.”

Bug pushed them north, straining to reach the bottom of the market’s basin—which was easily half again as deep as the surrounding canals—with each thrust. They evaded overzealous purveyors of grapefruits and sausage rolls and alchemical light-sticks, and Locke and Jean amused themselves with a favorite game, trying to spot the little pickpockets among the crowds on the breakwaters. The inattention of Camorr’s busy thousands still managed to feed the doddering old Thiefmaker in his dank warren under Shades’ Hill, nearly twenty years since Locke or Jean had last set foot inside the place.

Once they escaped from the market and onto the river itself, Bug and Jean wordlessly switched places. The fast waters of the Angevine would be better matched against Jean’s muscle, and Bug would need to rest his arms for his part in the game to come. As Bug collapsed in Jean’s former place at the bow, Locke produced a cinnamon-lemon apparently from thin air and tossed it to the boy. Bug ate it in six bites, dry skin and all, masticating the reddish yellow pulp as grotesquely as possible between his bright, crooked teeth. He grinned.

“They don’t make fish poison from those things, right?”

“No,” Locke said. “They only make fish poison from things that Jean eats.”

Jean harrumphed. “A little fish poison puts hair on your chest. Excepting if you’re a fish.”

Jean kept them nearly against the southern bank of the Angevine, clear of the depths where the pole couldn’t reach. Shafts of hot, pearl-white light flashed down on them as Eldgerglass bridges passed directly between their barge and the still-rising sun. The river was two hundred yards wide, sweating its wetness up into the air along with the smell of fish and silt.

To the north, rippling under the heat-haze, were the orderly slopes of the Alcegrante islands, home to the city’s greater commoners and minor nobles. It was a place of walled gardens, elaborate water sculptures, and white stone villas, well off-limits to anyone dressed as Locke and Jean and Bug were. With the sun approaching its zenith, the vast shadows of the Five Towers had withdrawn into the Upper City and were currently nothing more than a rosy stained-glass glow that spilled just over the northern edges of the Alcegrante.

“Gods, I love this place,” Locke said, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Sometimes I think this whole city was put here simply because the gods must adore crime. Pickpockets rob the common folk, merchants rob anyone they can dupe, Capa Barsavi robs the robbers and the common folk, the lesser nobles rob nearly everyone, and Duke Nicovante occasionally runs off with his army and robs the shit out of Tal Verrar or Jerem, not to mention what he does to his own nobles and his common folk.”

“So that makes us robbers of robbers,” said Bug, “who pretend to be robbers working for a robber of other robbers.”

“Yes, we do sort of screw the pretty picture up, don’t we?” Locke thought for a few seconds, clicking his tongue against the insides of his cheeks. “Think of what we do as, ah, a sort of secret tax on nobles with more money than prudence. Hey! Here we are.”

Beneath the Tumblehome Inn was a wide and well-kept quay with half a dozen mooring posts, none of them currently occupied. The smooth gray embankment was about ten feet high here; broad stone steps led up to street level, as did a cobbled ramp for cargo and horses. Calo Sanza was waiting for them at the edge of the quay, dressed only slightly better than his fellows, with a Gentled horse standing placidly behind him. Locke waved.

“What’s the news?” Locke cried. Jean’s poling was skilled and graceful; the quay was twenty yards away, then ten, and then they were sliding up alongside it with a gentle scraping noise.

“Galdo got all the stuff packed into the room—it’s the Bowsprit Suite on the first floor,” Calo whispered in response, bending down to Locke and Bug as he picked up the barge’s mooring rope.

Calo had dark liquor-colored skin and hair like an inky slice of night; the tautness of the flesh around his dark eyes was broken only by a fine network of laugh-lines (though anyone who knew the Sanza twins would more readily describe them as smirk-lines). An improbably sharp and hooked nose preceded his good looks like a dagger held at guard position.

Once he had made the barge fast to a mooring post, Calo tossed to Locke a heavy iron key attached to a long tassel of braided red and black silk. At a quality rooming house like the Tumblehome, each private suite’s door was guarded by a clockwork lockbox (removable only by some cunning means known to the owners) that could be swapped out from a niche in the door. Each rented room received a random new box and its attendant key. With hundreds of such identical-looking boxes stored behind the polished counter in the reception hall, the inn could pretty much guarantee that copying keys for later break-ins was a practical waste of a thief’s time.

This courtesy would also give Locke and Jean guaranteed privacy for the rapid transformation that was about to take place.

“Wonderful!” Locke leaped up onto the quay as spryly as he had entered the boat; Jean passed the steering pole back to Bug, then made the barge shudder with his own leap. “Let’s go on in and fetch out our guests from Emberlain.”

As Locke and Jean padded up the steps toward the Tumblehome, Calo motioned for Bug to give him a hand with the horse. The white-eyed creature was utterly without fear or personal initiative, but that same lack of self-preservation instincts might lead it to damage the barge very easily. After a few minutes of careful pushing and pulling, they had it positioned in the center of the barge, as calm as a statue that just happened to have lungs.

“Lovely creature,” said Calo. “I’ve named him Impediment. You could use him as a table. Or a flying buttress.”

“Gentled animals give me the bloody creeps.”

“Whereas,” said Calo, “they give me the fucking creeps. But tenderfoots and softies prefer Gentled packhorses, and that’s our master merchant of Emberlain in a nutshell.”

Several more minutes passed, and Calo and Bug stood in amiable silence under the punishing sun, looking the part of an unremarkable barge crew waiting to receive a passenger of consequence from the bosom of the Tumblehome Inn. Soon enough, that passenger descended the stairs and coughed twice to get their attention.

It was Locke, of course, but changed. His hair was slicked back with rose oil, the bones of his face seemed to shadow slightly deeper hollows in his cheeks, and his eyes were half concealed behind a pair of optics rimmed with black pearl and flashing silver in the sun.

He was now dressed in a tightly buttoned black coat in the Emberlain style, almost form-fitted from his shoulders down to his ribs, then flaring out widely at the waist. Two black leather belts with polished silver buckles circled his stomach; three ruffled layers of black silk cravats poured out of his collar and fluttered in the hot breeze. He wore embroidered gray hose over thick-heeled sharkskin shoes with black ribbon tongues that sprang somewhat ludicrously outward and hung over his feet with the drooping curl of hothouse flowers. Sweat was already beading on his forehead like little diamonds—Camorr’s summer did not reward the intrusion of fashions from a more northerly climate.

“My name,” said Locke Lamora, “is Lukas Fehrwight.” The voice was clipped and precise, scrubbed of Locke’s natural inflections. He layered the hint of a harsh Vadran accent atop a slight mangling of his native Camorri dialect like a barkeep mixing liquors. “I am wearing clothes that will be full of sweat in several minutes. I am dumb enough to walk around Camorr without a blade of any sort. Also,” he said with a hint of ponderous regret, “I am entirely fictional.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Master Fehrwight,” said Calo, “but at least we’ve got your boat and your horse ready for your grand excursion.”

Locke stepped carefully down toward the edge of the barge, swaying at the hips like a man newly off a ship and not yet used to surfaces that didn’t tilt beneath his feet. His spine was arrow-straight, his movements nearly prissy. He wore the mannerisms of Lukas Fehrwight like a set of invisible clothes.

“My attendant will be along any moment,” Locke/Fehrwight said as he/they stepped aboard the barge. “His name is Graumann, and he too suffers from a slight case of being imaginary.”

“Merciful gods,” said Calo, “it must be catching.”

Down the cobbled ramp came Jean, treading heavily under the weight of one hundred and twenty pounds of creaking horse’s harness, the embroidered leather packs crammed full of goods and strapped tightly shut. Jean now wore a white silk shirt, straining tight against his belly and already translucent in places with sweat, under an open black vest and a white neckerchief. His hair was parted in the middle and held in stasis by some thick black oil; never picturesque, it now resembled two pads of wool arched over his forehead like a tenement roof.

“We’re behind schedule, Graumann.” Locke clasped his hands behind his back. “Do hurry up and let the poor horse do its job.”

Jean heaved his mess over the Gentled horse’s back, to no visible reaction from the animal. He then bent down and fastened the harness securely under the horse’s stomach. Bug passed the steering pole to Calo, then slipped the barge’s rope from the mooring post, and they were off once again.

“Wouldn’t it be damned amusing,” said Calo, “if Don Salvara picked today to dodge out on his little ritual?”

“Don’t worry,” said Locke, briefly dropping the voice if not the posture of Lukas Fehrwight. “He’s quite devoted to his mother’s memory. A conscience can be as good as a water-clock, when it comes to keeping some appointments.”

“From your lips to the gods’ ears.” Calo worked the pole with cheerful ease. “And no skin off my balls if you’re wrong. You’re the one wearing a ten-pound black felt coat in the middle of Parthis.”

They made headway up the Angevine and came abreast with the western edge of the Temple District on their right, passing beneath a wide glass arch as they did so. Standing atop the middle of this bridge was a lean, dark-haired man with looks and a nose to match Calo’s.

As Calo poled the barge underneath the arch some fifty feet below, Galdo Sanza casually let a half-eaten red apple fall from his hands. The fruit hit the water with a quiet little splash just a yard or two behind his brother.

“Salvara’s at the temple!” Bug said.

“Sublime.” Locke spread his hands and grinned. “Didn’t I tell you he suffered from an impeccable sense of maternal devotion?”

“I’m so pleased that you only choose victims of the highest moral quality,” said Calo. “The wrong sort might set a bad example for Bug.”

At a public dock jutting from the northwestern shore of the Temple District, just under the heights of the city’s vast new House of Iono (Father of Storms, Lord of the Grasping Waters), Jean tied them up in record time and led Impediment—looking every bit the part of a wealthy merchant’s packhorse—up off the barge.

Locke followed with Fehrwight’s nervous dignity on full display; all the banter was now banked down like coals under a cookfire. Bug darted off into the crowds, eager to take up his watch position over the alley junction where Don Salvara’s ambitions would soon be sorely tempted. Calo spotted Galdo just stepping off the glass bridge, and casually moved toward him. Both twins were unconsciously fingering the weapons concealed beneath their baggy shirts.

By the time the Sanza brothers fell into step beside one another and began moving toward the rendezvous at the Temple of Fortunate Waters, Locke and Jean were already a block away, approaching from another direction. The game was afoot.

For the fourth time in as many years, in quiet defiance of the most inviolate law of Camorr’s underworld, the Gentlemen Bastards were drawing a bead on one of the most powerful men in the city. They were headed for a meeting that might eventually divest Don Lorenzo Salvara of nearly half his worldly wealth; now everything depended on the Don being punctual.

5

BUG WAS in a perfect position to spot the foot patrol before anyone else did, which was according to the plan. The foot patrol itself was also in the plan, after a fashion. It meant the plan was blown.

“You’re going to be top-eyes on this game, Bug,” Locke had explained. “We’re deliberately making first touch on Salvara on the most deserted street in the Temple District. A spotter on the ground would be obvious a mile away, but a boy two stories up is another matter.”

“What am I spotting for?”

“Whatever shows up. Duke Nicovante and the Nightglass Company. The king of the Seven Marrows. A little old lady with a dung-wagon. If we get interlopers, you just make the signal. Maybe you can distract common folk. If it’s the watch, well—we can either play innocent or run like hell.”

And here were six men in mustard-yellow tabards and well-oiled fighting harness, with batons and blades clattering ominously against their doubled waistbelts, strolling up from the south just a few dozen paces away from the Temple of Fortunate Waters. Their path would take them right past the mouth of the all-important alley. Even if Bug warned the others in time for them to hide Calo’s rope, Locke and Jean would still be covered in mud and the twins would still be (purposely) dressed like stage-show bandits, complete with neckerchiefs over their faces. No chance to play innocent; if Bug gave the signal, it was run-like-hell time.

Bug thought as fast as he ever had in his life, while his heart beat so rapidly it felt like someone was fluttering the pages of a book against the back of his lungs. He had to force himself to stay cool, stay observant, look for an opening. What was it Locke was always saying? Catalog! He needed to catalog his options.

His options stank. Twelve years old, crouched twenty feet up in the periphery of the wildly overgrown rooftop garden of a disused temple, with no long-range weapons and no other suitable distractions available. Don Salvara was still paying his respects to his mother’s gods within the Temple of Fortunate Waters, and the only people in sight were his fellow Gentlemen Bastards and the sweat-soaked patrol about to ruin their day.

But.

Twenty feet down and six feet to Bug’s right, against the wall of the crumbling structure on which he squatted, there was a rubbish pile. It looked like mold-eaten burlap sacks and a mixed assortment of brown muck.

The prudent thing to do would be to signal the others and let them scurry; Calo and Galdo were old hands at playing hard-to-get with the yellowjackets, and they could just come back and restart the game again next week. Maybe. Or maybe a screwed-up game today would alarm someone, and lead to more foot patrols in the coming weeks. Maybe word would get around that the Temple District wasn’t as quiet as it should be. Maybe Capa Barsavi, beset by problems as he was, would take an interest in the unauthorized disturbance, and turn his own screws. And then Don Salvara’s money might as well be on the bloody moons, for all that the Gentlemen Bastards could get their hands on it.

No, prudence was out. Bug had to win. The presence of that rubbish pile made a great and glorious stupidity very possible.

He was in the air before another thought crossed his mind. Arms out, falling backward, staring up into the hot near-noon sky with the confident assurance of all twelve of his years that death and injury were things reserved solely for people that weren’t Bug. He screamed as he fell, in wild exaltation, just to be sure that he had the foot patrol’s unwavering attention.

He could feel the great vast shadow of the ground looming up beneath him, in the last half second of his fall, and at that instant his eyes caught a dark shape cutting through the air just above the Temple of Fortunate Waters. A sleek and beautiful shape, heavy, a bird? A gull of some sort? Camorr had no other birds that size—certainly none that moved like crossbow bolts, and—

Impact with the semiyielding surface of the rubbish heap walloped the air out of his lungs with a wet hoooosh and snapped his head forward. Sharp chin bounced off slender chest; his teeth punched bloody holes in his tongue, and the warm taste of salt filled his mouth. He screamed again, reflexively, and spat blood. His view of the sky spun first left then right, as though the world were trying on strange new angles for his approval.

Booted feet running on cobblestones; the creak and rattle of weapons in harness. A ruddy middle-aged face with two drooping sweat-slicked moustaches inserted itself between Bug and the sky.

“Perelandro’s balls, boy!” The watchman looked as bewildered as he did worried. “What the hell were you doing, screwing around up there? You’re lucky you landed where you did.”

There were enthusiastic murmurs of agreement from the yellowjacketed squad crowding in behind the first man; Bug could smell their sweat and their harness oil, as well as the rotten stench of the stuff that had broken his fall. Well, when you jumped into a streetside pile of brown glop in Camorr, you knew going in that it wouldn’t smell like rosewater. Bug shook his head to clear the white sparks dancing behind his eyes, and twitched his legs to be sure they would serve. Nothing appeared to be broken, thank the gods. He would reevaluate his own claims on immortality when all of this was over.

“Watch-sergeant,” Bug hissed thickly, letting more blood spill out over his lips (damn, his tongue burned with pain). “Watch-sergeant …”

“Yes?” The man’s eyes were going wider. “Can you move your arms and legs, boy? What can you feel?”

Bug reached up with his hands, casually, not entirely feigning shakiness, and clutched at the watch-sergeant’s harness as though to steady himself.

“Watch-sergeant,” Bug said a few seconds later, “your purse is much lighter than it should be. Out whoring last night, were we?”

He shook the little leather pouch just under the watch-sergeant’s dark moustaches, and the larcenous part of his soul (which was, let us be honest, its majority) glowed warmly at the sheer befuddlement that blossomed in the man’s eyes. For a split second, the pain of Bug’s imperfect landing in the rubbish heap was forgotten. Then his other hand came up, as if by magic, and his Orphan’s Twist hit the watch-sergeant right between the eyes.

An Orphan’s Twist, or a “little red keeper,” was a weighted sack like a miniature cosh, kept hidden in clothes (but never against naked skin). It was traditionally packed full of ground shavings from a dozen of Camorr’s more popular hot peppers, and a few nasty castoffs from certain black alchemists’ shops. No use against a real threat, but just the thing for another street urchin. Or a certain sort of adult with wandering hands.

Or an unprotected face, at spitting distance.

Bug was already rolling to his left, so the spray of fine rust-colored powder that erupted from his Twist missed him by inches. The watch-sergeant was not so lucky; it was a solid hit, scattering the hellish-hot stuff up his nose, down his mouth, and straight into his eyes. He choked out a string of truly amazing wet bellows and fell backward, clawing at his cheeks. Bug was already up and moving with the giddy elasticity of youth; even his bitterly aching tongue was temporarily forgotten in the allconsuming need to run like hell.

Now he definitely had the foot patrol’s undivided attention. They were shouting and leaping after him as his little feet pounded the cobbles and he sucked in deep stinging gulps of humid air. He’d done his part to keep the game alive. It could now go on without him while he gave the duke’s constables their afternoon exercise.

A particularly fast-thinking watchman fumbled his whistle into his mouth and blew it raggedly while still running—three short bursts, a pause, then three more. Watchman down. Oh, shit. That would bring every yellowjacket in half the city at a dead run, weapons out. That would bring crossbows. It was suddenly deadly important that Bug slip the squad at his heels before other squads started sending spotters up onto roofs. His anticipation of a merry chase vanished. He had perhaps a minute and a half to get to one of his usual cozy-holes and pull a vanish.

Suddenly, his tongue hurt very badly indeed.

6

DON LORENZO Salvara stepped out of the temple portico into the stark bright dampness of high Camorri noon, little imagining the education a certain boy thief was receiving in the concept of too clever by half just across the district. The trilling of watch-whistles sounded faintly. Salvara narrowed his eyes and peered with some curiosity at the distant figure of a lone city watchman, stumbling across the cobbles and occasionally bouncing off walls, clutching his head as though afraid it was going to float off his neck and up into the sky.

“Can you believe it, m’lord?” Conté had already brought the horses around from the temple’s unobtrusive little stabling grotto. “Drunk as a baby in a beer barrel, and not a heartbeat past noon. Fucking pissant lot of softies, these new goldenrods.” Conté was a sun-wrinkled man of middle years with the waistline of a professional dancer and the arms of a professional oarsman; the manner in which he served the young don was obvious even without a glance at the pair of thigh-length stilettos hanging from his crossed leather belts.

“Hardly up to your old standards, eh?” The don, on the other hand, was a well-favored young man of the classic Camorri blood, black-haired, with skin like shadowed honey. His face was heavy and soft with curves, though his body was slender, and only his eyes gave any hint that he wasn’t a polite young collegium undergraduate masquerading as a noble. Behind his fashionable rimless optics, the don had eyes like an impatient archer hungry for targets. Conté snorted.

“In my day, at least we knew that getting shit-faced was an indoor hobby.” Conté passed the don the reins of his mount, a sleek gray mare little bigger than a pony, well trained but certainly not Gentled. Just the thing for short trots around a city still more friendly to boats (or acrobats, as Doña Salvara often complained) than to horses. The stumbling watchman vanished around a distant corner, vaguely in the direction of the urgent whistling. As it seemed to be coming no closer, Salvara shrugged inwardly and led his horse out into the street.

Here the day’s second curiosity burst upon them in all of its glory. As the don and his man turned to their right, they gained a full view of the high-walled alley beside the Temple of Fortunate Waters—and in this alley two finely dressed men were clearly getting their lives walloped out of them by a pair of bravos.

Salvara froze and stared in wonder—masked thugs in the Temple District? Masked thugs strangling a man dressed all in black, in the tight, heavy, miserably inappropriate fashion of a Vadran? And, Merciful Twelve, a Gentled packhorse was simply standing there taking it all in.

After a handful of seconds lost to sheer amazement, the don let his own horse’s reins go and ran toward the mouth of the alley. He didn’t need to glance sideways to know that Conté was barely a stride behind him, knives out.

“You!” The don’s voice was reasonably confident, though high with excitement. “Unhand these men and stand clear!”

The closest footpad snapped his head around; his dark eyes widened above his improvised mask when he saw the don and Conté approaching. The thug shifted his red-faced victim so that the man’s body was between himself and the would-be interlopers.

“No need to trouble yourself with this business, my lord,” the footpad said. “Just a bit of a disagreement. Private matter.”

“Then perhaps you should have conducted it somewhere less public.”

The footpad sounded quite exasperated. “What, the duke give you this alley to be your estate? Take another step and I break this poor bastard’s neck.”

“You just do that.” Don Salvara settled his hand suggestively on the pommel of his basket-hilted rapier. “My man and I appear to command the only way out of this alley. I’m sure you’ll still feel quite pleased at having killed that man when you’ve got three feet of steel in your throat.”

The first footpad didn’t release his hold on the coiled loops of rope that were holding up his barely conscious victim, but he began to back off warily toward the dead end, dragging the black-clad man clumsily with him. His fellow thug stood away from the prone form of the man he’d been savagely kicking. A meaningful look flashed between the two masked bandits.

“My friends, do not be stupid.” Salvara slid his rapier halfway out of its scabbard; sunlight blazed white on finest Camorri steel, and Conté crouched forward on the balls of his feet, shifting to the predatory stance of a knife-fighter born and trained.

Without another word, the first footpad flung his victim straight at Conté and the don; while the unfortunate black-clad fellow gasped and clutched at his rescuers, the two masked thugs bolted for the wall at the rear of the alley. Conté sidestepped the heaving, shuddering Vadran and dashed after them, but the assailants were spry as well as cunning. A slim rope hung down the wall, barely visible, and knotted at regular intervals. The two thugs scrambled up this and all but dove over the top of the wall; Conté and his blades were two seconds too late. The weighted far end of the rope flew back over the wall and landed with a splat in the crusted muck at his feet.

“Fucking useless slugabed bastards!” The don’s man slid his stilettos back into his belt with easy familiarity and bent down to the heavyset body lying unmoving in the muck. The eerie white stare of the Gentled packhorse seemed to follow him as he pressed fingers to the fat man’s neck, seeking a pulse. “Watchmen stumbling drunk in broad daylight, and look what happens in the bloody Temple District while they screw around …”

“Oh, thank the Marrows,” choked out the black-clad man as he uncoiled the rope from his neck and flung it to the ground. Don Salvara could now see that his clothes were very fine, despite their spattering of muck and their unseasonable weight—excellently cut, form-tailored, and ornamented with expensive subtlety rather than opulent flash. “Thank the Salt and thank the Sweet. Thank the Hands Beneath the Waters those bastards attacked us right beside this place of power, where the currents brought you to our aid.”

The man’s Therin was precise, though heavily accented, and his voice was unsurprisingly hoarse. He massaged his abraded throat, blinked, and began to pat the muck around him with his free hand, as though looking for something.

“I believe I can help you again,” said Don Salvara in his best Vadran, which was as precise—and as heavily accented—as the stranger’s Therin. Salvara picked a pair of pearl-rimmed optics out of the muck (noting their light weight and sturdy construction—a superior and very expensive pair indeed) and wiped them off on the sleeve of his own loose scarlet coat before handing them to the man.

“And you speak Vadran!” The stranger spoke in that tongue now, with the clipped, excitable diction of Emberlain. He slid the optics back over his eyes and blinked up at his rescuer. “A complete miracle now, far more than I have any right to pray for. Oh! Graumann!”

The black-clad Vadran scrambled unsteadily to his feet and stumbled over to his companion. Conté had managed to roll the portly stranger over in the slime; he now lay on his back with his great muck-slick chest rising and falling steadily.

“He lives, obviously.” Conté slid his hands along the poor fellow’s rib cage and stomach. “I don’t believe he has anything broken or ruptured, though he’ll likely be green with bruises for weeks. Green as pondwater, then black as night, or I don’t know shit from custard tarts.”

The slender, well-dressed Vadran let out a long sigh of relief. “Custard tarts. Indeed. The Marrows are most generous. Graumann is my attendant, my secretary, my diligent right hand. Alas, he has no skill at arms, but then I am myself plainly embarrassed in that regard.” The stranger now spoke Therin again, and he turned to stare at Don Salvara with wide eyes. “Just as plainly I do you discourtesy, for you must be one of the dons of Camorr.” He bowed low—lower even than etiquette would require of a landed foreigner greeting a peer of the Serene Duchy of Camorr, almost until he was in danger of pitching forward on his chin.

“I am Lukas Fehrwight, servant to the House of bel Auster, of the Canton of Emberlain and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. I am entirely at your service and grateful beyond words for what you have done for me today.”

“I am Lorenzo, Don Salvara, and this is my man Conté, and it is we who are entirely at your service, without obligation.” The don bowed at exactly the correct angle, with his right hand held out as an invitation to shake. “I am in a sense responsible for Camorr’s hospitality, and what befell you here was not hospitality. It was upon my honor to come to your aid.”

Fehrwight grasped the don’s proffered arm just above the wrist and shook. If Fehrwight’s grasp was weak, the don was willing to charitably ascribe it to his near strangling. Fehrwight then lowered his own forehead until it gently touched the back of the don’s hand, and their physical courtesies were settled. “I beg to differ; you have here a sworn man, quite competent by his looks. You could have satisfied honor by sending him to our aid, yet you came yourself, ready to fight. From where I stood, it seemed he ran to keep up with you. And I assure you, my viewpoint for this affair was uncomfortable but excellent.”

The don waved his hand gently as though words could be swatted out of the air. “I’m just sorry they got away, Master Fehrwight. It is unlikely that I can give you true justice. For that, Camorr again apologizes.”

Fehrwight knelt down beside Graumann and brushed the big man’s sweat-slick dark hair back from his forehead. “Justice? I am lucky to be alive. I was blessed with a safe journey here and with your aid. I am alive to continue my mission, and that is justice enough.” The slender man looked up at Salvara again. “Are you not Don Salvara of the Nacozza Vineyards? Is not the Doña Sofia, the famous botanical alchemist, your wife?”

“I have that honor, and I have that pleasure,” said the don. “And do you not serve the House of bel Auster? Do you not deal with the, ah …”

“Yes, oh yes, I serve that House of bel Auster; my business is the sale and transport of the substance you’re thinking of. It is curious, so very curious. The Marrows toy with me; the Hands Beneath must wish me to drop dead of sheer wonder. That you should save my life here, that you should speak Vadran, that we should share a common business interest … It is uncanny.”

“I, too, find it extraordinary, but hardly displeasing.” Don Salvara gazed around the alley thoughtfully. “My mother was Vadran, which is why I speak the language enthusiastically, if poorly. Were you followed here? That rope over the wall bespeaks preparation, and the Temple District … Well, it’s usually as safe as the duke’s own reading room.”

“We arrived this morning,” said Fehrwight. “After we secured our rooms—at the Inn of the Tumblehome, you know of it, I’m sure—we came straight here to give thanks and drown the offerings for our safe passage from Emberlain. I did not see where those men came from.” Fehrwight mused for a moment. “Though I believe that one of them threw that rope over the wall after knocking Graumann down. They were cautious, but not waiting in ambush for us.”

Salvara grunted, and turned his attention to the blank stare of the Gentled horse. “Curious. Do you always bring horses and goods to the temple to make your offerings? If those packs are as full as they look, I can see why thugs might have been tempted.”

“Ordinarily, such things would be under lock and key at our inn.” Fehrwight gave Graumann two friendly pats on the shoulder and rose again. “But for this cargo, and for this mission, I must keep them with me at all times. And I fear that must have made us a tempting target. It is a conundrum.” Fehrwight scratched his chin slowly, several times. “I am in your debt already, Don Lorenzo, and hesitant to ask aid of you once again. Yet this relates to the mission I am charged with, for my time in Camorr. As you are a don, do you know of a certain Don Jacobo?”

Don Salvara’s eyes fixed firmly on Fehrwight; one corner of his mouth turned infinitesimally downward. “Yes,” he said, and nothing more, after the silence had stretched a few moments.

“This Don Jacobo … It is said that he is a man of wealth. Extreme wealth, even for a don.”

“That is … true.”

“It is said that he is adventurous. Bold, even. That he has—how do you say it?—an eye for strange opportunities. A toleration of risk.”

“That is one way of describing his character, perhaps.”

Fehrwight licked his lips. “Don Lorenzo … it is important … if these things are true—would you, could you, through your status as a peer of Camorr … assist me in securing an appointment with Don Jacobo? I am ashamed to ask, but I would be more ashamed to forswear my mission for the House of bel Auster.”

Don Salvara smiled without the slightest hint of humor, and turned his head for several seconds, as though to gaze down at Graumann, lying quietly in the muck. Conté had stood up and was staring directly at his don, eyes wide.

“Master Fehrwight,” said the don at last, “are you not aware that Paleri Jacobo is perhaps my greatest living enemy? That the two of us have fought to the blood, twice, and only on the orders of Duke Nicovante himself do we not settle our affair for all time?”

“Oh,” said Fehrwight, with the tone and facial expression of a man who has just dropped a torch in a hogshead cask of lamp oil. “How awkward. How stupid of me. I have done business in Camorr several times, but I did not … I have insulted you. I have asked too much.”

“Hardly.” Salvara’s tone grew warm again; he began to drum the fingers of his right hand against the hilt of his rapier. “But you’re here on a mission for the House of bel Auster. You carry a cargo that you refuse to let out of your sight. You clearly have your plan fixed upon Don Jacobo in some fashion … though you still need to gain a formal audience with him. So, to be clear, he doesn’t know you’re here, or that you plan on seeking him out, does he?”

“I … that is … I fear to say too much of my business.…”

“Yet your business here is plain,” said Don Salvara, now positively cheerful, “and have you not repeatedly stated that you are indebted to me, Master Fehrwight? Despite my assurances to the contrary, have you not refused those assurances? Do you withdraw your promise of obligation now?”

“I … with the best will in the world, my lord … damn.” Fehrwight sighed and clenched his fists. “I am ashamed, Don Lorenzo. I must now either forswear my obligation to the man who saved my life or forswear my promise to the House of bel Auster to keep its business as private as possible.”

“You must do neither,” said the Don. “And perhaps I can aid you directly in the pursuit of your master’s business. Do you not see? If Don Jacobo does not know of your presence here, what obligation do you have to him? Clearly, you are set here upon business. A plan, a scheme, a proposal of some sort. You’re here to initiate something, or else you’d have your connections already in place. Don’t be angry with yourself; this is all plain logic. Is it not true?”

Fehrwight looked down and nodded reluctantly.

“Then here it is! Although I am not as wealthy as Don Jacobo, I am a man of substantial means; and we are in complementary lines of business, are we not? Attend me tomorrow, on my barge, at the Shifting Revel. Make your proposal to me; let us discuss it thoroughly.” There was a wicked gleam in Don Salvara’s eyes; it could be seen despite the brightness of the sun overhead. “As you are indebted to me, repay this obligation by agreeing only to attend. Then, free of obligation, let us discuss business to our mutual advantage. Do you not see that I have a vested interest in taking whatever opportunity you present away from Jacobo, even if he never learns of it? Especially if he never learns of it! And am I not bold enough for your tastes? I swear your face grows longer as though by sorcery. What’s wrong?”

“It is not you, Don Lorenzo. It is merely that the Hands Beneath are suddenly too generous once more. We have a saying—that undeserved good fortune always conceals a snare.”

“Don’t worry, Master Fehrwight. If it’s really business that you want to discuss, never doubt that there will be hard work and bitter troubles enough waiting for us down the road. Are we in agreement, then? Will you dine with me tomorrow morning, take in the Shifting Revel, and discuss your proposal with me?”

Fehrwight swallowed, looked Don Salvara in the eyes, and nodded firmly. “There is great sense in what you propose. And perhaps great opportunity for both of us. I will accept your hospitality, and I will tell you everything. Tomorrow, as you say. It cannot come soon enough for me.”

“It has been my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Fehrwight.” Don Salvara inclined his head. “May we help your friend up out of the muck, and see you to your inn to ensure you have no further difficulties?”

“Your company would be most pleasing, if only you would wait and look after poor Graumann and our cargo long enough for me to finish my offering within the temple.” Locke removed a small leather pack from the horse’s jumble of goods and containers. “The offering will be more substantial than I had planned. But then, my masters understand that prayers of thanks are an unavoidable expense in our line of business.”

7

THE JOURNEY back to the Tumblehome was slow, with Jean putting on an excellent show of misery, grogginess, and confusion. If the sight of two mud-splattered, overdressed outlanders and three horses escorted by a don struck anyone as unusual, they kept their comments to themselves and reserved their stares for Don Salvara’s back. Along the way, they passed Calo, now walking about casually in the plain garb of a laborer. He flashed rapid and subtle hand signals; with no sign of Bug, he would take up position at one of their prearranged rendezvous sites. And he would pray.

“Lukas! Surely it can’t be. I say, Lukas Fehrwight!”

As Calo vanished into the crowd, Galdo appeared just as suddenly, dressed in the bright silks and cottons of a prosperous Camorri merchant; his slashed and ruffled coat alone was probably worth as much as the barge the Gentlemen Bastards had poled up the river that morning. There was nothing now about him to remind the don or his man of the alley cutthroats; unmasked, with his hair slicked back under a small round cap, Galdo was the very picture of physical and fiscal respectability. He twirled a little lacquered cane and stepped toward Don Lorenzo’s odd little party, smiling broadly.

“Why—Evante!” Locke-as-Fehrwight stopped and stared in mock astonishment, then held out a hand for a vigorous shake from the newcomer. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Quite, Lukas, quite—but what the hell’s happened to you? And to you, Graumann? You look as though you just lost a fight!”

“Ah, we did.” Locke looked down and rubbed his eyes. “Evante, it has been a very peculiar morning. Grau and I might not even be alive if not for our rather extraordinary guide, here.” Pulling Galdo toward him, Locke held a hand out toward the don. “My Lord Salvara, may I introduce to you Evante Eccari, a solicitor of your Razona district? Evante, this is Don Lorenzo Salvara. Of the Nacozza Vineyards, if you still pay attention to those properties.”

“Twelve gods!” Galdo swept his hat off and bowed deeply at the waist. “A don. I should have recognized you immediately, m’lord. A thousand pardons. Evante Eccari, entirely at your service.”

“A pleasure, Master Eccari.” Don Salvara bowed correctly but casually, then stepped forward to shake the newcomer’s hand; this signaled his permission to deduct any superfluous bowing and scraping from the conversation. “You, ah, you know Master Fehrwight, then?”

“Lukas and I go well back, m’lord.” Without turning his back on Don Salvara, he fussily brushed a bit of dried muck from the shoulders of Locke’s black coat. “I work out of Meraggio’s, mostly, handling customs and license work for our friends in the north. Lukas is one of bel Auster’s best and brightest.”

“Hardly.” Locke coughed and smiled shyly. “Evante takes all the more interesting laws and regulations of your state, and reduces them to plain Therin. He was my salvation on several previous ventures. I seem to have a talent for finding snares in Camorr, and a talent for finding good Camorri to slip me out of them.”

“Few clients would describe what I do in such generous terms. But what’s this mud, and these bruises? You said something of a fight?”

“Yes. Your city has some very, ah, enterprising thieves. Don Salvara and his man have just driven a pair of them off. I fear Graumann and I were getting the worst of the affair.”

Galdo stepped over to Jean and gave him a friendly pat on the back; Jean’s wince was fantastic theater. “My compliments, m’lord Salvara! Lukas is what you might call a good vintage, even if he’s not wise enough to take off those silly winter wools. I’m most deeply obligated to you for what you’ve done, and I’m at—”

“Hardly, sir, hardly.” Don Salvara held up one hand and hitched the other in his sword-belt. “I did what my position demanded, no more. And I have too many promises of obligation being thrown at me already this afternoon.”

Don Lorenzo and “Master Eccari” fenced pleasantries for a few moments thereafter; Galdo eventually let himself be skewered with the politest possible version of “Thanks, but piss off.”

“Well,” he said at last, “this has been a wonderful surprise, but I’m afraid I have a client waiting, and clearly, m’lord Salvara, you and Lukas have business that I shouldn’t intrude upon. With your permission …?”

“Of course, of course. A pleasure, Master Eccari.”

“Entirely mine, I assure you, m’lord. Lukas, if you get a spare hour, you know where to find me. And should my poor skills be of any use to your affairs, you know I’ll come running.…”

“Of course, Evante.” Locke grasped Galdo’s right hand in both of his and shook enthusiastically. “I suspect we may have need of you sooner rather than later.” He laid a finger alongside his nose; Galdo nodded, and then there was a general exchange of bows and handshakes and the other courtesies of disentanglement. As Galdo hurried away, he left a few hand signals in his wake, disguised as adjustments to his hat: I know nothing about Bug. Going to look around.

Don Salvara stared after him thoughtfully for a few seconds, then turned back to Locke as their small party resumed its journey toward the Tumblehome. They made small talk for a while. Locke had little trouble, as Fehrwight, letting his pleasure at seeing “Eccari” slip. Soon he was projecting a very real downcast mood, which he claimed to be an incipient headache from the attempted strangling. Don Salvara and Conté left the two Gentlemen Bastards in front of the Tumblehome’s street-side citrus gardens, with admonitions to rest soundly that night and let all business wait for the morrow.

No sooner were Locke and Jean safely alone in their suite (the harness full of “precious” goods thrown back over Jean’s shoulders) than they were exploding out of their muddy finery and donning new disguises so they could hurry off to their own rendezvous points to wait for word of Bug, if any was forthcoming.

This time, the swift dark shape that flitted silently from rooftop to rooftop in their wake went entirely unnoticed.

8

FADING FALSELIGHT. The Hangman’s Wind and the swampwater mist glued clothes to skin and rapidly congealed Calo and Galdo’s tobacco smoke around them, half cloaking them in a cataract of grayness. The twins sat, hooded and sweating, in the locked doorway of a fairly well-kept pawnshop on the northern tip of the Old Citadel district. The shop was shuttered and barred for the evening; the keeper’s family was obviously drinking something with a merry kick two floors above them.

“It was a good first touch,” said Calo.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“Our best yet. Hard to work all those disguises, what with us being the handsome ones.”

“I confess that I wasn’t aware we shared that complication.”

“Now, now, don’t be hard on yourself. Physically, you’re quite my match. It’s my scholarly gifts you lack. And my easy fearlessness. And my gift for women.”

“If you mean the ease with which you drop coins when you’re off a-cunting, you’re right. You’re a one-man charity ball for the whores of Camorr.”

“Now that,” said Calo, “was genuinely unkind.”

“You’re right.” The twins smoked in silence for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. Some of the savor’s out of it tonight. The little bastard has my stomach twisted in knots. You saw—”

“Extra foot patrols. Pissed off. Yeah, heard the whistles. I’m real curious about what he did and why he did it.”

“He must’ve had his reasons. If it really was a good first touch, he gave it to us. I hope he’s well enough for us to beat the piss out of him.”

Stray shapes hurried past in the backlit mist; there was very little Elderglass on the Old Citadel island, so most of the dying glow poured through from a distance. The sound of a horse’s hooves on cobbles was coming from the south, and getting louder.

At that moment, Locke was no doubt skulking near the Palace of Patience, eyeballing the patrols coming and going across the Black Bridge, making sure that they carried no small, familiar prisoners. Or small, familiar bodies. Jean would be off at another rendezvous point, pacing and cracking his knuckles. Bug would never return straight to the Temple of Perelandro, nor would he go near the Tumblehome. The older Gentlemen Bastards would sit their vigils for him out in the city and the steam.

Wooden wheels clattered and an annoyed animal whinnied; the sound of the horse-drawn cart came to a creaking halt not twenty feet from the Sanza brothers, shrouded in the mist. “Avendando?” A loud but uncertain voice spoke the name. Calo and Galdo leapt to their feet as one—“Avendando” was their private recognition signal for an unplanned rendezvous.

“Here!” Calo cried, dropping his thin cigarette and forgetting to step on it. A man materialized out of the mist, bald and bearded, with the heavy arms of a working artisan and the rounded middle of moderate prosperity.

“I dunno exactly how this works,” the man said, “but if one of you is Avendando, I was told I’d have ten solons for delivering this here cask to this, ah, doorway.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the cart.

“Cask. Indeed.” Galdo fumbled with a coin purse, heart racing. “What’s, ahhh, in this cask?”

“Ain’t wine,” said the stranger. “Ain’t a very polite lad, neither. But ten silvers is what he promised.”

“Of course.” Galdo counted rapidly, slapping bright silver disks down into the man’s open palm. “Ten for the cask. One more for forgetting all about this, hmmm?”

“Holy hell, my memory must be cacked out, because I can’t remember what you’re paying me for.”

“Good man.” Galdo slipped his purse back under his nightcloak and ran to help Calo, who had mounted the cart and was standing over a wooden cask of moderate size. The cork stopper that would ordinarily be set into the top of the barrel was gone, leaving a small dark air-hole. Calo rapped sharply on the cask three times; three faint taps came right back. With grins on their faces, the Sanza twins muscled the cask down off the cart and nodded farewell to the driver. The man remounted his cart and soon vanished into the night, whistling, his pockets jingling with more than twenty times the value of the empty cask.

“Well,” Calo said when they’d rolled the cask back to the shelter of their doorway, “this vintage is probably a little young and rough for decanting.”

“Put it in the cellar for fifty or sixty years?”

“I was thinking we might just pour it in the river.”

“Really?” Galdo drummed his fingers on the cask. “What’s the river ever done to deserve that?”

There was a series of noises from inside the cask that sounded vaguely like some sort of protest. Calo and Galdo leaned down by the air-hole together.

“Now, Bug,” Calo began, “I’m sure you have a perfectly good explanation for why you’re in there, and why we’re out here worrying ourselves sick over you.”

“It’s a magnificent explanation, really.” Bug’s voice was hoarse and echoed faintly. “You’re going to love it. But first tell me how the game went!”

“It was a thing of beauty,” said Galdo.

“Three weeks, tops, and we’re going to own this don down to his wife’s last set of silk smallclothes,” added Calo.

The boy groaned with obvious relief. “Great. Well, what happened was, there was this pack of yellowjackets heading right for you. What I did to distract them pissed them off pretty fierce, so, um, I ran for this cooper’s that I know in Old Citadel. He does business with some of the wine places upriver, so he’s got this yard of barrels just sitting around. Well, I just sort of invited myself in, jumped in one, and told him that if I could stay there until he delivered me here after Falselight, there’d be eight solons in it for him.”

“Eight?” Calo scratched his chin. “The cheeky bastard just asked for ten, and got eleven.”

“Yeah, well, that’s okay.” Bug coughed. “I got bored sitting around the cask-yard so I lifted his purse. Had about two solons worth of copper in it. So we got some back.”

“I was going to say something sympathetic about you lying around inside a cask for half the day,” said Galdo, “but that was a damn silly thing to do.”

“Oh, come on!” Bug sounded genuinely stung. “He thought I was in the cask the whole time, so why would he suspect me? And you just gave him a load of money, so why would he suspect you? It’s perfect! Locke would appreciate it.”

“Bug,” Calo said, “Locke is like a brother to us, and our love for him has no bounds. But the four most fatal words in the Therin language are ‘Locke would appreciate it.’ ”

“Rivaled only by ‘Locke taught me a new trick,’ ” added Galdo.

“The only person who gets away with Locke Lamora games—”

“—is Locke Lamora—”

“—because we think the gods are saving him up for a really big death. Something with knives and hot irons—”

“—and fifty thousand cheering spectators.”

The brothers cleared their throats in unison.

“Well,” Bug said finally, “I did it and I got away with it. Can we go home now?”

“Home,” Calo mused. “Sure. Locke and Jean are going to sob over you like grandmothers when they find out you’re alive, so let’s not keep them waiting.”

“No need to get out; your legs are probably cramped up,” said Galdo.

“They are!” Bug squeaked. “But you two really don’t need to carry me all that way.…”

“You’ve never been more right about anything in your entire life, Bug!” Galdo took up position at one side of the cask and nodded at Calo. Whistling in unison, the two brothers began rolling the cask along the cobbles, steering for the Temple District, not necessarily by the fastest or smoothest route available.

INTERLUDE

Locke Explains

“It was an accident,” Locke said at last. “They were both accidents.”

“Excuse me? I must not have heard you.” Father Chains’ eyes narrowed in the faint red glow of Locke’s tiny ceramic lamp. “I could have sworn you just said, ‘Toss me over the parapet. I’m a useless little cuss and I’m ready to die at this very moment.’ ”

Chains had moved their conversation up to the roof of the temple, where they sat comfortably beneath high parapets meant to be threaded with decorative plants. The long-lost hanging gardens of the House of Perelandro were a small but important aspect of the sacrificial tragedy of the Eyeless Priest; one more bit of stage-setting to draw sympathy, measured in coins.

The clouds had roiled in overhead, palely reflecting the particolored glimmers of night-lit Camorr, obscuring the moons and the stars. The Hangman’s Wind was little more than a damp pressure that nudged the sluggish air around Chains and Locke as the boy struggled to clarify himself.

“No! I meant to hurt them, but that’s all. I didn’t know … I didn’t know those things would happen.”

“Well, that I can almost believe.” Chains tapped the index finger of his right hand against his left palm, the Camorri marketplace gesture for get on with it. “So take me all the way. That ‘almost’ is a major problem for you. Make me understand, starting with the first boy.”

“Veslin,” Locke whispered. “And Gregor, but Veslin first.”

“Veslin indeed,” Chains said. “Poor soul, got a superfluous orifice carved into his neck by none other than your old master. He had to go buy one of those lovely shark’s teeth from the Capa, and that one got used. So … why?”

“In the hill, some of the older boys and girls stopped going out to work.” Locke wove his fingers tightly together and stared down at them as though they might sprout answers. “They would just take things when we came back each day. Shake us down. Make our reports to the master for us, leave things out sometimes.”

Chains nodded. “Privileges of age, size, and ass-kissing. If you survive this conversation, you’ll find that it’s just the same in most of the big gangs. Most.”

“And there was one boy. Veslin. He’d do more. He’d kick us, punch us, take our clothes. Make us do things. Lots of times he’d lie to the master about what we’d brought in. He’d give some of our things to the older girls in Windows, and all of us in Streets would get less food—especially the teasers.” Locke’s small hands pulled apart and curled slowly into fists as he spoke. “And if we tried to tell the master, he just laughed, like he knew about it and thought it was funny! And after we told, Veslin would … Veslin would just get worse.”

Chains nodded, then tapped his index finger against his palm once more.

“I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. None of us could fight him. He was too big. None of us had any big friends in the hill. And if we ganged up on Veslin, his big friends would all come after us.

“Veslin went out each day with some of his friends. We saw them while we were working; they wouldn’t mess with our jobs, but they would watch us, you know? And Veslin would say things.” Locke’s thin-lipped scowl would have been comical on a less dirty, less emaciated, less hollow-eyed boy; as it was, he looked like a slender wall-gargoyle, working himself up for a pounce. “Say things when we came back. About how we were clumsy, or lazy, and not taking enough. And he would push us more, and hit us more, and cheat us more. I thought and I thought and I thought about what to do.”

“And the idea,” said Chains, “the fateful idea. It was all yours?”

“Yes.” The boy nodded vigorously. “All mine. I was alone when I had the idea. I saw some yellowjackets on patrol, and I thought … I thought about their sticks, and their swords. And I thought, what if they beat up Veslin? What if they had some reason not to like him?”

Locke paused for breath. “And I thought more, but I couldn’t work it. I didn’t know how. But then I thought, what if they weren’t angry with Veslin? What if I used them as an excuse to make the master angry with Veslin?”

Chains nodded sagely. “And where did you get the white iron coin?”

Locke sighed. “Streets. All of us who didn’t like Veslin stole extra. We watched and we clutched and we worked hard. It took weeks. It took forever! I wanted white iron. I finally got one from a fat man dressed all in black wool. Funny coats and ties.”

“A Vadran.” Chains seemed bemused. “Probably a merchant come down to do some business. Too proud to dress for the weather at first, and sometimes too cheap to see a tailor in town. So, you got a white iron coin. A full crown.”

“Everyone wanted to see it. Everyone wanted to touch it. I let them; then I made them be quiet. I made them promise not to talk about it. I told them it was how we were going to get Veslin.”

“So what did you do with your coin?”

“Put it in a purse, a little leather purse. The kind we clutched all the time. And hid it out in the city so it wouldn’t get taken from us. A place we knew about, where nobody big could get to. And I made sure that Veslin and his friends were out of the hill, and I got the coin, and I went back in early one day. I gave up coppers and bread to the older girls on the door, but the coin was in my shoe.” Here Locke paused and fiddled with his little lamp, making the red glow waver on his face.

“I put it in Veslin’s room. The one where he and Gregor slept—one of the nice dry tombs. Center of the hill. I found a loose stone and hid the purse there, and when I was sure nobody had seen me, I asked to see the master. I said that some of us had seen Veslin at one of the yellowjacket stations. That he’d taken money from them. That he’d shown it to us, and said that if we told on him he’d sell us to the yellowjackets.”

“Amazing.” Chains scratched his beard. “You know you don’t mumble and stutter quite so much when you’re explaining how you fucked someone over?”

Locke blinked, then turned his chin up and stared hard at Chains. The older man laughed. “Wasn’t a criticism, son, and I didn’t mean to dam the flow. Keep the story coming. How did you know your old master would take offense at this? Did the yellowjackets ever offer you or your friends money?”

“No,” Locke said. “No, but I knew the master gave them money. For favors; for information. We saw him putting coins in purses, sometimes. So I figured, maybe I could work it the other way.”

“Ah.” Chains reached within the folds of his robe and withdrew a flat leather wallet, the color of baked bricks in the light of Locke’s lamp. From this he withdrew a scrap of paper, onto which he shook a dark powder from another corner of the wallet. This object he rapidly folded end over end until it was a tight cylinder, and with courtly grace he lit one end by holding it in the lamp’s flame. Soon he was sending ghostly gray swirls of smoke up to join the ghostly gray clouds; the stuff smelled like burning pine tar.

“Forgive me,” Chains said, shifting his bulk to his right so his direct exhalations would miss the boy by a few feet. “Two smokes a night is all I let myself have; the rough stuff before dinner, and the smooth stuff after. Makes everything taste better.”

“So I’m staying for dinner?”

“Oh-ho, my cheeky little opportunist. Let’s say the situation remains fluid. You go ahead and finish your story. You tipped your old master that Veslin was working as an auxiliary member of the famed Camorr constabulary. He must have thrown quite a fit.”

“He said he’d kill me if I was lying.” Locke scuttled to his own right, even farther from the smoke. “But I said he’d hid the coin in his room. His and Gregor’s. So … he tore it apart. I hid the coin real well, but he found it. He was supposed to.”

“Mmmm. What did you expect to happen then?”

“I didn’t know they’d get killed!” Chains couldn’t hear any real grief in that soft and passionate little voice, but there seemed to be real puzzlement, real aggravation. “I wanted him to beat Veslin. I thought maybe he’d do him up in front of all of us. We ate together, most nights. The whole hill. Fuck-ups had to do tricks, or serve and clean everything, sometimes get held down for caning. Drink ginger oil. I thought he’d get those things. Maybe all those things.”

“Well.” Chains held an inhalation of smoke for a particularly long moment, as though the tobacco could fill him with insight, and looked away from Locke. When he finally exhaled, he did so in little puffs, forming wobbly crescents that fluttered a few feet and faded into the general haze. He harrumphed and turned back to the boy. “Well, you certainly learned the value of good intentions, didn’t you? Caning. Cleaning and serving. Heh. Poor Veslin got cleaned and served, all right. How did your old master do it?”

“He was gone for a few hours, and when he came back, he waited. In Veslin’s room. When Veslin and Gregor came back that night, there were older boys nearby. So they couldn’t go anywhere. And then … the master just killed them. Both. Cut Veslin’s throat, and … some of the others said he looked at Gregor for a while, and he didn’t say anything, and then he just …” Locke made the same sort of jabbing motion with two fingers that Chains had made at him earlier. “He did Gregor, too.”

“Of course he did! Poor Gregor. Gregor Foss, wasn’t it? One of those lucky little orphans old enough to remember his last name, not unlike yourself. Of course your old master did him, too. He and Veslin were best friends, right? Two draughts from the same bottle. It was an elementary assumption that one would know that the other was hiding a fortune under a rock.” Chains sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Elementary. So, now that you’ve told your part, would you like me to point out where you fucked everything up? And to let you know why most of your little friends in Streets that helped you pluck that white iron coin are going to be dead before morning?”

CHAPTER TWO

SECOND TOUCH AT THE TEETH SHOW

1

IDLER’S DAY, THE eleventh hour of the morning, at the Shifting Revel. The sun was once again the baleful white of a diamond in a fire, burning an arc across the empty sky and pouring down heat that could be felt against the skin. Locke stood beneath the silk awning atop Don Salvara’s pleasure barge, dressed in the clothes and mannerisms of Lukas Fehrwight, and stared out at the gathering Revel.

There was a troupe of rope dancers perched atop a platform boat to his left; four of them, standing in a diamond pattern about fifteen feet apart. Great lengths of brightly colored silk rope stretched amongst the dancers, around their arms and chests and necks. It seemed that each dancer was working four or five strands simultaneously. These strands formed an ever-shifting cat’s cradle between the dancers, and suspended in this web by clever hitches were all manner of small objects: swords, knives, overcoats, boots, glass statuettes, sparkling knickknacks. All these objects were slowly but gradually moving in various directions as the dancers twirled arms and shifted hips, slipping old knots loose and forming newer, tighter ones with impossibly smooth gestures.

It was a minor wonder on a busy river of wonders, not the least of which was Don and Doña Salvara’s barge. While many nobles hauled trees to and from their orchards on the water, Locke’s hosts were the first to go one step further. Their pleasure barge was a permanent floating orchard in miniature. Perhaps fifty paces long and twenty wide, it was a doublehulled wooden rectangle stuffed with soil to support a dozen oak and olive trees. Their trunks were a uniform night-black, and their rustling cascades of leaves were unnatural emerald, bright as lacquer—an outward testimony to the subtle science of alchemical botany.

Wide circular stairs crisscrossed with patches of leafy shade wound up several of these trees, leading to the don’s silk-topped observation box, comfortably perched within the branches to give the occupants an unobstructed forward view. On each side of this supremely ostentatious sliver of floating forest were twenty hired rowers, seated on outrigger-like structures that kept the top-heavy central portion of the yacht from plunging sideways.

The box could easily hold twenty; this morning it held only Locke and Jean, the don and the doña, and the ever-watchful Conté, currently tending a liquor cabinet so elaborate it might have been mistaken for an apothecary’s lab. Locke returned his gaze to the rope dancers, feeling a strange kinship with them. They weren’t the only ones with ample opportunity to screw up a delicate public act this morning.

“Master Fehrwight, your clothes!” Doña Sofia Salvara shared the forward rail of the observation box with him, her hands scant inches from his. “You would look so very fine in one of your Emberlain winters, but why must you suffer them in our summer? You shall sweat yourself as red as a rose! Might you not take something off?”

“I … my lady, I am, I assure you … most comfortable.” Thirteen gods, she was actually flirting with him. And the little smile that crept on and off her husband’s face told Locke that the Salvaras had planned this in advance. A little close feminine attention to fluster the awkward master merchant; perfectly staged and perfectly common. A game before the game, so to speak. “I find that whatever discomfort these clothes bring me in your … very interesting climate only serves to, to goad me. Into concentrating. Keeps me alert, you see. A better, ah, man of business.”

Jean, standing a few paces behind the two of them, bit his tongue. Throwing blondes at Locke Lamora was not unlike throwing lettuce at sharks, and the Doña Sofia was very blonde; one of those gorgeous Therin rarities with skin like burnt amber and hair the color of almond butter. Her eyes were deep and steady, her curves artfully not concealed by a dark orange summer dress with a cream-white underskirt barely showing at the hem. Well, it was just the Salvaras’ luck to run up against a thief with the most peculiar damned taste in women. Jean could admire the doña for them both; his limited role today (and his “injuries”) would give him little else to do.

“Our Master Fehrwight is made of unusually stern stuff, my dear.” Don Lorenzo lounged in a far corner of the forward rail, dressed in loose white silks and an orange vest matching his wife’s dress. His white neckerchiefs hung rakishly loose, and only the bottom clasp of his vest was fastened. “Yesterday he took the beating of a lifetime; today he wears enough wool for five men and dares the sun to do its worst. I must say, I’m more and more pleased with myself that I’ve kept you out of Jacobo’s grasp, Lukas.”

Locke acknowledged the smiling don with a slight bow and an agreeably awkward smile of his own.

“Do at least have something to drink, Master Fehrwight.” Doña Sofia’s hand briefly settled over Locke’s, long enough for him to feel the assorted calluses and chemical burns no manicure could conceal. She was a true alchemical botanist, then; this barge was her direct handiwork as well as her general design. A formidable talent—by implication, a calculating woman. Lorenzo was obviously the more impulsive one, and if he was wise he’d weigh his wife’s opinion before agreeing to any of Lukas Fehrwight’s proposals. Locke therefore favored her with a shy smile and an awkward cough. Let her think she was getting to him.

“A drink would be very pleasing,” he said. “But, ah, I fear that you shall have no reassurance for my condition, kind Doña Sofia. I have done much business in your city; I know how drinking is done here, when men and women speak of business.”

“ ‘Morning’s for sweat, and night’s for regret,’ ” Don Salvara said as he stepped from the rail and gestured to his servant. “Conté, I do believe Master Fehrwight has just requested nothing less than a ginger scald.”

Conté moved adroitly to fill this request, first selecting a tall crystal wine flute, into which he poured two fingers of purest Camorri ginger oil, the color of scorched cinnamon. To this he added a sizable splash of milky pear brandy, followed by a transparent heavy liquor called ajento, which was actually a cooking wine flavored with radishes. When this cocktail was mixed, Conté wrapped a wet towel around the fingers of his left hand and reached for a covered brazier smoldering to the side of the liquor cabinet. He withdrew a slender metal rod, glowing orange-red at the tip, and plunged it into the cocktail; there was an audible hiss and a small puff of spicy steam. Once the rod was stanched, Conté stirred the drink briskly and precisely three times, then presented it to Locke on a thin silver plate.

Locke had practiced this ritual many times over the years, but when the cold burn of the ginger scald hit his lips (limning every tiny crack with stinging heat, and outlining every crevice between teeth and gums in exquisite pain—even before it went to work on tongue and throat), he was never able to fully hold back the memories of Shades’ Hill and of the Thiefmaker’s admonishments; of a liquid fire that seemed to creep up his sinuses and burn behind his eyes until he wanted to tear them out. Expressing discomfort at his first sip of the drink was much easier than feigning interest in the doña.

“Incomparable.” He coughed, and then, with quick jerky motions, he loosened his black neck-cloths just the slightest bit; the Salvaras smirked charmingly together. “I’m reminded again why I have such success selling gentler liquors to you people.”

2

ONCE PER month, there was no trading done in the Shifting Market. Every fourth Idler’s Day, the merchants stayed clear of the great sheltered circle abutting the Angevine River; instead, they drifted or anchored nearby while half the city came out to see the Shifting Revel.

Camorr had never possessed a great stone or Elderglass amphitheater, and had fallen instead into the curious custom of rebuilding its spectator circle anew at each Revel. Huge multistoried observation barges were towed out and anchored firmly against the stone breakwaters surrounding the Shifting Market, like floating slices cut from the heart of great stadiums. Each barge was operated by a rival family or merchant combine and decked in unique livery; they competed fiercely with one another to fill their seats, and intervessel brawls between the habitual customers of particularly beloved barges were not unknown.

When properly aligned, these barges formed an arc about halfway around the circumference of the Shifting Market. A channel was left clear for boats entering and leaving the center of the calm water, and the rest of the periphery was reserved for the pleasure barges of the nobility. A good hundred or so could be counted on at any Revel, and half again as many for major festivals, such as this one; less than three weeks remained until the Midsummer-mark and the Day of Changes.

Even before the entertainments began the Shifting Revel was its own spectacle—a great tide of rich and poor, floating and on foot, jostling for position in a traditional contest much loved for its lack of rules. The yellowjackets were always out in force, but more to prevent hard words and fisticuffs from escalating than to prevent disturbances altogether. The Revel was a citywide debauch, a rowdy public service the duke was happy to underwrite from his treasury. There were few things like a good Revel to pull the fangs from any unrest before it had time to fester.

Feeling the fire of the approaching noon despite the silk awning over their heads, Locke and his hosts compounded their situation by drinking ginger scalds as they stared out across the rippling heat haze at thousands of Camorri packing the commoner barges. Conté had prepared identical drinks for his lord and lady (though with a touch less ginger oil, perhaps?), which “Graumann” had served them, as Camorri etiquette dictated in these situations. Locke’s glass was half-empty; the liquor was a ball of expanding warmth in his stomach and a vivid memory in his throat.

“Business,” he said at last. “You have both been … so kind to Grau and myself. I agreed to repay this kindness by revealing my business here in Camorr. So let us speak of it, if that would please you.”

“You have never had a more eager audience in your life, Master Fehrwight.” The don’s hired rowers were bringing them into the Shifting Revel proper, and closing on dozens of more traditional pleasure barges, some of them crammed with dozens or hundreds of guests. The don’s eyes were alive with greedy curiosity. “Tell on.”

“The Kingdom of the Seven Marrows is coming apart at the seams.” Locke sighed. “This is no secret.”

The don and the doña nonchalantly sipped their drinks, saying nothing.

“The Canton of Emberlain is peripheral to the major conflict. But the Graf von Emberlain and the Black Table are both working—in different, ah, directions—to place it in the way of substantial harm.”

“The Black Table?” asked the don.

“I beg pardon.” Locke took the tiniest sip of his drink and let new fire trickle under his tongue. “The Black Table is what we call the council of Emberlain’s most powerful merchants. My masters of the House of bel Auster are among them. In every respect save the military and the matter of taxes, they run the Canton of Emberlain. And they are tired of the Graf, and tired of the Trade Guilds in the other six cantons of the Marrows. Tired of limitations. Emberlain grows rich on new means of speculation and enterprise. The Black Table sees the old guilds as a weight around their neck.”

“Curious,” said the doña, “that you say ‘their’ and not ‘our.’ Is this significant?”

“To a point.” Another sip of the drink; a second of feigned nervousness. “The House of bel Auster agrees that the guilds have outlasted their usefulness; that the trade practices of centuries past should not be set in stone by guild law. We do not necessarily agree”—he sipped the drink yet again, and scratched the back of his head—“that, ah, the Graf von Emberlain should be deposed while he is out of the canton with most of his army, showing his flag on behalf of his cousins in Parlay and Somnay.”

“Holy Twelve!” Don Salvara shook his head as though to clear it of what he’d just heard. “They can’t be serious. Your state is … smaller than the Duchy of Camorr! Exposed to the sea on two sides. Impossible to defend.”

“And yet the preparations are under way. Emberlain’s banks and merchant houses do four times the yearly business of the next richest canton in the Marrows. The Black Table fixates upon this. Gold should certainly be considered potential power; the Black Table errs by imagining it to be direct power, in and of itself.” He finished his drink in one long, deliberate draught. “In two months, civil war will have broken out anyway. The succession is a mess. The Stradas and the Dvorims, the Razuls and the Strigs—they are all sharpening knives and parading men. Yet, as we speak, the merchants of Emberlain are moving to arrest the remaining nobility while the Graf is away. To claim the navy. To raise a levy of ‘free citizens.’ To hire mercenaries. In short, they will now attempt to secede from the Marrows. It is unavoidable.”

“And what, specifically, does this have to do with you coming here?” The doña’s knuckles were white around her wine flute; she grasped the full significance of Fehrwight’s story. A fight larger than anything seen in centuries—civil war mixed with possible economic disaster.

“It is the opinion of my masters, the House of bel Auster, that rats in the hold have little chance to take the wheel of a ship that is about to run aground. But those same rats may very easily abandon the ship.”

3

IN THE center of the Shifting Revel, a great many tall iron cages had been sunk into the water. Some of these served to support wooden slats on which performers, victims, fighters, and attendants could stand; a few particularly heavy cages restrained dark shapes that circled ominously under the translucent gray water. Platform boats were rowed around at a steady clip, showing off rope dancers, knife throwers, acrobats, jugglers, strongmen, and other curiosities; the excited shouts of barkers with long brass speaking trumpets echoed flatly off the water.

First up at any Revel were the Penance Bouts, where petty offenders from the Palace of Patience could volunteer for mismatch combat in exchange for reduced sentences or slightly improved living conditions. At present, a hugely muscled nichavezzo (“punishing hand”), one of the duke’s own household guard, was handing out the beatings. The soldier was armored in black leather, with a gleaming steel breastplate and a steel helmet crested with the freshly severed fin of a giant flying fish. Scales and spines scintillated as the soldier stepped back and forth under the bright sun, striking out seemingly at leisure with an iron-shod staff.

The nichavezzo stood on a platform that was small but rock-steady; a series of circular wooden flats surrounded him, separated by an arm’s-length span of water. These wobbly, unstable platforms were occupied by about two dozen slender, grimy prisoners, each armed with a small wooden cudgel. A concerted rush might have overwhelmed their armored tormentor, but this lot seemed to lack the temperament for cooperation. Approaching the nichavezzo singly or in little groups, they were being dropped, one after another, with skull-rattling blows. Little boats circled to fish out unconscious prisoners before they slipped under the water forever; the duke, in his mercy, did not allow Penance Bouts to be deliberately lethal.

“Mmmm.” Locke held his empty wine flute out for just a second; Conté plucked it out of his fingers with the grace of a swordsman disarming an opponent. When the don’s manservant stepped toward the liquor cabinet, Locke cleared his throat. “No need to refill that particular glass just yet, Conté. Too kind, too kind. But with your permission, my lord and lady Salvara, I should like to offer a pair of gifts. One as a matter of simple hospitality. The other as a … well, you’ll see. Graumann?”

Locke snapped his fingers, and Jean nodded. The heavyset man moved over to a wooden table just beside the liquor cabinet and picked up two heavy leather satchels, each of which had iron-reinforced corners and small iron locks sewn into their covers. Jean set these down where the Salvaras could easily see them, and then stepped back so Locke could unseal the satchels with a delicate key of carved ivory. From the first satchel, he withdrew a cask of pale aromatic wood, perhaps one foot in height and half that in diameter, which he then held out for Don Salvara’s examination. A plain black brand on the surface of the cask read:

Brandvin Austershalin 502

Don Lorenzo’s breath hissed in between his teeth; perhaps his nostrils even flared, though Locke kept the face of Lukas Fehrwight politely neutral. “Twelve gods, a 502. Lukas, if I seemed to be teasing you for your refusal to part with your goods, please accept my deepest—”

“You needn’t apologize, my lord.” Locke held up a hand and mimicked the don’s gesture for shooing words down out of the air. “For your bold intervention on my behalf, Don Salvara, and for your excellent hospitality this morning, fair doña, please accept this minor ornament for your cellars.”

“Minor!” The don took the cask and cradled it as though it were an infant not five minutes born. “I … I have a 506 and a pair of 504s. I don’t know of anyone in Camorr that has a 502, except probably the duke.”

“Well,” said Locke, “my masters have kept a few on hand, ever since the word got out that it was a particularly good blend. We use them to … break the ice, in matters of grave business importance.” In truth, that cask represented an investment of nearly eight hundred full crowns and a sea trip up the coast to Ashmere, where Locke and Jean had contrived to win it from an eccentric minor noble in a rigged card game. Most of the money had actually gone to evade or buy off the assassins the old man had later sent after his property; the 502 vintage had become almost too precious to drink.

“What a grand gesture, Master Fehrwight!” Doña Sofia slipped a hand through the crook of her husband’s elbow and gave him a possessive grin. “Lorenzo, love, you should try to rescue strangers from Emberlain more often. They’re so charming!”

Locke coughed and shuffled his feet. “Ahh, hardly, my lady. Now, Don Salvara—”

“Please, do call me Lorenzo.”

“Ah, Don Lorenzo, what I have to show you next relates rather directly to my reason for coming here.” From the second satchel, he drew out a similar cask, but this one was marked only with a stylized ‘A’ within a circle of vines.

“This,” said Locke, “is a sample drawn from last year’s distillation. The 559.”

Don Salvara dropped the cask of 502.

The doña, with girlish agility, shot out her right foot to hook the cask in midair and let it down to the deck with a slight thump rather than a splintering crash. Unbalanced, she did manage to drop her ginger scald; the glass vanished over the side and was soon twenty feet underwater. The Salvaras steadied one another, and the don picked his cask of 502 back up, his hands shaking.

“Lukas,” he said, “surely—surely you must be kidding.”

4

LOCKE DIDN’T find it particularly easy to eat lunch while watching a dozen swimming men being pulled apart by a Jereshti devilfish, but he decided that his master merchant of Emberlain had probably seen worse, in his many imaginary sea voyages, and he kept his true feelings far from his face.

Noon was well past; the Penance Bouts were over, and the Revel-masters had moved on to the Judicial Forfeitures. This was a polite way of saying that the men in the water were murderers, rapists, slavers, and arsonists selected to be colorfully executed for the amusement of the Revel crowds. Technically speaking, they were armed and would receive lesser sentences if they could somehow contrive to slay whatever beast they were matched against, but the beasts were always as nasty as their weapons were laughable, so mostly they were just executed.

The devilfish’s tentacles were twelve feet long—the same length as its undulating gray-and-black striped body. The creature was confined within a sixty-foot circle of cages and platforms, along with a number of screaming, flailing, water-treading men—most of whom had long since dropped their slender little daggers into the water. Nervous guards armed with crossbows and pikes patrolled the platform, shoving prisoners back into the water if they tried to scramble out. Occasionally, the devilfish would roll over in the churning red waters and Locke would catch a glimpse of one lidless black eye the size of a soup bowl—not unlike the bowl currently held in his hands.

“More, Master Fehrwight?” Conté hovered nearby with the silver tureen of chilled soup cradled in his hands; white-fleshed Iron Sea prawns floated in a heavy red tomato base seasoned with peppers and onions. Don and Doña Salvara were a peculiar sort of droll.

“No, Conté, most kind, but I’m well satisfied for the time being.” Locke set his soup bowl down beside the broached cask of “559” (actually a bottle of lowly fifty-crown 550 liberally mixed with the roughest overpriced rum Jean had been able to get his hands on) and took a sip of the amber liquor from his snifter. Even mixed with crap, the counterfeit was delicious. Graumann stood attentively behind Locke’s hosts, who were seated opposite Locke at the intimate little table of oiled silverwood. Doña Sofia toyed unself-consciously with a subtlety of gelled orange slices, paper-thin and arranged in whorls to form edible tulip blossoms. Don Lorenzo stared down at the snifter of brandy in his hands, his eyes still wide.

“It seems almost … sacrilegious!” Despite this sentiment, the don took a deep gulp of the stuff, satisfaction well evident in the lines of his face. In the distance behind him, something that might have been a severed torso flew up into the air and came back down with a splash; the crowd roared approval.

Austershalin brandy was famously aged for a minimum of seven years after distillation and blending; it was impossible for outsiders to get their hands on a cask any sooner than that. The House of bel Auster’s factors were forbidden even to speak of the batches that were not yet on sale; the location of the vintner’s aging-houses was a secret that was reportedly guarded by assassination when necessary. Don Lorenzo had been struck stupid when Locke had casually offered up a cask of 559; he had nearly thrown up when Locke had just as casually opened the seal and suggested they share it with lunch.

“It is.” Locke chuckled. “The brandy is the religion of my House. So many rules, so many rituals, so many penalties!” No longer smiling, he drew a quick finger across his throat. “It’s possible we’re the only people in history to have an unaged sample with a lunch of soup. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I am!” The don swirled the liquor in his glass and stared at it, as though hypnotized by the soft caramel-colored translucence. “And I’m dead curious about what sort of scheme you’ve got up your sleeve, Lukas.”

“Well.” Locke swirled his own drink theatrically. “There have been three invasions of Emberlain in the past two hundred and fifty years. Let’s be frank; the succession rites of the Kingdom of the Marrows always involve armies and blood before they involve blessings and banquets. When the Grafs quarrel, the Austershalin mountains are our only landward barrier, and the site of heavy fighting. This fighting inevitably spills down the eastern slopes of the mountains. Right through the vineyards of the House of bel Auster. How could it be different this time? Thousands of men and horses coming over the passes. Trampling the vineyards. Sacking everything in sight. It might even be worse, now that we have fire-oil. Our vineyards could be ashes half a year from now.”

“You can’t exactly pack your vineyards up and take them with you if you … jump ship,” said Don Lorenzo.

“No.” Locke sighed. “It’s the Austershalin soils, in part, that make Austershalin brandy. If we lose those vineyards, it will be just as it was before—an interruption in growth and distillation. Ten, twenty, maybe even thirty years. Or more. And it gets worse. Our position is terrible. The Graf can’t let Emberlain’s ports and revenue go if the Marrows are coming to civil war. He and his allies will storm the place as fast as possible. They’ll likely put the Black Table to the sword, impound their goods and properties, nationalize their funds. The House of bel Auster won’t be spared.

“At the moment, the Black Table is acting quietly but firmly. Grau and I sailed five days ago, just twelve hours before we knew the port would be sealed off. No Emberlain-flagged ships are being allowed out; they’re all being docked and secured for ‘repairs’ or ‘quarantine.’ Nobles still loyal to the Graf are under house arrest by now, their guards disarmed. Our funds, in various lending houses of Emberlain, have been temporarily frozen. All the Black Table merchant houses have consented to do this to one another. It makes it impossible for any house to flee en masse, with its gold and its goods. Currently, Grau and I are operating on our local credit line, established at Meraggio’s years ago. My House … well, we simply didn’t keep our funds outside Emberlain. Just a bit here and there for emergencies.”

Locke watched the Salvaras very closely for their reaction; his news from Emberlain was as fresh and specific as possible, but the don might have sources of intelligence the Gentlemen Bastards hadn’t spotted in their weeks of surveillance and preparation. The parts about the Black Table and the impending civil war were solid, educated speculation; the part about a sudden port closure and house arrests was pure homespun bullshit. In Locke’s estimation, the real mess in Emberlain wouldn’t start for a few months. If the don was wise to this, the game might be blown. Conté might be trying to pin Locke to the table with his daggers in just a few seconds. And then Jean would pull out the hatchets he had concealed down the back of his vest, and everyone in the little group beneath the silk awning would get very, very uncomfortable.

But the Salvaras said nothing; they merely continued to stare at him with eyes that plainly invited him to go on. Emboldened, he continued: “This situation is unbearable. We will neither be hostages to a cause that we barely profess, nor victims for the Graf’s vengeance upon his inevitable return. We choose a … somewhat risky alternative. One that would require substantial aid from a noble of Camorr. You, Don Salvara, if it is within your means.”

The don and his wife had clasped hands under the table; he waved his hand at Locke excitedly.

“We can surrender our funds. By taking no steps to secure them, we buy ourselves more time to act. And we are quite confident that replacing those funds will merely be a matter of time and effort. We can even abandon”—Locke gritted his teeth—“we can even abandon our vineyards. We will completely burn them ourselves, leaving nothing to anyone else. After all, we enhance the soil ourselves, alchemically. And the secret of that enhancement is kept only in the hearts of our Planting Masters.”

“The Austershalin Process,” Sofia breathed, betrayed by her own rising excitement.

“Of course, you’ve heard of it. Well, there are only three Planting Masters at any given time. And the Process is complex enough to defy soil examination—even by someone with talents such as yours, my lady. Many of the compounds our alchemists use are inert, and intended only to confuse the matter. So that’s that.

“The one thing we cannot abandon is our stock of aging blends; the last six years, batched in their casks. And certain rare vintages and special experiments. We store the Austershalin in thirty-two gallon casks; there are nearly six thousand such casks in our possession. We have to get them out of Emberlain. We have to do it in the next few weeks, before the Black Table imposes harsher control measures and before the Graf begins laying siege to his canton. And now our ships are under guard, and all of our funds are untouchable.”

“You want … you want to get all of these casks out of Emberlain? All of them?” The don actually gulped.

“As many as possible,” said Locke.

“And for this you would involve us how?” Doña Sofia was fidgeting.

“Emberlain-flagged ships can no longer leave port, nor enter if they wish to escape again. But—a small flotilla of Camorr-flagged ships, with Camorri crews, financed by a Camorri noble …” Locke set his glass of brandy down and spread both his hands in the air.

“You wish me to provide … a naval expedition?”

“Two or three of your larger galleons should do it. We’re looking at a thousand tons of cargo—casks and brandy alike. Minimal crew, say fifty or sixty men a ship. We can take our pick of the docks and get sober, trustworthy captains. Six or seven days beating north, plus however long it takes to scratch the crews and ships together. I guess less than a week. Do you concur?”

“A week … yes, but … you’re asking me to finance all of this?”

“In exchange for a most handsome recompense, I assure you.”

“Provided everything goes well, yes, and we’ll come to the matter of recompense in a moment. But just the rapid acqusition of two galleons, good captains, and very reliable crews—”

“Plus,” said Locke, “something to stick in the hold for the trip north. Cheap grain, dried cheese, low-grade fresh fruit. Nothing special. But Emberlain will shortly be under siege; the Black Table will be happy to have a cache of extra supplies offloaded. Emberlain’s position is too tenuous to fail to respect the sovereign neutrality of Camorr; that’s what my masters are counting on to get the ships in and out. But added insurance cannot hurt.”

“Yes,” said Don Lorenzo, tugging on his lower lip. “Two galleons, crews, officers, cheap cargo. A small crew of mercenaries, ten or twelve a ship. There are always some hanging around the Viscount’s Gate this time of year. I’d want a hard corps of armed men on each ship to discourage … complications.”

Locke nodded.

“So, how exactly would we go about removing the casks from your aging-houses and transporting them to the docks?”

“A very simple ruse,” said Locke. “We maintain several breweries and storehouses for small beer; it’s a sideline, a sort of hobby for some of our Blending Masters. Our beer is stored in casks, and the location of these warehouses is public knowledge. Slowly, carefully, while Grau and I sailed south, my masters have been moving casks of Austershalin brandy to the beer warehouses and relabeling them. They will continue to do so while we prepare here, and until our ships appear in the harbor of Emberlain.”

“So you won’t be loading brandy in secret.” Doña Sofia clapped her hands together. “As far as anyone knows, you’ll be loading beer in the open!”

“Exactly, my lady. Even a large export of beer won’t be anywhere near as suspicious as a movement of the unaged brandy. It’ll be looked on as a commercial coup; we’ll be the first to dodge the interdict on Emberlain-flagged vessels. We’ll bring in a pile of supplies for the coming siege and a fine apparent profit for ourselves. Then, once we’ve got all the brandy loaded, we’ll put out to sea, bringing sixty or seventy bel Auster family and employees to form the nucleus of our new business operations in Camorr. Discovery after that will be immaterial.”

“All of this to be thrown together on short notice.” Don Lorenzo was deep in thought. “Fifteen thousand crowns, I’d say. Perhaps twenty.”

“I concur, my lord. Count on an additional five thousand or so, for bribes and other arrangements.” Locke shrugged. “Certain men are going to have to look the other way for us to do our job when we reach Emberlain, warehouse ruse or no.”

“Twenty-five thousand crowns, then. Damn.” Lorenzo downed the last of the brandy in his glass, set it down, and folded his hands together on the table before him. “You’re asking me for more than half of my fortune. I like you, Lukas, but now it’s time to discuss the other side of the proposal.”

“Of course.” Lukas stopped to offer the don another dash of the counterfeit “unaged”; the don began to wave him off, but his taste buds prevailed over his better judgment, and he held out his glass. Doña Sofia did so as well, and Jean hurried over to pass her glass between her and Locke. When he’d served the Salvaras, Locke poured a companionably large amount into his own snifter. “First, you have to understand what the House of bel Auster is and is not offering.

“You will never have the Austershalin Process. It will continue to be passed down, verbally, and strictly within the House. We can offer you no properties as collateral or in payment; we expect to forfeit them upon fleeing Emberlain. Resecuring the vineyards at a future date is our own problem.

“Any effort on your part to pry into the Austershalin Process, to suborn any bel Auster men or women, will be regarded as an absolute breach of trust.” Locke sipped brandy. “I have no idea what specific penalties we could levy to express our displeasure, but it would be fully expressed. I am instructed to be entirely clear on this point.”

“And so you are.” Doña Sofia placed one hand on her husband’s left shoulder. “But these limitations are not yet an offer.”

“Forgive me, gracious Doña Sofia, for speaking to you like this. But you must understand—this is the most important thing the House of bel Auster has ever contemplated. Grau and I hold the future of our combine in our rather vulnerable hands. At this moment, I can’t speak to you just as your luncheon guest Lukas Fehrwight. I am the House of bel Auster. You have to understand that some things are not on the table, not even by the most remote implication.”

The Salvaras nodded as one, Sofia just a bit more slowly than Lorenzo.

“Now. Consider the situation. War is coming to Emberlain. Our vineyards and our properties are as good as lost. And without those vineyards, there will be no Austershalin actually produced for only the Marrows know how long. Ten years? A generation? Even when we have the vineyards back, the soil will need years to recover. This is the way it has been, three times before. For many, many years to come, the only new Austershalin available is going to come from whatever portion of those six thousand casks we can move out of Emberlain, like thieves in the night. Imagine the demand. The price escalation.”

The don’s lips moved unconsciously as he calculated; Doña Sofia stared off into the distance, her brow furrowed. Austershalin brandy was the finest and most sought-after liquor known; even the alchemical wines of Tal Verrar, in a hundred bewitching varieties, were not as expensive. A single half-gallon bottle of the youngest available Austershalin was thirty full crowns at retail; the price went up sharply with age. With a surprise shortage, a fixed supply, and no new crop of Austershalin grapes in sight?

“Fuckdamn,” said Conté, totally unable to help himself when the sums involved vanished over his mental horizon. “Beg pardon, Doña Sofia.”

“You should.” She drained her snifter in one quick unladylike gulp. “Your calculations are off. This merits a triple fuckdamn at least.”

“The House of bel Auster,” Locke continued, “wishes to establish a partnership with you, based in Camorr, to store and market Austershalin brandy during our … interregnum. In exchange for your assistance in transporting it from Emberlain in our moment of extreme need, we are prepared to offer you fifty percent of the proceeds from the sale of anything you transport for us. Again, consider the situation, and the price of Austershalin during a shortage. You could recoup your initial investment ten times over in the first year. Give us five years, or ten …”

“Yes.” Don Lorenzo fiddled with his optics. “But Lukas, somehow, sitting here discussing the possible destruction of your House and a move to a city half a thousand miles to the south, you don’t sound … entirely displeased.”

Locke used a particularly endearing wry smile he’d once practiced before a mirror-glass for weeks. “When my masters grasped the essence of their current situation, some of them suggested we should have engineered an artificial shortage years ago. As it is, we are determined that we can turn a painful setback into a glorious return. Those six thousand casks, sold at shortage prices over a number of years … We could return to Emberlain with a fortune that eclipses everything we’d be leaving behind. And as for your own situation …”

“We’re not talking about hundreds of thousands of crowns.” Doña Sofia returned from her thoughtful trance. “We’re talking about millions. Even split between us.”

“It would be foolish to presume too much, but yes—there is the possibility that the sums involved could reach such figures. My masters are also prepared to grant one final compensation, upon our successful return to Emberlain and the restoration of the Austershalin vineyards. We offer your family a permanent stake in all bel Auster operations thereafter; certainly nothing close to a controlling interest, but something respectable. A ten to fifteen percent share. You would be the first and, we hope, the only foreigners ever offered such an interest.”

There was a brief pause. “That’s … a very attractive offer,” Don Salvara said at last. “And to think all this was going to fall into Jacobo’s lap simply by default. By the gods, Lukas, if we ever cross paths with those thieves again, I’m going to thank them for arranging our introduction.”

“Well,” Locke chuckled, “I for my part can let bygones be bygones. Graumann might feel somewhat differently. And the fact remains that while I sense we may be shaking hands very soon, we still have to assemble our ships, sail north to Emberlain, and snatch up our prize. The situation is like a damaged cargo rope, unraveling down to a single thread.” He saluted the Salvaras with his brandy snifter. “It will snap.”

Out on the water, the devilfish was victorious, and the guards rewarded it for its service by filling it with poisoned crossbow bolts. Boat hooks and chains were used to haul the carcass out of the center of the Shifting Revel; there was just no putting a creature like that back into the box once it had served its purpose. The monster’s red blood mixed with that of its victims and slowly settled in a broad, dark cloud; even this had a deliberate part to play in what was to come next.

5

SCHOLARS OF the Therin Collegium, from their comfortable position well inland, could tell you that the wolf sharks of the Iron Sea are beautiful and fascinating creatures, their bodies more packed with muscle than any bull, their abrasive hide streaked with every color from old-copper green to stormcloud black. Anyone actually working the waterfront in Camorr and on the nearby coast could tell you that wolf sharks are big aggressive bastards that like to jump.

Carefully caged, starved, and maddened by blood, wolf sharks are the key to the customary highlight of the Shifting Revel. Other cities have gladiatorial games; other cities pit men against animals. But only in Camorr can you see a specially armed gladiator (a contrarequialla) battle a live, leaping shark, and in Camorr only women are allowed by tradition to be contrarequialla.

This is the Teeth Show.

6

LOCKE COULDN’T tell if the four women were truly beautiful, but they were undeniably striking. They were all dark-skinned Camorri with muscles like farm girls, imposing even at a distance, and they wore next to nothing—tight black cotton shifts across their chests, wrestler’s loincloths, and thin leather gloves. Their black hair was pulled back under the traditional red bandannas and threaded with brass and silver bangles that caught the sunlight in chains of white flashes. The purpose of these bangles was a matter of argument; some claimed that they confused the poor eyesight of the sharks, while just as many claimed that their glare helped the monsters better sight their prey.

Each contrarequialla carried two weapons; a short javelin in one hand and a special axe in the other. These axes had grips enclosed by full handguards, making them difficult to lose; they were double-headed, with the expected curved blade on one side and a long, sturdy pick-head on the other. A skilled fighter usually tried to slash a shark’s fins and tail to nothing before making a kill; few but the very best could kill with anything but the spike. Wolf shark skin could be like tree bark.

Locke stared at the grim women and felt his usual melancholy admiration. They were, to his eyes, as mad as they were courageous.

“I know that’s Cicilia de Ricura there, on the far left.” Don Lorenzo was pointing the women out for Lukas Fehrwight’s benefit, taking a break from more than an hour of rapid negotiations. “She’s decent. And beside her is Aganesse, who carries her javelin but never, ever uses it. The other two, well, they must be new. At least new to the Revel.”

“It’s so unfortunate,” said the Doña, “that the Berangias sisters aren’t out there today, Master Fehrwight. They’re the best.”

“Probably the best there ever has been.” Don Salvara squinted to cut some of the glare rising off the water and tried to estimate the size of the sharks, barely visible as shadows within their cages. “Or ever will be. But they haven’t been at the Revel for the past few months.”

Locke nodded and chewed on the inside of one of his cheeks. As Locke Lamora, garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards and respectable sneak thief, he knew the Berangias twins personally. He also knew exactly where they’d been for those past few months.

Out on the water, the first fighter was taking her position. Contrarequialla fought across a series of stepping-stone platforms, each about two feet wide and raised half a foot off the water. These platforms were set out in a square grid, four or five feet apart, leaving plenty of room for the opposition to swim between them. The women would have to hop between these platforms at a rapid pace to strike out at the sharks while dodging leaps in return; a slip into the water was usually the end of the contest.

Beyond the line of shark cages (opened by chain pulleys connected to a barge well beyond the periphery of any possible shark activity) there was a little boat, crewed by (extremely well-paid) volunteer rowers and carrying the three traditional observers of any Teeth Show. First, there was a priest of Iono in his sea-green robes fringed with silver. Beside him there was a black-robed, silver-masked priestess of Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence, Goddess of Death. Lastly, there was a physiker, whose presence had always struck Locke as an extremely optimistic gesture.

“Camorr!” The young woman—apparently Cicilia de Ricura—raised her weapons into the air over her head. The heavy murmur of the crowd subsided, leaving only the noise of water lapping against boats and breakwaters. Fifteen thousand watchers held their collective breath. “I dedicate this death to Duke Nicovante, our lord and patron!” Such was the traditional phrasing of the contrarequialla’s salute; “this death” could conveniently refer to either participant in the battle.

With a great flourish of trumpets and the cheer of the crowd, the boatmen outside the circle of cages loosed the afternoon’s first shark. The ten-foot fish, already blood-mad, shot forth from imprisonment and began to circle the stepping platforms, its ominous gray fin slicing a rippling line in the water. Cicilia balanced on one foot and bent down to slap the water with the heel of the other, screaming oaths and challenges. The shark took the bait; in a few seconds it was in amongst the platforms, stocky body whipping back and forth like a toothy pendulum.

“This one doesn’t like to waste time!” Don Salvara actually wrung his hands together. “I bet it’s an early leaper.”

Barely had these words escaped his mouth than the shark rocketed up out of the water in a fountain of silver spray, hurling itself at the crouching fighter. The shark’s leap was not a high one; Cicilia avoided it by jumping right, to the next platform over. In midair she let her javelin go with a backhanded cast; the shaft sunk into the shark’s flank and quivered there for a split second before the streamlined mass of hungry muscle splashed back down into the water. Crowd reaction was mixed; the cast had displayed remarkable agility but minimal power. Cicilia’s shark was likely only further angered, and her javelin wasted.

“Oh, poor decision.” The doña clicked her tongue. “This girl needs to learn some patience. We’ll see if her new friend gives her the chance.”

Thrashing, spraying pink-foamed water, the shark maneuvered for another attack, chasing Cicilia’s shadow on the water. She hopped from platform to platform, axe reversed so the spike was facing outward.

“Master Fehrwight.” Don Lorenzo removed his optics and played with them while he watched the fight; apparently, they weren’t necessary for use at long distances. “I can accept your terms, but you have to appreciate that my portion of the initial risk is quite heavy, especially relative to my total available funds. My request, therefore, is that the split of revenues from our Austershalin sales be adjusted to fifty-five, forty-five, in my favor.”

Locke pretended to ponder while Cicilia pumped her arms and leaped for dear life, the eager gray fin slashing through the water just behind her feet. “I’m authorized to make such a concession on behalf of my masters. In return … I would fix your family’s ownership interest in the resecured Austershalin vineyards at five percent.”

“Done!” The don smiled. “I will fund two large galleons, crew and officers, necessary bribes and arrangements, and a cargo to take north with us. I’ll oversee one galleon; you the other. Mercenary crews of my choosing to be placed aboard each vessel for added security. Conté will travel with you; your Graumann can stay at my side. Any expenditures that bring our budget over twenty-five thousand Camorri crowns are to be made solely at my discretion.”

The shark leaped and missed again; Cicilia performed a brief onearmed handstand on her platform, waving her axe. The audience roared while the shark rolled over gracelessly in the water and came back for another pass.

“Agreed,” said Locke. “Signed identical copies of our contract to be kept by each of us; one additional copy in Therin to be kept with a mutually agreeable neutral solicitor, to be opened and examined by them within the month should one of us have … an accident while fetching the casks. One additional copy in Vadran to be signed and placed into the care of an agent known to me, for eventual delivery to my masters. I shall require a bonded scribe at the Tumblehome this evening, and a promissory note for five thousand crowns, to be drawn at Meraggio’s tomorrow so I can get to work immediately.”

“And that is all that remains?”

“Quite everything,” said Locke.

The don was silent for several seconds. “The hell with it; I agree. Let’s clasp hands and take our chances.”

Out on the water, Cicilia paused and hefted her axe, timing a blow as the shark approached her platform on her right, undulating, moving too slow for a high leap. Just as Cicilia shifted her weight to bring the spike down, the shark jackknifed in the water beside her, squeezing its body into a U shape, and drove itself straight downward. This maneuver flicked its tail into the air, catching the contrarequialla just under her knees. Screaming more in shock than in pain, Cicilia de Ricura fell backward into the water.

It was all over a few seconds after that; the shark came up biting and must have taken her by one or both legs. They turned over and over in the water a few times—Locke caught glimpses of the frantic woman’s form alternating with the dark rough hide of the shark; white then gray, white then gray. In moments the pink foam was dark red once more, and the two struggling shadows were sinking into the depths beneath the platforms. Half the crowd roared lusty approval; the rest bowed their heads in a respectful silence that would last just until the next young woman entered the ring of red water.

“Gods!” Doña Sofia stared at the spreading stain on the water; the surviving fighters stood with their heads lowered, and the priests were gesturing some sort of mutual blessing. “Unbelievable! Taken in so fast, by such a simple trick. Well, my father used to say that one moment of misjudgment at the Revel is worth ten at any other time.”

Locke bowed deeply to her, taking one hand and kissing it. “I doubt him not at all, Doña Sofia. Not at all.”

Smiling amiably, he bowed to her once more, then turned to shake hands with her husband.

INTERLUDE

Locke Stays for Dinner

1

“What?” Locke nearly jumped to his feet. “What are you talking about?”

“My boy,” said Chains, “my intermittently brilliant little boy, your world has such small horizons. You can see clearly enough to pull a fast one on someone, but you can’t see past the immediate consequences. Until you learn to think ahead of the repercussions, you are putting yourself and everyone around you in danger. You can’t help being young, but it’s past time that you stopped being stupid. So listen carefully.

“Your first mistake was that taking coin from the watch isn’t a beating offense. It’s a killing offense. Are we clear on that? Here in Camorr, the watch takes our coin, and never the other way around. This rule is set in stone and there are no exceptions, no matter what kind of thief you are. It’s death. It’s a throat-slashing, shark-feeding, off-to-meet-the-gods offense, clear?”

Locke nodded.

“So when you set Veslin up, you really set him up. But you compounded this mistake when you used a white iron coin. You know how much a full crown is worth, exactly?”

“Lots.”

“Ha. ‘Lots’ isn’t ‘exactly.’ You don’t speak Therin, or you don’t really know?”

“I guess I don’t really know.”

“Well, if everything’s butter and nobody’s been shaving the damn things, that little piece of shiny white iron was worth forty silver solons. You see? Two hundred and forty coppers. Your eyes are wide. That means you can think that big, that you understand?”

“Yes. Wow.”

“Yes, wow. Let me put it in perspective. A yellowjacket—one of our selfless and infinitely dutiful city watchmen—might make that much for two months of daily duty. And watchmen are decently paid, for common folk, and they sure as blessed shit do not get paid in white iron.”

“Oh.”

“So not only was Veslin taking money, he was taking too much money. A full crown! You can buy a death for much less, yours included.”

“Um … how much did you pay for my …” Locke tapped his chest, where the death-mark still hung beneath his shirt.

“I don’t mean to prick your rather substantial opinion of yourself, but I’m still not sure if it was two coppers wisely spent.” At the boy’s expression, Chains barked out a rich, genuine laugh, but then his voice grew serious once again. “Keep guessing, boy. But the point remains. You can get good, hard men to do serious work for less. You could buy five or six major pieces of business, if you know what I mean. So, when you stuck a white iron coin in Veslin’s things—”

“It was too much money for anything … simple?”

“Dead on. Far too much money for information or errands. Nobody in their right mind gives a fucking graveyard urchin a full crown. Unless that urchin is being paid to do something big. Kill your old master, for example. Smoke out all of Shades’ Hill and everyone in it. So if the poor Thiefmaker was upset to discover that Veslin was on the take, you can imagine how he felt when he saw how much money was involved.”

Locke nodded furiously.

“Ahhhhh, so. Two mistakes. Your third mistake was involving Gregor. Was Gregor supposed to get hit with the ugly stick?”

“I didn’t like him, but no. I just wanted Veslin. Maybe I wanted Gregor to get a little, but not as much as Veslin.”

“Just so. You had a target, and you had a twist to play on that target, but you didn’t control the situation. So your game for Veslin spilled over and Gregor Foss got the knife, too.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I already admitted it!”

“Angry now? My, yes, you would be … angry that you fucked up. Angry that you’re not as clever as you think. Angry that the gods gave lots of other people the same sort of brain they gave Locke Lamora. Quite the pisser, isn’t it?”

Locke blew his little lamp out with one quick breath, then flung it in an arc, as high over the parapet as his slender arm could throw. The crash of its landing was lost in the murmur of the busy Camorri night. The boy crossed his arms defensively.

“Well, it certainly is nice to be free from the threat of that lamp, my boy.” Chains drew a last breath of smoke, then rubbed his dwindling sheaf of tobacco out against the roof stones. “Was it informing for the duke? Plotting to murder us?”

Locke said nothing, teeth clenched and lower lip protruding. Petulance, the natural nonverbal language of the very young. Chains snorted.

“I do believe everything you’ve told me, Locke, because I had a long talk with your former master before I took you off his hands. Like I said, he told me everything. He told me about your last and biggest mistake. The one that tipped him off and got you sent here. Can you guess what it might have been?”

Locke shook his head.

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“I really don’t know.” Locke looked down. “I hadn’t actually … thought about it.”

“You showed other kids in Streets the white iron coin, didn’t you? You had them help you look for it. You let some of them know what it might be used for. And you ordered them not to talk about it. But what did you, ah, back that order up with?”

Locke’s eyes widened; his pout returned, but his petulance evaporated. “They … they hated Veslin, too. They wanted to see him get it.”

“Of course. Maybe that was enough for one day. But what about later? After Veslin was dead, and Gregor was dead, and your master’d had a chance to cool down some, and reflect on the situation? What if he started asking questions about a certain Lamora boy? What if he took some of your little boon companions from Streets and asked them nicely if Locke Lamora had been up to anything … unusual? Even for him?”

“Oh.” The boy winced. “Oh!”

“Oh-ho-ho!” Chains reached out and slapped the boy on the shoulder. “Enlightenment! When it comes, it comes like a brick to the head, doesn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“So,” said Chains, “now you see where everything went wrong. How many boys and girls are in that little hill, Locke? A hundred? Hundred and twenty? More? How many do you really think your old master could handle, if they turned on him? One or two, no problem. But four? Eight? All of them?”

“We, um … I guess we never … thought about it.”

“Because he doesn’t rule his graveyard by logic, boy; he rules it by fear. Fear of him keeps the older sprats in line. Fear of them keeps little shits like you in line. Anything that undermines that fear is a threat to his position. Enter Locke Lamora waving the idiot flag and thinking himself so much cleverer than the rest of the world!”

“I really … I don’t … think I’m cleverer than the rest of the world.”

“You did until three minutes ago. Listen, I’m a garrista. It means I run a gang, even if it’s just a small one. Your old master is a garrista, too; the garrista of Shades’ Hill. And when you mess with a leader’s ability to rule his gang, out come the knives. How long do you think the Thiefmaker could control Shades’ Hill if word got around of how you played him so sweetly? How you jerked him around like a kitten on a chain? He would never have real control over his orphans ever again; they’d push and push until it finally came to blood.”

“And that’s why he got rid of me? But what about Streets? What about the ones that helped me get Veslin?”

“Good questions. Easily answered. Your old master takes orphans in off the streets and keeps them for a few years; usually he’s through with them by the time they’re twelve or thirteen. He teaches them the basics: how to sneak-thief and speak the cant and mix with the Right People, how to get along in a gang and how to dodge the noose. When he’s through with them, he sells them to the bigger gangs, the real gangs. You see? He takes orders. Maybe the Gray Faces need a second-story girl. Maybe the Arsenal Boys want a mean little bruiser. It’s a great advantage to the gangs; it brings them suitable new recruits that don’t need to have their hands held.”

“That I know. That’s why … he sold me to you.”

“Yes. Because you’re a very special case. You have profitable skills, even if your aim so far has been terrible. But your little friends in Streets? Did they have your gifts? They were just regular little coat-charmers, simple little teasers. They weren’t ripe. Nobody would give a penny for them, except slavers, and your old master has one sad old scrap of real conscience. He wouldn’t sell one of you to the crimpers for all the coin in Camorr.”

“So … what you’re saying is, he had to do something to all of us that knew about the coin. All of us that could … figure it out or tell about it. And I was the only one he could sell.”

“Correct. And as for the others, well …” Chains shrugged. “It’ll be quick. Two, three weeks from now, nobody’ll even remember their names. You know how it goes in the hill.”

“I got them killed?”

“Yes.” Chains didn’t soften his voice. “You really did. As surely as you tried to hurt Veslin, you killed Gregor and four or five of your little comrades into the bargain.”

“Shit.”

“Do you see now, what consequences really are? Why you have to move slowly, think ahead, control the situation? Why you need to settle down and wait for time to give you sense to match your talent for mischief? We have years to work together, Locke. Years for you and my other little hellions to practice quietly. And that has to be the rule, if you want to stay here. No games, no cons, no scams, no anything except when and where I tell you. When someone like you pushes the world, the world pushes back. Other people are likely to get hurt. Am I clear?”

Locke nodded.

“Now.” Chains snapped his shoulders back and rolled his head from side to side; there was a series of snaps and cracks from somewhere inside him. “Ahhh. Do you know what a death-offering is?”

“No.”

“It’s something we do, for the Benefactor. Not just those of us who are initiates of the Thirteenth. Something all of us crooks do for one another, all the Right People of Camorr. When we lose someone we care about, we get something valuable and we throw it away. For real, you understand. Into the sea, into a fire, something like that. We do this to help our friends on their way to what comes next. Clear so far?”

“Yeah, but my old master …”

“Oh, he does it, trust me. He’s a wretched miser and he always does it in private, but he does it for each and every one of you he loses. Figures he wouldn’t tell you about it. But here’s the thing—there’s a rule that has to be followed with the offering. It can’t be given willingly, you understand? It can’t be something you already have. It has to be something you go out and steal from someone else, special, without their permission or their, ah, complicity. Get me? It has to be genuine theft.”

“Uh, sure.”

Father Chains cracked his knuckles. “You’re going to make a death-offering for every single boy or girl you got killed, Locke. One for Veslin, one for Gregor. One for each of your little friends in Streets. I’m sure I’ll know the count in just a day or two.”

“But I … they weren’t …”

“Of course they were your friends, Locke. They were your very good friends. Because they’re going to teach you that when you kill someone, there are consequences. It is one thing to kill in a duel, to kill in self-defense, to kill for vengeance. It is another thing entirely to kill simply because you are careless. Those deaths are going to hang over your head until you’re so careful you make the saints of Perelandro weep. Your death-offering will be a thousand full crowns per head. All of it properly stolen by your own hand.”

“But I … what? A thousand crowns? Each? A thousand?”

“You can take that death-mark off your neck when you offer up the last coin of it, and not a moment sooner.”

“But that’s impossible! It’ll take … forever!”

“It’ll take years. But we’re thieves, not murderers, here in my temple. And the price of your life with me is that you must show respect for the dead. Those boys and girls are your victims, Locke. Get that through your head. This is something you owe them, before the gods. Something you must swear to by blood before you can stay. Are you willing to do so?”

Locke seemed to think for a few seconds. Then he shook his head as though to clear it, and nodded.

“Then hold out your left hand.”

As Locke did so, Chains produced a slender blackened-steel stiletto from within his robe and drew it across his own left palm; then, holding Locke’s outstretched hand firmly, he scratched a shallow, stinging cut between the boy’s thumb and index finger. They shook hands firmly, until their palms were thick with mingled blood.

“Then you’re a Gentleman Bastard, like the rest of us. I’m your garrista and you’re my pezon, my little soldier. I have your oath in blood to do what I’ve told you to do? To make the offerings for the souls of the people you’ve wronged?”

“I’ll do it,” Locke said.

“Good. That means you can stay for dinner. Let’s get down off this roof.”

2

BEHIND THE curtained door at the rear of the sanctuary there was a grimy hall leading to several grimy rooms; moisture and mold and poverty were on abundant display. There were cells with sleeping pallets, lit by oiled-paper lamps that gave off a light the color of cheap ale. Scrolls and bound books were scattered on the pallets; robes in questionable states of cleanliness hung from wall hooks.

“This is a necessary nonsense.” Chains gestured to and fro as he led Locke into the room closest to the curtained door, as though showing off a palace. “Occasionally, we play host to a tutor or a traveling priest of Perelandro’s order, and they have to see what they expect.”

Chains’ own sleeping pallet (for Locke saw that the wall-manacles in the other room could surely reach none of the other sleeping chambers back here) was set atop a block of solid stone, a sort of heavy shelf jutting from the wall. Chains reached under the stale blankets, turned something that made a metallic clacking noise, and lifted his bed up as though it were a coffin lid; the blankets turned out to be on some sort of wooden panel with hinges set into the stone. An inviting golden light spilled from within the stone block, along with the spicy smells of high-class Camorri cooking. Locke knew that aroma only from the way it drifted out of the Alcegrante district or down from certain inns and houses.

“In you go!” Chains gestured once again, and Locke peeked over the lip of the stone block. A sturdy wooden ladder led down a square shaft just slightly wider than Chains’ shoulders; it ended about twenty feet below, on a polished wood floor. “Don’t gawk, climb!”

Locke obeyed. The rungs of the ladder were wide and rough and very narrowly spaced; he had no trouble moving down it, and when he stepped off he was in a tall passage that might have been torn out of the duke’s own tower. The floor was indeed polished wood, long straight golden-brown boards that creaked pleasantly beneath his feet. The arched ceiling and the walls were entirely covered with a thick milky golden glass that shone faintly, like a rainy-season sun peeking out from behind heavy clouds. The illumination came from everywhere and nowhere; the wall scintillated. With a series of thumps and grunts and jingles (for Locke saw that he now carried the day’s donated coins in a small burlap sack) Chains came down and hopped to the floor beside him. He gave a quick tug to a rope tied to the ladder, and the false bed-pallet fell back down and locked itself above.

“There. Isn’t this much nicer?”

“Yeah.” Locke ran one hand down the flawless surface of one of the walls. The glass was noticeably cooler than the air. “It’s Elderglass, isn’t it?”

“Sure as hell isn’t plaster.” Chains shooed Locke along the passage to the left, where it turned a corner. “The whole temple cellar is surrounded by the stuff. Sealed in it. The temple above was actually built to settle into it, hundreds of years ago. There’s not a break in it, as far as I can tell, except for one or two little tunnels that lead out to other interesting places. It’s flood-tight, and never lets in a drop from below even when the water’s waist-deep in the streets. And it keeps out rats and roaches and suckle-spiders and all that crap, so long as we mind our comings and goings.”

The clatter of metal pans and the low giggle of the Sanza brothers reached them from around the corner just before they turned it, entering into a comfortably appointed kitchen with tall wooden cabinets and a long witchwood table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Locke actually rubbed his eyes when he saw their black velvet cushions, and the varnished gold leaf that gilded their every surface.

Calo and Galdo were working at a brick cooking shelf, shuffling pans and banging knives over a huge white alchemical hearthslab. Locke had seen smaller blocks of this stone, which gave off a smokeless heat when water was splashed atop it, but this one must have weighed as much as Father Chains. As Locke watched, Calo (Galdo?) held a pan in the air and poured water from a glass pitcher onto the sizzling slab; the great uprush of steam carried a deep bouquet of sweet cooking smells, and Locke felt saliva spilling down the back of his mouth.

In the air over the witchwood table, a striking chandelier blazed; Locke would, in later years, come to recognize it as an armillary sphere, fashioned from glass with an axis of solid gold. At its heart shone an alchemical globe with the white-bronze light of the sun; surrounding this were the concentric glass rings that marked the orbits and processions of the world and all her celestial cousins, including the three moons; at the outermost edges were a hundred dangling stars that looked like spatters of molten glass somehow frozen at the very instant of their outward explosions. The light ran and glimmered and burned along every facet of the chandelier, yet there was something wrong about it. It was as if the Elderglass ceilings and walls were somehow drawing the light out of the alchemical sun; leavening it, weakening it, redistributing it along the full length and breadth of all the Elderglass in this uncanny cellar.

“Welcome to our real home, our little temple to the Benefactor.” Chains tossed his bag of coins down on the table. “Our patron has always sort of danced upon the notion that austerity and piety go hand in hand; down here, we show our appreciation for things by appreciating, if you get me. Boys! Look who survived his interview!”

“We never doubted,” said one twin.

“For even a second,” said the other.

“But now can we hear what he did to get himself kicked out of Shades’ Hill?” The question, spoken in near-perfect unison, had the ring of repeated ritual.

“When you’re older.” Chains raised his eyebrows at Locke and shook his head, ensuring the boy could see the gesture clearly. “Much older. Locke, I don’t expect that you know how to set a table?”

When Locke shook his head, Chains led him over to a tall cabinet just to the left of the cooking hearth. Inside were stacks of white porcelain plates; Chains held one up so Locke could see the hand-painted heraldic design (a mailed fist clutching an arrow and a grapevine) and the bright gold gilding on the rim.

“Borrowed,” said Chains, “on a rather permanent basis from Doña Isabella Manechezzo, the old dowager aunt of our own Duke Nicovante. She died childless and rarely gave parties, so it wasn’t as though she was using them all. You see how some of our acts that might seem purely cruel and larcenous to outsiders are actually sort of convenient, if you look at them in the right way? That’s the hand of the Benefactor at work, or so we like to think. It’s not as though we could tell the difference if he didn’t want us to.”

Chains handed the plate to Locke (who clutched at it with greatly exaggerated care and peered very closely at the gold rim) and ran his right hand lovingly over the surface of the witchwood table. “Now this, this used to be the property of Marius Cordo, a master merchant of Tal Verrar. He had it in the great cabin of a triple-decker galley. Huge! Eighty-six oars. I was a bit upset with him, so I lifted it, his chairs, his carpets and tapestries, and all of his clothes. Right off the ship. I left his money; I was making a point. I dumped everything but the table into the Sea of Brass.

“And that!” Chains lifted a finger in the direction of the celestial chandelier. “That was being shipped overland from Ashmere in a guarded wagon convoy for the old Don Leviana. Somehow, in transit, it transformed itself into a box of straw.” Chains took three more plates out of the cabinet and set them in Locke’s arms. “Damn, I was fairly good back when I actually worked for a living.”

“Urk,” said Locke, under the weight of the fine dinnerware.

“Oh, yeah.” Chains gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Put one there for me. One for yourself on my left. Two for Calo and Galdo on my right. If you were my servant, what I’d tell you to lay out is a casual setting. Can you say that for me?”

“A casual setting.”

“Right. This is how the high and mighty eat when it’s just close blood and maybe a friend or two.” Chains let the set of his eyes and the tone of his voice suggest that he expected this lesson to be retained, and he began to introduce Locke to the intricacies of glasses, linen napkins, and silver eating utensils.

“What kind of knife is this?” Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains’ inspection. “It’s all wrong. You couldn’t kill anyone with this.”

“Well, not very easily, I’ll grant you that, my boy.” Chains guided Locke in the placement of the butter knife and assorted small dishes and bowls. “But when the quality get together to dine, it’s impolite to knock anybody off with anything but poison. That thing is for scooping butter, not slicing windpipes.”

“This is a lot of trouble to go to just to eat.”

“Well, in Shades’ Hill you may be able to eat cold bacon and dirt pies off one another’s asses for all your old master cares. But now you’re a Gentleman Bastard, emphasis on the Gentleman. You’re going to learn how to eat like this, and how to serve people who eat like this.”

“Why?”

“Because, Locke Lamora, someday you’re going to dine with barons and counts and dukes. You’re going to dine with merchants and admirals and generals and ladies of every sort! And when you do …” Chains put two fingers under Locke’s chin and tilted the boy’s head up so they were eye to eye. “When you do, those poor idiots won’t have any idea that they’re really dining with a thief.”

3

“NOW, ISN’T this lovely?”

Chains raised an empty glass and saluted his three young wards at the splendidly furnished table; steaming brass bowls and heavy crockware held the results of Calo and Galdo’s efforts at the cooking hearth. Locke, seated on an extra cushion to raise his elbows just above the tabletop, stared at the food and the furnishings with wide eyes. He was bewildered at how quickly he had escaped his old life and fallen into this new one with strangely pleasant crazy people.

Chains lifted a bottle of something he’d called alchemical wine; the stuff was viscous and dark, like quicksilver. When he pulled the loosened cork, the air was filled with the scent of juniper; for a brief moment it overwhelmed the spicy aroma of the main dishes. Chains poured a good measure of the stuff into the empty glass, and in the bright light it ran like molten silver. Chains raised the glass to a level with his eyes.

“A glass poured to air for the one who sits with us unseen; the patron and protector, the Crooked Warden, the Father of Necessary Pretexts.”

“Thanks for deep pockets poorly guarded,” said the Sanza brothers in unison, and Locke was caught off guard by the seriousness of their intonation.

“Thanks for watchmen asleep at their posts,” said Chains.

“Thanks for the city to nurture us and the night to hide us,” was the response.

“Thanks for friends to help spend the loot!” Chains brought the half-filled glass down and set it in the middle of the table. He took up another, smaller glass; into this he poured just a finger of the liquid silver. “A glass poured to air for an absent friend. We wish Sabetha well and pray for her safe return.”

“Maybe we could have her back a little less crazy, though,” said one of the Sanzas, whom Locke mentally labeled Calo for convenience.

“And humble.” Galdo nodded after he’d said this. “Humble would be really great.”

“The brothers Sanza wish Sabetha well.” Chains held the little glass of liquor rock-steady and eyed the twins. “And they pray for her safe return.”

“Yes! Wish her well!”

“Safe return, that would be really great.”

“Who’s Sabetha?” Locke spoke quietly, directing his inquiry to Chains.

“An ornament to our little gang. Our only young woman, currently away on … educational business.” Chains set her glass down beside the one poured to the Benefactor, and plucked up Locke’s glass in exchange. “Another special deal from your old master. Gifted, my boy, gifted like you are with a preternatural talent for the vexation of others.”

“That’s us he’s talking about,” said Calo.

“Pretty soon it’ll mean you, too.” Galdo smiled.

“Pipe down, twitlings.” Chains poured a splash of the quicksilver wine into Locke’s glass and handed it back to him. “One more toast and prayer. To Locke Lamora, our new brother. My new pezon. We wish him well. We welcome him warmly. And for him, we pray, wisdom.”

With graceful motions, he poured wine for Calo and Galdo, and then a nearly full glass for himself. Chains and the Sanzas raised their glasses; Locke quickly copied them. Silver sparkled under gold.

“Welcome to the Gentlemen Bastards!” Chains tapped his glass gently against Locke’s, producing a ringing sound that hung in the air before fading sweetly.

“You should’ve picked death!” said Galdo.

“He did offer you death as a choice, right?” Calo spoke as he and his brother tapped their own glasses together, then reached across the table in unison to touch Locke’s.

“Laugh it up, boys.” Soon all the knocking about with glasses was finished and Chains led the way with a quick sip of his wine. “Ahhh. Mark my words, if this poor little creature lives a year, you two will be his dancing monkeys. He’ll throw you grapes whenever he wants to see a trick. Go ahead and have a drink, Locke.”

Locke raised the glass; the silvery surface showed him a vivid but wobbly reflection of his own face and the brightly lit room around him; the wine’s bouquet was a haze of juniper and anise that tickled his nose. He put the tiny image of himself to his lips and drank. The slightly cool liquor seemed to go two ways at once as he swallowed. A line of tickling warmth ran straight down his throat while icy tendrils reached upward, sliding across the roof of his mouth and into his sinuses. His eyes bulged; he coughed and ran a hand over his suddenly numb lips.

“It’s mirror wine, from Tal Verrar. Good stuff. Now go ahead and eat something or it’ll pop your skull open.”

Calo and Galdo whisked damp cloths off serving platters and bowls, revealing the full extent of the meal for the first time. There were indeed sausages, neatly sliced and fried in oil with quartered pears. There were also split red peppers stuffed with almond paste and spinach; dumplings of thin bread folded over chicken, fried until the bread was as translucent as paper; and cold black beans in wine and mustard sauce. The Sanza brothers were suddenly scooping portions of this and that onto Locke’s plate too fast for him to track.

Working awkwardly with a two-pronged silver fork and one of the rounded knives he’d previously scorned, Locke began to shovel things into his mouth; the flavors seemed to burst gloriously, haphazardly. The chicken dumplings were spiced with ginger and ground orange peels. The wine sauce in the bean salad warmed his tongue; the sharp fumes of mustard burned his throat. He found himself gulping wine to put out each new fire as it arose.

To his surprise, the Sanza twins didn’t partake once they’d served him; they sat with their hands folded, watching Chains. When the older man seemed assured that Locke was eating, he turned to Calo.

“You’re a Vadran noble. Let’s say you’re a Liege-Graf from one of the less important Marrows. You’re at a dinner party in Tal Verrar; an equal number of men and women, with assigned seating. The party is just entering the dining hall; your assigned lady is beside you as you enter, conversing with you. What do you do?”

“At a Vadran dinner party, I would hold her chair out for her without invitation.” Calo didn’t smile. “But Verrari ladies will stand beside a chair to show they want it pulled out. It’s impolite to presume. So I’d let her make the first move.”

“Very good. Now.” Chains pointed to the second Sanza with one hand as he began adding food to his plate with the other. “What’s seventeen multiplied by nineteen?”

Galdo closed his eyes in concentration for a few seconds. “Um … three hundred and twenty three.”

“Correct. What’s the difference between a Vadran nautical league and a Therin nautical league?”

“Ah … the Vadran league is a hundred and … fifty yards longer.”

“Very good. That’s that, then. Go ahead and eat.”

As the Sanza brothers began to undecorously struggle for possession of certain serving dishes, Chains turned to Locke, whose plate was already half-empty. “After you’ve been here a few days, I’m going to start asking questions about what you’ve learned, too. If you want to eat you’ll be expected to learn.”

“What am I going to learn? Other than setting tables?”

“Everything!” Chains looked very pleased with himself. “Everything, my boy. How to fight, how to steal, how to lie with a straight face. How to cook meals like this! How to disguise yourself. How to speak like a noble, how to scribe like a priest, how to skulk like a half-wit.”

“Calo already knows that one,” said Galdo.

“Agh moo agh na mugh baaa,” said Calo around a mouthful of food.

“Remember what I said, when I told you we didn’t work like other thieves work? We’re a new sort of thief here, Locke. What we are is actors. False-facers. I sit here and pretend to be a priest of Perelandro; for years now people have been throwing money at me. How do you think I paid to furnish this little fairy-burrow, this food? I’m three and fifty; nobody my age can steal around rooftops and charm locks. I’m better paid for being blind than I ever was for being quick and clever. And now I’m too slow and too round to pass for anything really interesting.”

Chains finished off the contents of his glass and poured another.

“But you. You, and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha … you four will have every advantage I didn’t. Your education will be thorough and vigorous. I’ll refine my notions, my techniques. When I’m finished, the things you four will pull … well, they’ll make my little scam with this temple look simple and unambitious.”

“That sounds nice,” said Locke, who was feeling the wine. A warm haze of charitable contentment was descending over him and smothering the tension and worry that were so second-nature to a Shades’ Hill orphan. “What do we do first?”

“Well, tonight, if you’re not busy throwing up the first decent meal you’ve ever had, Calo and Galdo will draw you a bath. Once you’re less aromatic company, you can sleep in. Tomorrow, we’ll get you an acolyte’s robe and you can sit the steps with us, taking coins. Tomorrow night …” Chains scratched at his beard while he took a sip from his glass. “I take you to meet the big man. Capa Barsavi. He’s ever so curious to get a look at you.”

CHAPTER THREE

IMAGINARY MEN

1

FOR THE SECOND time in two days, Don Lorenzo Salvara found his life interrupted by masked and hooded strangers in an unexpected place. This time, it was just after midnight, and they were waiting for him in his study.

“Close the door,” said the shorter intruder. His voice was all Camorr, rough and smoky and clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling for your man. He is … indisposed.”

“Who the hell are you?” Salvara’s sword hand curled reflexively; his belt held no scabbard. He slid the door closed behind him but made no move to sit at his writing desk. “How did you get in here?”

The intruder who’d first spoken reached up and pulled down the black cloth that covered his nose and mouth. His face was lean and angular; his hair black, his dark moustache thin and immaculately trimmed. A white scar arced across the man’s right cheekbone. He reached into the folds of his well-cut black cloak and pulled out a black leather wallet, which he flipped open so the don could see its contents—a small crest of gold set inside an intricate design of frosted glass.

“Gods.” Don Salvara fell into his chair, nervously, without further hesitation. “You’re Midnighters.”

“Just so.” The man folded his wallet and put it back in his cloak. The silent intruder, still masked and hooded, moved casually around to stand just a few feet behind Don Lorenzo, between him and the door. “We apologize for the intrusion. But our business here is extremely sensitive.”

“Have I … have I somehow offended His Grace?”

“Not to my knowledge, m’lord Salvara. In fact, you might say we’re here to help prevent you from doing so.”

“I … I, ah … well. Ah, what did you say you did to Conté?”

“Just gave him a little something to help him sleep. We know he’s loyal and we know he’s dangerous. We didn’t want any … misunderstandings.”

The man standing at the door punctuated this statement by stepping forward, reaching around Don Salvara, and gently setting Conté’s matching fighting knives down on the desktop.

“I see. I trust that he’ll be well.” Don Salvara drummed his fingers on his writing desk and stared at the scarred intruder. “I should be very displeased otherwise.”

“He is completely unharmed; I give you my word as the duke’s man.”

“I shall hold that sufficient. For the time being.”

The scarred man sighed and rubbed his eyes with two gloved fingers. “There’s no need for us to begin like this, m’lord. I apologize for the abruptness of our appearance and the manner of our intrusion, but I believe you’ll find that your welfare is paramount in our master’s eyes. I’m instructed to ask—did you enjoy yourself at the Revel today?”

“Yes …” Don Salvara spoke carefully, as though to a solicitor or a court recorder. “I suppose that would be an accurate assessment.”

“Good, good. You had company, didn’t you?”

“The Doña Sofia was with me.”

“I refer to someone else. Not one of His Grace’s subjects. Not Camorri.”

“Ah. The merchant. A merchant named Lukas Ferhwight, from Emberlain.”

“From Emberlain. Of course.” The scarred man folded his arms and looked around the don’s study. He stared for a moment at a pair of small glass portraits of the old Don and Doña Salvara, set in a frame decked with black velvet funeral ribbons. “Well. That man is no more a merchant of Emberlain than you or I, m’lord Salvara. He’s a fraud. A sham.”

“I …” Don Salvara nearly jumped to his feet, but remembered the man standing behind him and seemed to think better of it. “I don’t see how that could be possible. He …”

“Beg pardon, m’lord.” The scarred man smiled, gruesomely and artificially, as a man without children might smile when trying to comfort an upset babe. “But let me ask you—have you ever heard of the man they call the Thorn of Camorr?”

2

“I ONLY steal because my dear old family needs the money to live!”

Locke Lamora made this proclamation with his wineglass held high; he and the other Gentlemen Bastards were seated at the old witchwood table in the opulent burrow beneath the House of Perelandro; Calo and Galdo on his right, Jean and Bug on his left. A huge spread of food was set before them, and the celestial chandelier swung overhead with its familiar golden light. The others began to jeer.

“Liar!” they chorused in unison.

“I only steal because this wicked world won’t let me work an honest trade!” Calo cried, hoisting his own glass.

“Liar!”

“I only steal because I have to support my poor lazy twin brother, whose indolence broke our mother’s heart!” Galdo elbowed Calo as he made this announcement.

“Liar!”

“I only steal,” said Jean, “because I’ve temporarily fallen in with bad company.”

“Liar!”

At last the ritual came to Bug; the boy raised his glass a bit shakily and yelled, “I only steal because it’s heaps of fucking fun!”

“BASTARD!”

With a general clamor of whooping and hollering the five thieves banged glasses together; light glittered on crystal and shone through the misty green depths of Verrari mint wine. The four men drained their glasses in one go and slammed them back down on the tabletop. Bug, already a bit cross-eyed, handled his somewhat more delicately.

“Gentlemen, I hold in my hands the first fruits of all our long weeks of study and suffering.” Locke held up a rolled parchment embossed with ribbons and a blue wax seal—the color of the lesser nobility of Camorr. “A letter of credit for five thousand full crowns, to be drawn tomorrow against Don Salvara’s funds at Meraggio’s. And, I daresay, the first score our youngest member has ever helped us to bring in.”

“Barrel boy!” the Sanza brothers hollered in unison; a moment later a small almond-crusted bread roll arced from between their seats, hit Bug right between the eyes, and plopped down onto his empty plate. Bug tore it in half and responded in kind, aiming well despite his wobbliness. Locke continued speaking as Calo scowled and rubbed crumbs out of his eyes.

“Second touch this afternoon was easy. But we wouldn’t have gotten so far, so fast, if not for Bug’s quick action yesterday. What a stupid, reckless, idiotic, ridiculous damn thing to do! I haven’t the words to express my admiration.” Locke had managed to work a bit of wine-bottle legerdemain while speaking; the empty glasses were suddenly full. “To Bug! The new bane of the Camorr city watch!”

When the cheering and the guzzling from this toast had subsided and Bug had been smacked upon the back often enough to turn the contents of his skull sideways, Locke produced a single large glass, set it in the middle of the table, and filled it slowly.

“Just one thing more before we can eat.” He held the glass up as the others fell silent. “A glass poured to air for an absent friend. We miss old Chains terribly and we wish his soul peace. May the Crooked Warden ever stand watch and bless his crooked servant. He was a good and penitent man, in the manner of our kind.”

Gently, Locke set the glass in the center of the table and covered it with a small black cloth. “He would have been very proud of you, Bug.”

“I do hope so.” The boy stared at the covered glass in the middle of the opulent glassware and gilded cookery. “I wish I could have met him.”

“You would have been a restful project for his old age.” Jean kissed the back of his own left hand, the benedictory gesture of the Nameless Thirteenth’s priesthood. “A very welcome respite from what he endured raising the four of us!”

“Jean’s being generous. He and I were saints. It’s the Sanza brothers that kept the poor old bastard up late praying six nights out of seven.” Locke reached out toward one cloth-covered platter. “Let’s eat.”

“Praying that you and Jean would grow up quick and handsome like the two of us, you mean!” Galdo’s hand darted out and caught Locke’s at the wrist. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Am I?”

Calo, Galdo, and Jean met this question with a coordinated stare. Bug looked sheepish and gazed up at the chandelier.

“Gods damn it.” Locke slid out of his gold-gilded chair and went to a side cupboard; when he returned to the table he had a tiny sampling-glass in his hand, little more than a thimble for liquor. Into this he let slip the smallest dash of mint wine. He didn’t hold this glass up, but pushed it into the center of the table beside the glass under the black cloth.

“A glass poured in air for an absent someone. I don’t know where she is at the moment, and I pray you all choke, save Bug, thanks very fucking much.”

“Hardly a graceful blessing, especially for a priest.” Calo kissed the back of his own left hand and waved it over the tiny glass. “She was one of us even before you were, garrista.”

“You know what I do pray?” Locke set his hands on the edge of the table; his knuckles rapidly turned white. “That maybe someday one of you finds out what love is when it travels farther up than the buttons of your trousers.”

“It takes two to break a heart.” Galdo gently placed his left hand over Locke’s right. “I don’t recall her fucking things up without your able assistance.”

“And I daresay,” said Calo, “that it would be a tremendous relief to us all if you would just have the courtesy to go out and get yourself wenched. Long and hard. Gods, do three at once! It’s not as though we don’t have the funds.”

“I’ll have you know my patience for this topic was exhausted long before—” Locke’s voice was rising to a shout when Jean grabbed him firmly by his left biceps; Jean’s fist wrapped easily all the way around Locke’s arm.

“She was our good friend, Locke. Was and still is. You owe her something a bit more godly than that.”

Jean reached out for the wine bottle, then filled the little glass to its brim. He raised it into the light and took his other hand off Locke’s arm. “A glass poured to air for an absent friend. We wish Sabetha well. For ourselves, we pray brotherhood.”

Locke stared at him for a second that seemed like minutes, then let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the occasion. That was a poor toast and I … repent it. I should have thought better of my responsibilities.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Galdo grinned sheepishly. “We don’t blame you for the way you feel. We know she was … she was … her.”

“Well, I’m not sorry about the wenching bit.” Calo shrugged in mock apology. “I’m fucking serious, man. Dip your wick. Drop your anchor. Go see a lady about a sheath for a dagger. You’ll feel better.”

“Isn’t it obvious that I’m just ecstatic right now? I don’t need to feel better, because you and I still have work to do this evening! For the love of the Crooked Warden, can we please just kill this subject and throw its gods-damned corpse in the bay?”

“Sorry,” Calo said after a few seconds and a well-aimed glare from Jean. “Sorry. Look, you know we mean well. We’re both sorry if we push. But she’s in Parlay and we’re in Camorr, and it’s obvious you—”

Calo would have said something else, but an almond roll bounced off the bridge of his nose and he flinched in surprise. Another roll hit Galdo in the forehead; one arced into Jean’s lap, and Locke managed to throw up a hand in time to swat down the one intended for him.

“Honestly!” Bug clutched still more rolls in his outstretched hands, and he pointed them like loaded crossbows. “Is this what I get to look forward to when I grow up? I thought we were celebrating being richer and cleverer than everyone else!”

Locke looked at the boy for just a moment, then reached out and took the full sampling-glass from Jean, a smile breaking out as he did so. “Bug’s right. Let’s cut the shit and have dinner.” He raised the glass as high as he could toward the light of the chandelier. “To us—richer and cleverer than everyone else!”

“Richer and cleverer than everyone else!” came the echoing chorus.

“We toast absent friends who helped to bring us to where we are now. We do miss them.” Locke set the little glass to his lips and took a minuscule sip before he set it back down.

“And we love them still,” he added quietly.

3

“THE THORN of Camorr … is a particularly ridiculous rumor that floats around the dining parlor when some of the more excitable dons don’t water their wine quite thoroughly enough.”

“The Thorn of Camorr,” said the scarred man pleasantly, “walked off your pleasure barge earlier this evening with a signed note for five thousand of your white iron crowns.”

“Who? Lukas Fehrwight?”

“None other.”

“Lukas Fehrwight is a Vadran. My mother was Vadran; I know the tongue! Lukas is Old Emberlain all the way through. He covers himself in wool and flinches back six feet any time a woman blinks at him!” Don Lorenzo pulled his optics off in irritation and set them on his desk. “The man would bet the lives of his own children against the price he could get for barrels of herring guts on any given morning. I’ve dealt with his kind too many times to count. That man is no Camorri, and he is no mythical thief!”

“My lord. You are four and twenty, yes?”

“For the time being. Is that quite relevant?”

“You have no doubt known many merchants in the years since your mother and father passed away, may they have the peace of the Long Silence. Many merchants, and many of them Vadrans, correct?”

“Quite correct.”

“And if a man, a very clever man, wished you to think him a merchant … Well, what would he dress up and present himself as? A fisherman? A mercenary archer?”

“I don’t grasp your meaning.”

“I mean, m’lord Salvara, that your own expectations have been used against you. You have a keen sense for men of business, surely. You’ve grown your family fortune several times over in your brief time handling it. Therefore, a man who wished to snare you in some scheme could do nothing wiser than to act the consummate man of business. To deliberately manifest all of your expectations. To show you exactly what you expected and desired to see.”

“It seems to me that if I accept your argument,” the don said slowly, “then the self-evident truth of any legitimate thing could be taken as grounds for its falseness. I say Lukas Fehrwight is a merchant of Emberlain because he shows the signs of being so; you say those same signs are what prove him counterfeit. I need more sensible evidence than this.”

“Let me digress, then, m’lord, and ask another question.” The scarred man drew his hands within the black folds of his cloak and stared down at the young nobleman. “If you were a thief who preyed exclusively on the nobility of our Serene Duchy of Camorr, how would you hide your actions?”

“Exclusively? Your Thorn of Camorr again. There can’t be any such thief. There are arrangements … the Secret Peace. Other thieves would take care of the matter as soon as any man dared breach the Peace.”

“And if our thief could evade capture? If our thief could conceal his identity from his fellows?”

“If. If. They say the Thorn of Camorr steals from the rich”—Don Salvara placed a hand on his own chest—“and gives every last copper to the poor. But have you heard of any bags of gold being dumped in the street in Catchfire lately? Any charcoal-burners or knackers suddenly walking around in silk waistcoats and embroidered boots? Please. The Thorn is a commoner’s ale-tale. Master swordsman, romancer of ladies, a ghost who walks through walls. Ridiculous.”

“Your doors are locked and all your windows are barred, yet here we are in your study, m’lord.”

“Granted. But you’re men of flesh and blood.”

“So it’s said. We’re getting off the subject. Our thief, m’lord, would trust you and your peers to keep his activities concealed for him. Hypothetically speaking, if Lukas Fehrwight were the Thorn of Camorr, and you knew that he had strolled off with a small fortune from your coffers, what would you do? Would you rouse the watch? Cry for aid openly in the court of His Grace? Speak of the matter in front of Don Paleri Jacobo?”

“I … I … that’s an interesting point. I wonder—”

“Would you want the entire city to know that you’d been taken in? That you’d been tricked? Would men of business ever trust your judgment again? Would your reputation ever truly recover?”

“I suppose it would be a very … difficult thing.”

The scarred man’s right hand reappeared, gloveless and pale against the darkness of the cloak, one finger pointing outward. “Her ladyship the Doña Rosalina de Marre lost ten thousand crowns four years ago, in exchange for titles to upriver orchards that don’t exist.” A second finger curled outward. “Don and Doña Feluccia lost twice as much two years ago. They thought they were financing a coup in Talisham that would have made the city a family estate.”

“Last year,” the scarred man said as a third finger unfolded, “Don Javarriz paid fifteen thousand full crowns to a soothsayer who claimed to be able to restore the old man’s firstborn son to life.” The man’s little finger snapped out, and he waved his extended hand at Don Lorenzo. “Now, we have the Don and Doña Salvara involved in a secret business deal that is both tempting and convenient. Tell me, have you ever heard of the troubles of the lords and ladies I have named?”

“No.”

“Doña de Marre visits your wife in her garden twice weekly. They discuss alchemical botany together. You’ve played cards with the sons of Don Javarriz many times. And yet this is all a surprise to you?”

“Yes, quite, I assure you!”

“It was a surprise to His Grace, as well. My master has spent four years attempting to follow the slender threads of evidence connecting these crimes, m’lord. A fortune the size of your own vanished into thin air, and it took ducal orders to pry open the lips of the wronged parties. Because their pride compelled their silence.”

Don Lorenzo stared at the surface of his desk for a long moment.

“Fehrwight has a suite at the Tumblehome. He has a manservant, superior clothes, hundred-crown optics. He has … proprietary secrets of the House of bel Auster.” Don Salvara looked up at the scarred man as though presenting a difficult problem to a demanding tutor. “Things that no thief could have!”

“Would fine clothes be beyond the means of a man with more than forty thousand stolen crowns at his command? And his cask of unaged brandy—how would you or I or any other man outside the House of bel Auster know what it should look like? Or what it should taste like? It’s a simple fraud.”

“He was recognized on the street by a solicitor, one of the Razona lawscribes who sticks to the walls at Meraggio’s!”

“Of course he was, because he began building the identity of Lukas Fehrwight long ago, probably before he ever met Doña de Marre. He has a very real account at Meraggio’s, opened with real money five years ago. He has every outward flourish that a man in his position should bear, but Lukas Fehrwight is a ghost. A lie. A stage role performed for a very select private audience. I have tracked him for months.”

“We are sensible people, Sofia and I. Surely … surely we would have seen something out of place.”

“Out of place? The entire affair has been out of place! M’lord Salvara, I implore you, hear me carefully. You are a financier of fine liquors. You say a prayer to your mother’s shade each week at a Vadran temple. What a fascinating coincidence that you should chance upon a needy Vadran who happens to be a dealer in the same field, eh?”

“Where else but the Temple of Fortunate Waters would a Vadran pray while visiting Camorr?”

“Nowhere, of course. But look at the coincidences piling heavily upon one another. A Vadran liquor merchant, in need of rescue, and he just so happens to be on his way to visit Don Jacobo? Your blood enemy? A man that everyone knows you would crush by any means the duke hadn’t forbidden you?”

“Were you … observing us when I first met him?”

“Yes, very carefully. We saw you and your man approach that alley to rescue a man you thought to be in danger. We—”

“Thought? He was being strangled!”

“Was he? The men in those masks were his accomplices, m’lord. The fight was staged. It was a means to introduce you to the imaginary merchant and his imaginary opportunity. Everything you value was used to bait the trap! Your sympathies for Vadrans, your sense of duty, your courage, your interest in fine liquors, your desire to best Don Jacobo. And can it be a coincidence that Fehrwight’s scheme must be secret? That it runs on an extremely short and demanding schedule? That it just happens to feed your every known ambition?”

The don stared at the far wall of his study, tapping his fingers against his desk at a gradually increasing tempo. “This is quite a shock,” he said at last, in a small voice without any fight left in it.

“Forgive me for that, my Lord Salvara. The truth is unfortunate. Of course the Thorn of Camorr isn’t ten feet tall. Of course he can’t walk through walls. But he is a very real thief; he is posing as a Vadran named Lukas Fehrwight, and he does have five thousand crowns of your money, with an eye for twenty thousand more.”

“I must send men to Meraggio’s, so he can’t exchange my note in the morning,” said Don Lorenzo.

“Respectfully, my lord, you must do nothing of the sort. My instructions are clear. We don’t just want the Thorn, we want his accomplices. His contacts. His sources of information. His entire network of thieves and spies. We have him in the open, now, and we can follow him as he goes about his business. One hint that his game is unmasked, and he will bolt. The opportunity we have may never present itself again. His Grace Duke Nicovante is quite adamant that everyone involved in these crimes must be identified and taken. Toward that end, your absolute cooperation is requested and required, in the duke’s name.”

“What am I to do, then?”

“Continue to act as though you are entirely taken in by Fehrwight’s story. Let him exchange the note. Let him taste some success. And when he returns to you asking for more money …”

“Yes?”

“Why, give it to him, my lord. Give him everything he asks.”

4

ONCE THE dinner dishes were cleared away, and a tipsy Bug was given the task of setting them a-sparkle with warm water and white sand (“Excellent for your moral education!” Jean had cried as he’d heaped up the porcelain and crystal), Locke and Calo withdrew to the burrow’s wardrobe to begin preparations for the third and most critical touch of the Don Salvara game.

The Elderglass cellar beneath the House of Perelandro was divided into three areas; one of them was the kitchen, another was split into sleeping quarters with wooden partitions, and the third was referred to as the Wardrobe.

Long clothes-racks stretched across every wall of the Wardrobe, holding hundreds of pieces of costuming organized by origin, by season, by cut, by size, and by social class. There were sackcloth robes, laborer’s tunics, and butcher’s aprons with dried bloodstains. There were cloaks of winter weight and summer weight, cheaply woven and finely tailored, unadorned or decorated with everything up to precious metal trim and peacock feathers. There were robes and accessories for most of the Therin priestly orders—Perelandro, Morgante, Nara, Sendovani, Iono, and so forth. There were silk blouses and cunningly armored doublets, gloves and ties and cravats, enough canes and walking sticks to outfit a mercenary company of hobbled old men.

Chains had started this collection more than twenty years before, and his students had added to it with the wealth gained from years of schemes. Very little worn by the Gentlemen Bastards went to waste; even the foulest-smelling sweat-soaked summer garments were washed and dusted with alchemical pomanders and hung carefully. They could always be fouled up again, if needed.

A man-height looking glass dominated the heart of the Wardrobe; another, much smaller glass hung from a sort of pulley system on the ceiling, so that it could be moved around and positioned as necessary. Locke stood before the larger mirror dressed in matching doublet and breeches of midnight velvet; his hose was the scarlet of blood in sunset waters, and his simple Camorri tie was a near match.

“Is this bloody melodrama really such a good idea?” Calo was dressed quite similarly, though his hose and his accents were gray; he pulled his tunic sleeves back above his elbows and fastened them there with black pearl clips.

“It’s a fine idea,” Locke said, adjusting his tie. “We’re Midnighters. We’re full of ourselves. What sort of self-respecting spy would break into a manor house in darkest night wearing green, or orange, or white?”

“The sort that walked up and knocked at the door would.”

“I appreciate that, but I still don’t want to change the plan. Don Salvara’s had a busy day. He’ll be wide open for a nice shock at the end of it. Can’t shock him quite the same in lavender and carmine.”

“Well, certainly not in the way you’re thinking, no.”

“This doublet’s damned uncomfortable in the back,” Locke muttered. “Jean! Jeeeeaaaaaaan!”

“What is it?” came an echoing return shout a long moment later.

“Why, I just love to say your name. Get in here!”

Jean ambled into the Wardrobe a moment later, a glass of brandy in one hand and a battered book in the other.

“I thought Graumann had the night off for this bit,” he said.

“He does.” Locke gestured impatiently at the back of his doublet. “I need the services of Camorr’s ugliest seamstress.”

“Galdo’s helping Bug wash up.”

“Grab your needles, glass-eyes.”

Jean’s eyebrows drew down above his reading optics, but he set down his book and his glass and opened a small wooden chest set against one of the Wardrobe walls.

“What’re you reading?” Calo had added a tiny silver and amethyst clip to the center of his tie and was examining himself in the small glass, approvingly.

“Kimlarthen,” Jean replied, working black thread through a white bone needle and trying not to prick his fingers.

“The Korish romances?” Locke snorted. “Sentimental crap. Never knew you had a taste for fairy stories.”

“They happen to be culturally significant records of the Therin Throne centuries,” Jean said as he stepped behind Locke, seam ripper in one hand and threaded needle in the other. “Plus at least three knights get their heads torn completely off by the Beast of Vuazzo.”

“Illustrated manuscript, by chance?”

“Not the good parts, no.” Jean fiddled with the back of the doublet as delicately as he had ever charmed a lock or a victim’s coat pocket.

“Oh, just let it out. I don’t care how it looks; it’ll be hidden in the back of my cloak anyway. We can pretty it up later.”

“We?” Jean snorted as he loosened the doublet with a few strategic rips and slashes. “Me, more like. You mend clothes like dogs write poetry.”

“And I readily admit it. Oh, gods, much better. Now there’s room to hide the sigil-wallet and a few surprises, just in case.”

“It feels odd to be letting something out for you, rather than taking it in.” Jean arranged his tools as he’d found them in the sewing chest and closed it back up. “Do mind your training; we wouldn’t want you gaining half a pound.”

“Well, most of me is brain-weight.” Locke folded his own tunic sleeves back and pinned them up as Calo had.

“You’re one-third bad intentions, one-third pure avarice, and one-eighth sawdust. What’s left, I’ll credit, must be brains.”

“Well, since you’re here, and you’re such an expert on my poor self, why don’t you pull out the Masque Box and help me with my face?”

Jean paused for a sip from his brandy glass before pulling out a tall, battered wooden box inset with many dozens of small drawers. “What do we want to do first, your hair? You’re going black, right?”

“As pitch. I should only have to be this fellow two or three times.”

Jean twirled a white cloth around the shoulders of Locke’s doublet and fastened it in front with a tiny bone clasp. He then opened a poultice jar and smeared his fingers with the contents, a firm dark gel that smelled richly of citrus. “Hmm. Looks like charcoal and smells like oranges. I’ll never fathom Jessaline’s sense of humor.”

Locke smiled as Jean began to knead the stuff into his brown hair. “Even a black apothecary needs to stay amused somehow. Remember that beef-scented knockout candle she gave us, to deal with Don Feluccia’s damn guard dog?”

“Very droll, that.” Calo frowned as he made further minute adjustments to his own finery. “Stray cats running from every corner of Camorr at the scent. Dropping in their tracks until the street was full of little bodies. Wind shifting all over the place, and all of us running around trying to stay ahead of the smoke …”

“Not our finest moment,” said Jean. His job was already nearly finished; the stuff seemed to sink into Locke’s hair, imparting a natural-looking shade of deep Camorri black, with only the slightest sheen. But many men in Camorr used slick substances to hold or perfume their hair; this would hardly be noteworthy.

Jean wiped his fingers on Locke’s white neck-towel, then dipped a scrap of cloth into another poultice jar containing a pearly gel. This stuff, when applied to his fingers, cleared the residue of hair dye away as though the black gel were evaporating into thin air. Jean dabbed the cloth at Locke’s temples and neck, erasing the faint smudges and drips left over from the coloring process.

“Scar?” Jean asked when he was finished.

“Please.” Locke ran his little finger across the line of his right cheekbone. “Slash right across there if you would.”

Jean withdrew a slender wooden tube with a chalky white tip from the Masque Box and drew a short line on Locke’s face with it, just as Locke had indicated. Locke flinched as the stuff sizzled for a second or two; in the blink of an eye the white line hardened into a raised, pale arc of pseudoskin, perfectly mimicking a scar.

Bug appeared through the Wardrobe door at that instant, his cheeks a bit ruddier than usual. In one hand he held a black leather folding wallet, slightly larger than that which a gentleman would ordinarily carry. “Kitchen’s clean. Galdo said you’d forget this if I didn’t bring it in and throw it at you.”

“Please don’t take him literally.” Locke held out a hand for the wallet while Jean removed the white cloth from his shoulders, satisfied that the hair dye was dry. “Break that thing and I’ll roll you to Emberlain in a barrel. Personally.”

The sigil inside the wallet, the intricate confection of gold and crystal and frosted glass, was by far the most expensive prop of the whole game; even the 502 cask of Austershalin had been cheaper. The sigil had been crafted in Talisham, four days’ ride down the coast to the south; no Camorri counterfeiter, regardless of skill, could be trusted to be quiet or comfortable about mimicking the badge of the duke’s own secret police.

A stylized spider over the Royal Seal of the Serene Duchy; none of the Gentlemen Bastards had ever seen one, but Locke was confident that few of the lesser nobility had, either. The rough description of the dreaded sigil was whispered by the Right People of Camorr, and from that description a best-guess forgery had been put together.

“Durant the Gimp says that the Spider’s just bullshit,” said Bug as he handed over the wallet. All three older Gentlemen Bastards in the room looked at him sharply.

“If you put Durant’s brains in a thimble full of water,” said Jean, “they’d look like a ship lost in the middle of the sea.”

“The Midnighters are real, Bug.” Locke patted his hair gingerly and found that his hands came away clean. “If you’re ever found breaching the Peace, you’d better pray the capa gets to you before they do. Barsavi’s the soul of mercy compared to the man that runs the Palace of Patience.”

“I know the Midnighters are real,” said Bug. “I just said, there’s some that say the Spider is bullshit.”

“Oh, he exists. Jean, pick out a moustache for me. Something that goes with this hair.” Locke ran a finger over the smooth skin around his lips, shaved just after dinner. “There’s a man behind the Midnighters. Jean and I have spent years trying to figure out which of the duke’s court it must be, but all the leads go nowhere in the end.”

“Even Galdo and I are stumped,” added Calo. “So you know we’re dealing with a devil of singular subtlety.”

“How can you be sure, though?”

“Let me put it like this, Bug.” Locke paused while Jean held up a false moustache; Locke shook his head and Jean went back to digging in the Masque Box. “When Capa Barsavi does for someone, we hear about it, right? We have connections, and the word gets passed. The capa wants people to know his reasons—it avoids future trouble, makes an example.”

“And when the duke does for someone himself,” said Calo, “there’s always signs. Yellowjackets, Nightglass soldiers, writs, trials, proclamations.”

“But when the Spider puts the finger on someone …” Locke gave a brief nod of approval to the second moustache Jean held up for consideration. “When it’s the Spider, the poor bastard in question falls right off the face of the world. And Capa Barsavi doesn’t say a thing. Do you understand? He pretends that nothing has happened. So when you grasp that Barsavi doesn’t fear the duke … looks down on him quite a bit, actually … well, it follows that there’s someone out there who does make him wet his breeches.”

“Oh. You mean other than the Gray King?”

Calo snorted. “This Gray King mess will be over in a few months, Bug. One lone madman against three thousand knives, all answering to Barsavi—the Gray King is a walking corpse. The Spider isn’t so easily gotten rid of.”

“Which,” said Locke, “is exactly why we’re hoping to see Don Salvara jump six feet in the air when he finds us waiting in his study. Because the blue-bloods are no more comfortable with surprise visits from Midnighters than we are.”

“I hate to interrupt,” said Jean, “but did you shave this time? Ah. Good.” With a small stick, he applied a glistening smear of transparent paste to Locke’s upper lip; Locke wrinkled his nose in disgust. With a few quick finger motions Jean placed the false moustache and pressed it home; in a second or two it was set there as firmly as if it had grown naturally.

“This gum is made from the inner hide of a wolf shark,” Jean explained for Bug’s sake, “and last time we used it, we forgot to pick up some of the dissolving spirit—”

“And I had to get rid of the moustache in a hurry,” said Locke.

“And damned if he didn’t scream when Jean did the honors,” said Calo.

“Like a Sanza brother in an empty whorehouse!” Locke made a rude gesture at Calo; Calo mimed aiming and loosing a crossbow at him in return.

“Scar, moustache, hair; are we done here?” Jean packed the last of the disguise implements away in the Masque Box.

“That should do it, yes.” Locke stared at his reflection in the large mirror for a moment, and when he spoke next his voice had altered; subtly deeper, slightly rougher. His intonation was the bored humorlessness of a watch-sergeant dressing down a petty offender for the thousandth time in his career. “Let’s go tell a man he’s got himself a problem with some thieves.”

5

“SO,” SAID Don Lorenzo Salvara, “you wish me to continue deliberately granting promissory notes to a man that you describe as the most capable thief in Camorr.”

“Respectfully, m’lord Salvara, that’s what you would have done anyway, even without our intervention.”

When Locke spoke, there was no hint of Lukas Fehrwight in his voice or in his mannerisms; there was no trace of the Vadran merchant’s restrained energy or stuffy dignity. This new fiction had the fictional backing of the duke’s incontrovertible writ; he was the sort of man who could and would tease a don while invading the sanctity of that don’s home. Such audacity could never be faked—Locke had to feel it, summon it from somewhere inside, cloak himself in arrogance as though it were an old familiar garment. Locke Lamora became a shadow in his own mind—he was a Midnighter, an officer in the duke’s silent constabulary. Locke’s complicated lies were this new man’s simple truth.

“The sums discussed could … easily total half my available holdings.”

“Then give our friend Fehrwight half your fortune, m’lord. Choke the Thorn on exactly what he desires. Promissory notes will tie him down, keep him moving back and forth between countinghouses.”

“Countinghouses that will throw my very real money after this phantom, you mean.”

“Yes. In the service of the duke, no less. Take heart, m’lord Salvara. His Grace is entirely capable of compensating you for any loss you incur while aiding us in the capture of this man. In my opinion, though, the Thorn will have time to neither spend it nor move it very far, so your stolen money should be recovered before that even becomes necessary. You must also consider the aspects of the situation that are not strictly financial.”

“Meaning?”

“His Grace’s gratitude for your assistance in bringing this matter to our desired outcome,” said Locke, “balanced against his certain displeasure if any reluctance on your part should alert our thief to the net drawing tight around him.”

“Ah.” Don Salvara picked his optics up and resettled them on his nose. “With that I can hardly argue.”

“I will not be able to speak to you in public. No uniformed member of the Camorr watch will approach you for any reason related to this affair. If I speak to you at all, it must be at night, in secret.”

“Am I to tell Conté to keep refreshments at hand for men coming in through the windows? Shall I tell the Doña Sofia to send any Midnighters to my study if they should pop out of her wardrobe closet?”

“I give you my word any future appearances will be less alarming, my lord. My instructions were to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation and the full extent of our ability to … bypass obstacles. I assure you, I have no personal desire to antagonize you any further. Resecuring your fortune will be the capstone to many months of hard work on my part.”

“And the Doña Sofia? Has your master dictated a part for her in this … counter-charade?”

“Your wife is a most extraordinary woman. By all means, inform her of our involvement. Tell her the truth about Lukas Fehrwight. Enlist her very capable aid in our endeavor. However,” Locke said, grinning malignantly, “I do believe that I shall regretfully leave you the task of explaining this to her on your own, my lord.”

6

ON THE landward side of Camorr, armed men pace the old stone walls of the city, ever vigilant for signs of bandits or hostile armies in the field. On the seaward side, watchtowers and war galleys serve the same purpose.

At the guard stations on the periphery of the Alcegrante district, the city watch stands ready to protect the city’s lesser nobility from the annoyance of having to see or smell any of their actual subjects against their wishes.

Locke and Calo crossed the Angevine just before midnight on the broad glass bridge called the Eldren Arch. This ornately carved span connected the western Alcegrante with the lush semipublic gardens of Twosilver Green—another spot where the insufficiently well-heeled were discouraged from lingering, often with whips and batons.

Tall cylinders of ruby-colored glass shed alchemical light onto the wispy threads of mist that curled and wavered below the knees of their horses; the center of the bridge was fifty feet above the water, and the usual night fog reached no higher. The red lamps swayed gently within their black iron frames as the muggy Hangman’s Breeze spun them, and the two Gentlemen Bastards rode down into the Alcegrante with that eerie light surrounding them like a bloody aura.

“Hold there! State your name and business!”

At the point where the bridge met the Angevine’s north shore there was a low wooden shack with oil-paper windows, through which a pale white glow emanated. A single figure stood beside it, his yellow tabard turned to orange in the light of the bridge lamps. The speaker’s words might have been bold, but his voice was young and a little uncertain.

Locke smiled; the Alcegrante guard shacks always held two yellowjackets, but at this one the more senior had clearly sent his less-hardened partner out into the fog to do the actual work. So much the better—Locke pulled his precious sigil-wallet out of his black cloak as his horse cantered down beside the guard station.

“My name is immaterial.” Locke flipped the wallet open to allow the round-faced young city watchman a glimpse of the sigil by the light of his guard station. “My business is that of His Grace, Duke Nicovante.”

“I … I see, sir.”

“I never came this way. We did not speak. Be sure that your fellow watchman understands this as well.”

The yellowjacket bowed and took a quick step backward, as though afraid to stay too close. Locke smiled. Black-cloaked riders on black horses, looming out of darkness and mist … It was easy to laugh at such conceits in full daylight. But night had a way of lending weight to phantasms.

If Coin-Kisser’s Row was where Camorr’s money was put to use, the Alcegrante district was where it was put to rest. It was four connected islands, each a sort of tiered hill sloping up to the base of the plateau that held the Five Towers; old money and new money mingled crazy-quilt fashion here in mazes of manor houses and private gardens. Here the merchants and money-changers and ship-brokers looked down comfortably on the rest of the city; here the lesser nobility looked up covetously at the towers of the Five Families who ruled all.

Carriages clattered past from time to time, their black lacquered wooden cabins trailing bobbing lanterns and banners proclaiming the arms of whoever traveled within. Some of these were guarded by teams of armed outriders in slashed doublets and polished breastplates—this year’s fashion for rented thugs. A few teams of horses wore harnesses spotted with miniature alchemical lights; these appeared at a distance looking like chains of fireflies bobbing in the mist.

Don Salvara’s manor was a four-story pillared rectangle, several centuries old and sagging a bit under the weight of its years, for it had been built entirely by human hands. It was a sort of island unto itself at the heart of the Isla Durona, westernmost neighborhood of the Alcegrante; surrounded on all sides by a twelve-foot stone wall and enclosed by thick gardens. It shared no party walls with neighboring manors. Amber lights burned behind the barred windows on the third floor.

Locke and Calo quietly dismounted in the alley adjacent to the manor’s northern wall. Several long nights of careful reconnaissance by Locke and Bug had revealed the easiest routes over the alley wall and up the side of the Salvara manor. Dressed as they were, hidden by mist and darkness, they would be effectively invisible as soon as they could hop the outer wall and get off the street.

A moment of fortunate stillness fell upon them as Calo tied the horses to a weathered wooden post beside the garden wall; not a soul was in sight. Calo stroked his horse’s thin mane.

“Hoist a glass or two in memory of us if we don’t come back, love.”

Locke put his back against the base of the wall and cupped his hands. Calo set a foot in this makeshift stirrup and leapt upward, propelled by the mingled strength of his legs and Locke’s arms. When he’d hoisted himself quietly and carefully atop the wall, he reached back down with both arms to hoist Locke up. The Sanza twin was as wiry as Locke was slender, and the operation went smoothly. In seconds they were both down in the wet, fragrant darkness of the garden, crouched motionless, listening.

The doors on the ground floor were all protected from within by intricate clockwork failsafes and steel bars—they simply could not be picked. But the rooftop … well, those who weren’t yet important enough to live with the constant threat of assassination often placed an inordinate degree of faith in high walls.

The two thieves went up the north face of the manor house, slowly and carefully, wedging hands and feet firmly into chinks in the warm, slick stone. The first and second floors were dark and quiet; the light on the third floor was on the opposite side of the building. Hearts hammering with excitement, they hauled themselves up until they were just beneath the parapet of the roof, where they paused for a long interval, straining to catch at any sound from within the manor that would hint at discovery.

The moons were stuffed away behind gauzy gray clouds; on their left the city was an arc of blurred jewel-lights shining through mist, and above them the impossible heights of the Five Towers stood like black shadows before the sky. The threads of light that burned on their parapets and in their windows enhanced rather than reduced their aura of menace. Staring up at them from near the ground was a sure recipe for vertigo.

Locke was the first over the parapet. Peering intently by the faint light falling from above, he planted his feet on a white-tiled pathway in the center of the roof and kept them there. He was surrounded on either side by the dark shapes of bushes, blossoms, small trees, and vines—the roof was rich with the scent of vegetation and night soil. The street-level garden was a mundane affair, if well tended; this was the Doña Sofia’s private botanical preserve.

Most alchemical botanists, in Locke’s experience, were enthusiasts of bizarre poisons. He made sure his hood and cloak were cinched tight around him, and pulled his black neck-cloth up over his lower face.

Soft-stepping along the white path, Locke and Calo threaded their way through Sofia’s garden, more carefully than if they had been walking between streams of lamp oil with their cloaks on fire. At the garden’s center was a roof hatch with a simple tumbler lock; Calo listened carefully at this door for two minutes with his favorite picks poised in his hands. Charming the lock took less than ten seconds.

The fourth floor: Doña Sofia’s workshop, a place where the two intruders wanted even less to stumble or linger than they had in her garden. Quiet as guilty husbands coming home from a late night of drinking, they stole through the dark rooms of laboratory apparatus and potted plants, scampering for the narrow stone stairs that led downward to a side passage on the third floor.

The operations of the Salvara household were well known to the Gentlemen Bastards; the don and doña kept their private chambers on the third floor, across the hall from the don’s study. The second floor was the solar, a reception and dining hall that went mostly disused when the couple had no friends over to entertain. The first floor held the kitchen, several parlors, and the servants’ quarters. In addition to Conté, the Salvaras kept a pair of middle-aged housekeepers, a cook, and a young boy who served as a messenger and scullion. All of them would be asleep on the first floor; none of them posed even a fraction of the threat that Conté did.

This was the part of the scheme that couldn’t be planned with any precision—they had to locate the old soldier and deal with him before they could have their intended conversation with Don Salvara.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere else on the floor; Locke, in the lead, crouched low and peeked around the left-hand corner. It turned out he was looking down the long passage that divided the third floor in half lengthwise; Don Salvara had left the door to his study open and was vanishing into the bedchamber. That door he closed firmly behind him—and a moment later the sound of a metal lock echoed down the hall.

“Serendipity,” whispered Locke. “I suspect he’ll be busy for quite some time in there. Light’s still on in his study, so we know he’s coming back out.… Let’s get the hard part over with.”

Locke and Calo slipped down the hallway, sweating now, but barely letting their heavy cloaks flutter as they moved. The long passage was tastefully decorated with hanging tapestries and shallow wall sconces in which tiny glow-glasses shed no more light than that of smoldering coals. Behind the heavy doors to the Salvaras’ chambers, someone laughed.

The stairwell at the far end of the passage was wide and circular; steps of white marble inset with mosaic-tile maps of Camorr spiralled down into the solar. Here Calo grabbed Locke by one sleeve, put a finger to his lips, and jerked his head downward.

“Listen,” he murmured.

Clang, clang … footsteps … clang, clang.

This sequence of noises was repeated several times, growing slightly louder each time. Locke grinned at Calo. Someone was pacing the solar, methodically checking the locks and the iron bars guarding each window. At this time of the night, there was only one man in the house who’d be doing such a thing.

Calo knelt beside the balustrade, just to the left of the top of the staircase. Anyone coming up the spiral stairs would have to pass directly beneath this position. He reached inside his cloak and took out a folded leather sack and a length of narrow-gauge rope woven from black silk; he then began to thread the silk line through and around the sack in some arcane fashion that Locke couldn’t follow. Locke knelt just behind Calo and kept one eye on the long passage they’d come down—a reappearance of the don was hardly likely yet, but the Benefactor was said to make colorful examples of incautious thieves.

Conté’s light, steady footsteps echoed on the staircase beneath them.

In a fair fight, the don’s man would almost certainly paint the walls with Locke and Calo’s blood, so it stood to reason that this fight would have to be as unfair as possible. At the moment the top of Conté’s bald head appeared beneath him, Calo reached out between the balustrade posts and let his crimper’s hood drop.

A crimper’s hood, for those who’ve never had the occasion to be kidnapped and sold into slavery in one of the cities on the Iron Sea, looks a bit like a tent as it flutters quickly downward, borne by weights sewn into its bottom edges. Air pushes its flaps outward just before it drops down around its target’s head and settles on his shoulders. Conté gave a startled jerk as Calo yanked the black silk cord, instantly cinching the hood closed around his neck.

Anyone with any real presence of mind could probably reach up and fumble such a hood loose in a matter of seconds, which is why the interior is inevitably painted with large amounts of some sweet-scented fuming narcotic, purchased from a black apothecary. Knowing the nature of the man they were attempting to subdue, Locke and Calo had spent nearly thirty crowns on the stuff Conté was breathing just now, and Locke fervently wished him much joy of it.

One panic-breath inside the airtight hood; that would be enough to drop any ordinary person in his or her tracks. But as Locke flew down the stairs to catch Conté’s body, he saw that the man was still somehow upright, clawing at the hood—disoriented and weakened, most definitely, but still awake. A quick rap on the solar plexus—that would open his mouth and speed the drug on its way. Locke stepped in to deliver the blow, wrapping one hand around Conté’s neck just beneath the crimper’s hood. This nearly blew the entire game.

Conté’s arms flashed up and broke Locke’s lackadaisical choke hold before it even began; the man’s left arm snaked out to entangle Locke’s right, and then Conté punched him—once, twice, three times; vicious jabs in his own stomach and solar plexus. With his guts an exploding constellation of pain, Locke sank down against his would-be victim, struggling for balance. Conté brought his right knee up in a blow that should have knocked Locke’s teeth out of his ears at high speed, but the drug was finally, thankfully smothering the old soldier’s will to be ornery. The knee barely grazed Locke’s chin; instead, the booted foot attached to it caught him in the groin and knocked him backward. His head bounced against the hard marble of the stairs, somewhat cushioned by the cloth of his hood; Locke lay there, gasping for breath, still hanging awkwardly by one of the hooded man’s arms.

Calo appeared at that instant, having dropped the line that cinched his crimper’s hood and dashed down the stairs. He slipped one foot behind Conté’s increasingly wobbly legs and pushed the man down the stairs, holding him by the front of his doublet to keep the fall relatively quiet. Once Conté was head-down and prone, Calo punched him rather mercilessly between the legs—once, then again when the man’s legs twitched feebly, and then again, which yielded no response. The hood had finally done its work. With Conté temporarily disposed of, Calo turned to Locke and tried to help him to a sitting position, but Locke waved him off.

“What sort of state are you in?” Calo whispered.

“As though I’m with child, and the little bastard is trying to cut his way out with an axe.” Chest heaving, Locke tore his black mask down off his face, lest he vomit inside it and create an unconcealable mess.

While Locke gulped deep breaths and tried to control his shuddering, Calo crouched back down beside Conté and tore the hood off, briskly waving away the sickly-sweet aroma of the leather bag’s contents. He carefully folded the hood up, slipped it into his cloak, and then dragged Conté up a few steps.

“Calo.” Locke coughed. “My disguise—damaged?”

“Not that I can see. Looks like he didn’t do anything that shows, provided you can walk without a slouch. Stay here a moment.”

Calo slipped down to the foot of the stairs and took a peek around the darkened solar; soft city light fell through the barred windows, faintly illuminating a long table and a number of glass cases on the walls, holding plates and unidentifiable knickknacks. Not another soul was in sight, and not a sound could be heard from below.

When Calo returned, Locke had pushed himself up on his knees and hands; Conté slumbered beside him with a look of comical bliss on his craggy face.

“Oh, he’s not going to keep that expression when he wakes up.” Calo waved a pair of thin, leather-padded brass knuckles at Locke, then made them vanish up his sleeves with a graceful flourish. “I had my footpad’s little friends on when I knocked him around that last time.”

“Well, I for one have no expressions of sympathy to spare, since he kicked my balls hard enough to make them permanent residents of my lungs.” Locke tried to push himself up off his hands and failed; Calo caught him under his right arm and eased him up until he was kneeling, shakily, on his knees alone.

“You’ve got your breath back, at least. Can you actually walk?”

“I can stumble, I think. I’ll be hunched over for a while. Give me a few minutes and I think I can pretend nothing’s wrong. At least until we’re out of here.”

Calo assisted Locke back up the stairs to the third floor. Leaving Locke there to keep watch, he then began to quietly, slowly drag Conté up the same way. The don’s man didn’t actually weigh all that much.

Embarrassed, and eager to make himself useful again, Locke pulled two lengths of tough cord out of his own cloak and bound Conté’s feet and hands with them; he folded a handkerchief three times and used it as a gag. Locke pulled Conté’s knives out of their sheaths and passed them to Calo, who stashed them within his cloak.

The don’s study door still hung open, shedding warm light into the passage; the bedchamber doors remained locked tight.

“I pray you both may be gifted with a demand and an endurance well beyond your usual expectations, m’lord and lady,” whispered Calo. “Your household thieves would appreciate a short break before continuing with their duties for the evening.”

Calo grasped Conté beneath his arms, and Locke, slouched in obvious pain, nonetheless grabbed the man’s feet when Calo began to drag him all by himself. With tedious stealth, they retraced their steps and deposited the unconscious bodyguard around the far bend in the corridor, just beside the stairs leading back up to the fourth-floor laboratories.

The don’s study was a most welcome sight when they finally stole in a few minutes later. Locke settled into a deeply cushioned leather armchair on the left-hand wall, while Calo took up a standing guard position. More laughter could be heard, faintly, from across the hall.

“We could be here quite a while,” said Calo.

“The gods are merciful.” Locke stared at the don’s tall glass-fronted liquor cabinet—one even more impressive than the collection his pleasure barge carried. “I’d pour us a draught or six, but I don’t think it would be in character.”

They waited ten minutes, fifteen, twenty. Locke breathed steadily and deeply, and concentrated on ignoring the throbbing ache that seemed to fill his guts from top to bottom. Yet when the two thieves heard the door across the hallway unbolting, Locke leapt to his feet, standing tall, pretending that his balls didn’t feel like clay jugs dropped onto cobblestones from a great height. He cinched his black mask back on and willed a wave of perfect arrogance to claim him from the inside out.

As Father Chains had once said, the best disguises were those that were poured out of the heart rather than painted on the face.

Calo kissed the back of his left hand through his own mask and winked.

Don Lorenzo Salvara walked into his study whistling, lightly dressed and completely unarmed.

“Close the door,” said Locke, and his voice was steady, rich with the absolute presumption of command. “Have a seat, m’lord, and don’t bother calling for your man. He is … indisposed.”

7

AN HOUR past midnight, two men left the Alcegrante district via the Eldren Arch. They wore black cloaks and had black horses; one of them rode with a leisurely air, while the other led his horse on foot, walking in a curiously bowlegged fashion.

“Un-fucking-believable,” said Calo. “It really did work out just as you planned. It’s a pity we can’t brag about this to anyone. Our biggest score ever, and all we had to do was tell our mark exactly what we were doing to him.”

“And get kicked around a bit,” muttered Locke.

“Yeah, sorry about that. What a beast that man was, eh? Take comfort that he’ll feel the same way when he opens his eyes again.”

“How very comforting. If reassurances could dull pain, nobody would ever go to the trouble of pressing grapes.”

“By the Crooked Warden, I never heard such self-pity dripping from the mouth of a wealthy man. Cheer up! Richer and cleverer than everyone else, right?”

“Richer and cleverer and walking funny, yes.”

The pair of thieves made their way south through Twosilver Green, toward the first of the stops where they would gradually lose their horses and shed their black clothes, until they were finally heading back to the Temple District dressed as common laborers. They nodded companionably at patrols of yellowjackets, stomping about in the mist with lanterns swaying on pike-poles to light their way. Not once were they given any reason to glance up.

The fluttering shadow that trailed them on their way through the streets and alleys was quieter than a small child’s breath; swift and graceful, it swooped from rooftop to rooftop in their wake, following their actions with absolute single-mindedness. When they slipped back into the Temple District, it beat its wings and rose into the darkness in a lazy spiraling circle, until it was up above the mists of Camorr and lost against the gray haze of the low-hanging clouds.

INTERLUDE

The Last Mistake

1

Locke’s first experience with the mirror wine of Tal Verrar had even more of an effect on the boy’s malnourished body than Chains had expected. Locke spent most of the next day tossing and turning on his cot, his head pounding and his eyes unable to bear anything but the most gentle spark of light.

“It’s a fever,” Locke muttered into his sweat-soaked blanket.

“It’s a hangover.” Chains ran a hand through the boy’s hair and patted his back. “My fault, really. The Sanza twins are natural liquor sponges. I shouldn’t have let you live up to their standard on your first night with us. No work for you today.”

“Liquor does this? Even after you’re sober?”

“A cruel joke, isn’t it? The gods put a price tag on everything, it seems. Unless you’re drinking Austershalin brandy.”

“Auffershallow?”

“Austershalin. From Emberlain. Among its many other virtues, it doesn’t cause a hangover. Some sort of alchemical component in the vineyard soil. Expensive stuff.”

Falselight came after many hours of half-sleep, and Locke found himself able to walk once again, though the brain within his skull felt like it was attempting to dig a hole down through his neck and escape. Chains insisted that they would still be visiting Capa Barsavi (“The only people who break appointments with him are the ones that live in glass towers and have their pictures on coins, and even they think twice”), though he consented to allow Locke a more comfortable means of transportation.

It turned out that the House of Perelandro had a small stable tucked around the back, and in this smelly little stall there lived a Gentled goat. “He’s got no name,” Chains said as he set Locke atop the creature’s back. “I just couldn’t bring myself to give him one, since he wouldn’t answer to it anyway.”

Locke had never developed the instinctive revulsion most boys and girls felt for Gentled animals; he’d already seen too much ugliness in his life to care about the occasional empty stare from a docile, milky-eyed creature.

There is a substance called Wraithstone, a chalky white material found in certain remote mountain caverns. The stuff doesn’t occur naturally; it is found only in conjunction with glass-lined tunnels presumably abandoned by the Eldren—the same unsettling race that built Camorr, ages past. In its solid state, Wraithstone is tasteless, nearly odorless, and inert. It must be burned to activate its unique properties.

Physikers have begun to identify the various means and channels by which poisons attack the bodies of the living; this one stills the heart, while this one thins the blood, and still others damage the stomach or the intestines. Wraithstone smoke poisons nothing physical; what it does is burn out personality itself. Ambition, stubbornness, pluck, spirit, drive—all of these things fade with just a few breaths of the arcane haze. Accidental exposure to small amounts can leave a man listless for weeks; anything more than that and the effect will be permanent. Victims remain alive but entirely unconcerned by anything. They don’t respond to their names, or to their friends, or to mortal danger. They can be prodded into eating or excreting or carrying something, and little else. The pale white sheen that fills their eyes is an outward expression of the emptiness that takes hold in their hearts and minds.

Once, in the time of the Therin Throne, the process was used to punish criminals, but it has been centuries since any civilized Therin city-state allowed the use of Wraithstone on men and women. A society that still hangs children for petty theft and feeds prisoners to sea-creatures finds the results too disquieting to bear.

Gentling, therefore, is reserved for animals—mostly beasts of burden intended for urban service. The cramped confines of a hazard-rich city like Camorr are ideally suited to the process. Gentled ponies may be trusted never to throw the children of the wealthy. Gentled horses and mules may be trusted never to kick their handlers or dump expensive cargoes into a canal. A burlap sack with a bit of the white stone and a slow-smoldering match is placed over an animal’s muzzle, and the human handlers retreat to fresh air. A few minutes later the creature’s eyes are the color of new milk, and it will never do anything on its own initiative again.

But Locke had a throbbing headache, and he was just getting used to the idea that he was a murderer and a resident of a private glass fairyland, and the eerily mechanical behavior of his goat didn’t bother him at all.

“This temple will be exactly where I left it when I return later this evening,” said Father Chains as he finished dressing for his venture outside; the Eyeless Priest had vanished entirely, to be replaced by a hale man of middle years and moderate means. His beard and his hair had been touched up with some sort of brown dye; his vest and cheap cotton-lined half-cloak hung loosely over a cream-colored shirt with no ties or cravats.

“Exactly where you left it,” said one of the Sanzas.

“And not burned down or anything,” said the other.

“If you boys can burn down stone and Elderglass, the gods have higher aspirations for you than a place as my apprentices. Do behave. I’m taking Locke to get his, ahh …”

Chains glanced sideways at the Lamora boy. He then mimed taking a drink, and held his jaw afterward as though in pain.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhh,” said Calo and Galdo in pitch-perfect unison.

“Indeed.” Chains settled a little round leather cap on his head and took the reins of Locke’s goat. “Wait up for us. This should be interesting, to say the least.”

2

“THIS CAPA Barsavi,” Locke said as Chains led the nameless goat across one of the narrow glass arches between the Fauria and Coin-Kisser’s Row, “my old master told me about him, I think.”

“You’re quite right. That time you got the Elderglass Vine burned down, I believe.”

“Ah. You know about that.”

“Well, once your old master started telling me about you, he just sort of … didn’t shut up for several hours.”

“If I’m your pezon, are you Barsavi’s pezon?”

“That’s a plain, neat description of our relationship, yes. All the Right People are Barsavi’s soldiers. His eyes, his ears, his agents, his subjects. His pezon. Barsavi is … a particular sort of friend. I did some things for him, back when he was coming to power. We rose together, you might say—I got special consideration and he got the, ah, entire city.”

“Special consideration?”

It was as pleasant a night for a stroll as Camorr ever produced during the summer. A hard rain had fallen not an hour before, and the fresh mist that spread its tendrils around buildings like the grasping hands of spectral giants was slightly cooler than usual, and its odor wasn’t yet saturated with the redolence of silt and dead fish and human waste. Other people were few and far between on Coin-Kisser’s Row after Falselight, so Locke and Chains spoke fairly freely.

“I’ve got the distance. Which means—well, there are a hundred gangs in Camorr, Locke. A hundred and more. Certainly I can’t remember them all. Some of them are too new or too unruly for Capa Barsavi to trust them as well as he might. So he keeps a close eye on them—insists on frequent reports, plants men in them, reins their actions in tightly. Those of us that don’t suffer such scrutiny”—Chains pointed to himself, then to Locke—“are sort of presumed to be doing things honestly until proven otherwise. We follow his rules and pay him a cut of our take, and he thinks he can more or less trust us to get it right. No audits, no spies, no bullshit. ‘The distance.’ It’s a privilege worth paying for.”

Chains stuck a hand in one of his cloak pockets; there was the pleasing jingle of coins. “I’ve got a little show of respect for him right here, in fact. Two-tenths of this week’s take from the charity kettle of Perelandro.”

“More than a hundred gangs, you said?”

“This city has more gangs than it has foul odors, boy. Some of them are older than many families on the Alcegrante, and some of them have stricter rituals than some of the priestly orders. Hell, at one point there were nearly thirty capas, and each one had four or five gangs under his thumb.”

“Thirty capas? All like Capa Barsavi?”

“Yes and no. Yes, that they ran gangs and gave orders and cut men open from cock to eyeballs when they got angry; no, that they were anything like Barsavi otherwise. Five years ago, there were the thirty bosses I talked about. Thirty little kingdoms, all fighting and thieving and spilling each other’s guts in the street. All at war with the yellowjackets, who used to kill twenty men a week. In slow weeks.

“Then Capa Barsavi walked in from Tal Verrar. Used to be a scholar at the Therin Collegium, if you can believe it. Taught rhetoric. He got a few gangs under his thumb and he started cutting. Not like a back-alley slasher, but more like a physiker cutting out a chancre. When Barsavi took out another capa, he took their gangs, too. But he didn’t lean on them if he didn’t have to. He gave them full territories and let them choose their own garristas, and he cut them in on his take.

“So—five years ago, there were thirty. Four years ago, there were ten. Three years ago, there was one. Capa Barsavi and his hundred gangs. The whole city—all the Right People, present company included—in his pocket. No more open war across the bloody canals. No more platoons of thieves getting strung up all at once at the Palace of Patience. Nowadays they have to do them two or three at a time.”

“Because of the Secret Peace? The one I broke?”

“The one you broke, yes. Good guess, presuming I’d know about that. Yes, my boy, it’s the key to Barsavi’s peculiar success. What it comes down to is, he has a standing agreement with the duke, handled through one of the duke’s agents. The gangs of Camorr don’t touch the nobles; we don’t lay a finger on ships or drays or crates that have a legitimate coat of arms on them. In exchange, Barsavi is the actual ruler of a few of the city’s more charming points. Catchfire, the Narrows, the Dregs, the Wooden Waste, the Snare, and parts of the docks. Plus the city watch is much more … relaxed than they ought to be.”

“So we can rob anyone who isn’t a noble?”

“Or a yellowjacket, yes. We can have the merchants and the money-changers and the incoming and the outgoing. There’s more money passing through Camorr than any other city on this coast, boy. Hundreds of ships a week; thousands of sailors and officers. We don’t have any problem laying off the nobility.”

“Doesn’t that make the merchants and the money-changers and the other people angry?”

“It might if they knew about it. That’s why there’s that word ‘Secret’ in front of ‘Peace.’ And that’s why Camorr’s such a lovely, fine, safe place to live. You really only need to worry about losing your money if you don’t have much of it in the first place.”

“Oh,” said Locke, fingering his little shark’s-tooth necklace. “Okay. But now I wonder … You said my old master bought and paid for, um, killing me. Will you get in trouble with Barsavi for not … killing me?”

Chains laughed. “Why would I be taking you to see him if that’d get me in trouble, boy? No, the death-mark’s mine to use, or not, as I see fit. I bought it. Don’t you see? He doesn’t care if we actually use ’em, only that we acknowledge that the power of granting life or death is his. Sort of like a tax only he can collect. You see?”

Locke nodded, then allowed himself to be trundled along silently for a few minutes, absorbing all of this. His aching head made the scale of what was going on a bit difficult to grasp.

“Let me tell you a story,” said Father Chains after a while. “A story that will let you know just what sort of man you’re going to meet and swear fealty to this evening. Once upon a time, when Capa Barsavi’s hold on the city was very new and very delicate, it was an open secret that a pack of his garristas was plotting to get rid of him just as soon as the chance presented itself. And they were very alert for his countermoves, see; they’d helped him take over the city, and they knew how he worked.

“So they made sure he couldn’t get all of them at once; if he tried to cut some throats the gangs would scatter and warn each other and it’d be a bloody mess, another long war. He made no open moves. And the rumors of their disloyalty got worse.

“Capa Barsavi would receive visitors in his hall—it’s still out there in the Wooden Waste; it used to be a big Verrari hulk, one of those fat wide galleons they used for hauling troops. It’s just anchored there now, a sort of makeshift palace. He calls it the Floating Grave. Well, at the Floating Grave, he made a big show of putting down this one large carpet from Ashmere; a really lovely thing, the sort of cloth the duke would hang on a wall for safekeeping. And he made sure that everyone around him knew how much he liked that carpet.

“It got so that his court could tell what he was going to do to a visitor by watching that carpet; if there was going to be blood, that carpet would be rolled up and packed away safe. Without exception. Months went by. Carpet up, carpet down. Sometimes men who got called to see him would try to run the moment they saw bare floor beneath his feet, which of course was as good as admitting wrongdoing out loud.

“Anyhow. Back to his problem garristas. Not one of them was stupid enough to enter the Floating Grave without a gang at their back, or to be caught alone with Barsavi. His rule was still too uncertain at this point for him to just throw a tantrum about it. So he waited … and then one night he invited nine of his troublesome garristas to dinner. Not all the troublemakers, of course, but the cleverest, and the toughest, and the ones with the biggest gangs. And their spies brought back word that that lovely embroidered carpet, the capa’s prize possession, was rolled out on the floor for everyone to see, with a banquet table on top of it and more food than the gods themselves had ever seen.

“So those stupid bastards, they figured Barsavi was serious, that he really wanted to talk. They thought he was scared, and they expected negotiations in good faith; so they didn’t bring their gangs or make alternate plans. They thought they’d won.

“You can imagine,” said Chains, “just how surprised they were when they sat down at their chairs on that beautiful carpet, and fifty of Barsavi’s men piled into the room with crossbows, and shot those poor idiots so full of bolts that a porcupine in heat would have taken any one of them home and fucked him. If there was a drop of blood that wasn’t on the carpet, it was on the ceiling. You get my meaning?”

“So the carpet was ruined?”

“And then some. Barsavi knew how to create expectations, Locke, and how to use those expectations to mislead those who would harm him. They figured his strange obsession was a guarantee of their lives. Turns out there are just some enemies numerous enough and powerful enough to be worth losing a damn carpet over.”

Chains pointed ahead of them and to the south.

“That’s the man waiting to talk to you about half a mile that way. I would strongly recommend cultivating a civil tongue.”

3

THE LAST Mistake was a place where the underworld of Camorr bubbled to the surface; a flat-out crook’s tavern, where Right People of every sort could drink and speak freely of their business, where respectable citizens stood out like serpents in a nursery and were quickly escorted out the door by mean-looking, thick-armed men with very small imaginations.

Here entire gangs would come to drink and arrange jobs and just show themselves off. In their cups, men would argue loudly about the best way to strangle someone from behind, and the best sorts of poisons to use in wine or food. They would openly proclaim the folly of the duke’s court, or his taxation schemes, or his diplomatic arrangements with the other cities of the Iron Sea. They would refight entire battles with dice and fragments of chicken bones as their armies, loudly announcing how they would have turned left when Duke Nicovante had gone right, how they would have stood fast when the five thousand blackened iron spears of the Mad Count’s Rebellion had come surging down Godsgate Hill toward them.

But not one of them, no matter how far doused in liquor or Gaze or the strange narcotic powders of Jerem—no matter what feats of generalship or statecraft he credited himself with the foresight to bring off—would dare suggest to Capa Vencarlo Barsavi that he should ever change so much as a single button on his waistcoat.

4

THE BROKEN Tower is a landmark of Camorr, jutting ninety feet skyward at the very northern tip of the Snare—that low and crowded district where sailors from a hundred ports of call are passed from bar to alehouse to gaming den and back again on a nightly basis. They are shaken through a sieve of tavern-keepers, whores, muggers, dicers, cobble-cogs, and other low tricksters until their pockets are as empty as their heads are heavy, and they can be dumped on ship to nurse their new hangovers and diseases. They come in like the tide and go out like the tide, leaving nothing but a residue of copper and silver (and occasionally blood) to mark their passing.

Although human arts are inadequate to the task of cracking Elderglass, the Broken Tower was found in its current state when humans first settled Camorr, stealing in among the ruins of an older civilization. Great gashes mar the alien glass and stone of the tower’s upper stories; these discontinuities have been somewhat covered over with wood and paint and other human materials. The sturdiness of the whole affair is hardly in question, but the repairs are not beautiful, and the rooms for let on the upper six floors are some of the least desirable in the city, as they are accessible only by rank upon rank of narrow, twisting exterior stairs—a spindly wooden frame that sways nauseatingly in high winds. Most of the residents are young bravos from various gangs, to whom the insane accommodations are a strange badge of honor.

The Last Mistake fills the first floor at the wide base of the Broken Tower, and after the fall of Falselight, it rarely has less than a hundred patrons in it at any given time. Locke clung tightly to the back of Father Chains’ half-cloak as the older man elbowed his way past the crowd at the door. The outward exhalation of the bar’s air was full of smells Locke knew quite well: a hundred kinds of liquors and the breath of the men and women drinking them, sweat both stale and fresh, piss and vomit, spiced pomanders and wet wool, the sharp bite of ginger and the acrid fog of tobacco.

“Can we trust that boy to watch our goat?” Locke cried above the din.

“Of course, of course.” Chains made some elaborate hand sign in greeting to a group of men arm-wrestling just inside the bar’s main room; those not locked in bitter struggles grinned and waved back. “First, it’s his job. Second, I paid well. Third, only a crazy person would want to steal a Gentled goat.”

The Last Mistake was a sort of monument to the failure of human artifice at critical moments. Its walls were covered in a bewildering variety of souvenirs, each one telling a visual tale that ended with the phrase “not quite good enough.” Above the bar was a full suit of armor, a square hole punched through at the left breast by a crossbow quarrel. Broken swords and split helmets covered the walls, along with fragments of oars, masts, spars, and tatters of sails. One of the bar’s proudest claims was that it had secured a memento of every ship that had foundered within sight of Camorr in the past seventy years.

Into this mess Father Chains dragged Locke Lamora, like a launch being towed at the stern of a huge galleon. On the south wall of the bar was an elevated alcove, given privacy by rows of partially drawn curtains. Men and women stood at attention here, their hard eyes constantly sweeping across the crowd, their hands never far from the weapons they carried openly and ostentatiously—daggers, darts, brass and wooden clubs, short swords, hatchets, and even crossbows, ranging from slender alley-pieces to big horse-murderers that looked (to Locke’s wide eyes) as though they could knock holes in stone.

One of these guards stopped Father Chains, and the two exchanged a few whispered words; another guard was dispatched into the curtained alcove while the first eyed Chains warily. A few moments later the second guard reappeared and beckoned; thus it was that Locke was led for the first time into the presence of Vencarlo Barsavi, Capa of Camorr, who sat in a plain chair beside a plain table. Several minions stood against the wall behind him, close enough to respond to a summons but far enough to be out of earshot for quiet conversation.

Barsavi was a big man, as wide as Chains but obviously a bit younger. His oiled black hair was pulled tight behind his neck, and his beards curved off his chin like three braided whipcords of hair, one atop the other, neatly layered. These beards flew about when Barsavi turned his round head, and they looked quite thick enough to sting if they struck bare skin.

Barsavi was dressed in a coat, vest, breeches, and boots of some odd dark leather that seemed unusually thick and stiff even to Locke’s untrained eyes; after a moment, the boy realized it must be shark hide. The strangely uneven white buttons that dotted his vest and his cuffs and held his layered red silk cravats in place … they were human teeth.

Sitting on Barsavi’s lap, staring intently at Locke, was a girl about his own age, with short tangled dark hair and a heart-shaped face. She, too, wore a curious outfit. Her dress was white embroidered silk, fit for any noble’s daughter, while the little boots that dangled beneath her hem were black leather, shod with iron, bearing sharpened steel kicking-spikes at the heels and the toes.

“So this is the boy,” said Barsavi in a deep, slightly nasal voice with the pleasant hint of a Verrari accent. “The industrious little boy who so confounded our dear Thiefmaker.”

“The very one, Your Honor, now happily confounding myself and my other wards.” Chains reached behind himself and pushed Locke out from behind his legs. “May I present Locke Lamora, late of Shades’ Hill, now an initiate of Perelandro?”

“Or some god, anyway, eh?” Barsavi chuckled and held out a small wooden box that had been resting on the table near his arm. “It’s always nice to see you when your sight miraculously returns, Chains. Have a smoke. They’re Jeremite blackroot, extra fine, just rolled this week.”

“I can’t say no to that, Ven.” Chains accepted a tightly rolled sheaf of tobacco in red paper; while the two men bent over a flickering taper to light up (Chains dropped his little bag of coins on the table at the same time), the girl seemed to come to some sort of decision about Locke.

“He’s a very ugly little boy, Father. He looks like a skeleton.”

Capa Barsavi coughed out his first few puffs of smoke, the corners of his mouth crinkling upward. “And you’re a very inconsiderate little girl, my dear.” The Capa drew on his sheaf once more and exhaled a straight stream of translucent smoke; the stuff was pleasantly mellow and carried the slightest hint of burnt vanilla. “You must forgive my daughter Nazca; I am helpless to deny her indulgences, and she has acquired the manners of a pirate princess. Particularly now that we are all afraid to come near her deadly new boots.”

“I am never unarmed,” said the little girl, kicking up her heels a few times to emphasize the point.

“And poor Locke most certainly is not ugly, my darling; what he bears is clearly the mark of Shades’ Hill. A month in Chains’ keeping and he’ll be as round and fit as a catapult stone.”

“Hmmph.” The girl continued to stare down at him for a few seconds, then suddenly looked up at her father, absently toying with one of his braided beards while she did so. “Are you making him a pezon, Father?”

“Chains and I did have that in mind, sweetling, yes.”

“Hmmph. Then I want another brandy while you’re doing the ceremony.”

Capa Barsavi’s eyes narrowed; seams deepened by habitual suspicion drew in around his flinty gray stare. “You’ve already had your two brandies for the night, darling; your mother will murder me if I let you have another. Ask one of the men to get you a beer.”

“But I prefer—”

“What you prefer, little tyrant, has nothing to do with what I am telling you. For the rest of the night, you can drink beer or air; the choice is entirely yours.”

“Hmmph. I’ll have beer, then.” Barsavi reached out to lift her down, but she hopped off his lap just ahead of his thick-fingered, heavily calloused hands. Her heels went clack-clack-clack on the hardwood floor of the alcove as she ran to some minion to give her order.

“And if just one more of my men gets kicked in the shin, darling, you’re going to wear reed sandals for a month, I promise,” Barsavi shouted after her, then took another drag of tobacco and turned back to Locke and Chains. “She’s a keg of fire-oil, that one. Last week she refused to sleep at all unless we let her keep a little garrote under her pillows. ‘Just like Daddy’s bodyguards,’ she said. I don’t think her brothers yet realize that the next Capa Barsavi might wear summer dresses and bonnets.”

“I can see why you might have been amused by the Thiefmaker’s stories about our boy here,” Chains said, clasping both of Locke’s shoulders as he spoke.

“Of course. I have become very hard to shock since my children grew above the tops of my knees. But you’re not here to discuss them—you’ve brought me this little man so he can take his first and last oath as a pezon. A few years early, it seems. Come here, Locke.”

Capa Barsavi reached out with his right hand and turned Locke’s head slightly upward by the chin, staring down into Locke’s eyes as he spoke. “How old are you, Locke Lamora? Six? Seven? Already responsible for a breach of the Peace, a burnt-down tavern, and six or seven deaths.” The Capa smirked. “I have assassins five times your age who should be so bold. Has Chains told you the way it is, with my city and my laws?”

Locke nodded.

“You know that once you take this oath I can’t go easy on you, ever again. You’ve had your time to be reckless. If Chains needs to put you down, he will. If I tell him to put you down, he will.”

Again, Locke nodded. Nazca returned to her father’s side, sipping from a tarred leather ale-jack; she stared at Locke over the rim of this drinking vessel, which she had to clutch in both hands.

Capa Barsavi snapped his fingers; one of the toadies in the background vanished through a curtain. “Then I’m not going to bore you with any more threats, Locke. This night, you’re a man. You will do a man’s work and suffer a man’s fate if you cross your brothers and sisters. You will be one of us, one of the Right People; you’ll receive the words and the signs, and you’ll use them discreetly. As Chains, your garrista, is sworn to me, so you are sworn to me, through him. I am your garrista above all garristas. I am the only duke of Camorr you will ever acknowledge. Bend your knee.”

Locke knelt before Barsavi; the Capa held out his left hand, palm down. He wore an ornate ring of black pearl in a white iron setting; nestled inside the pearl by some arcane process was a speck of red that had to be blood.

“Kiss the ring of the Capa of Camorr.”

Locke did so; the pearl was cool beneath his dry lips.

“Speak the name of the man to whom you have sworn your oath.”

“Capa Barsavi,” Locke whispered. At that moment, the capa’s underling returned to the alcove and handed his master a small crystal tumbler filled with dull brown liquid.

“Now,” said Barsavi, “as has every one of my pezon, you will drink my toast.” From one of the pockets of his waistcoat the capa drew a shark’s tooth, one slightly larger than the death-mark Locke wore around his neck. Barsavi dropped the tooth into the tumbler and swirled it around a few times. He then handed the tumbler to Locke. “It’s dark-sugar rum from the Sea of Brass. Drink the entire thing, including the tooth. But don’t swallow the tooth, whatever you do. Keep it in your mouth. Draw it out after all the liquor is gone. And try not to cut yourself.”

Locke’s nose smarted from the stinging aroma of hard liquor that wafted from the tumbler, and his stomach lurched, but he ground his jaws together and stared down at the slightly distorted shape of the tooth within the rum. Silently praying to his new Benefactor to save him from embarrassment, he dashed the contents of the glass into his mouth, tooth and all.

Swallowing was not as easy as he’d hoped—he held the tooth against the roof of his mouth with his tongue, gingerly, feeling its sharp points scrape against the back of his upper front teeth. The liquor burned; he began to swallow in small gulps that soon turned into wheezing coughs. After a few interminable seconds, he shuddered and sucked down the last of the rum, relieved that he had held the tooth carefully in place—

It twisted in his mouth. Twisted, physically, as though wrenched by an unseen hand, and scored a burning slash across the inside of his left cheek. Locke cried out, coughed, and spat up the tooth—it lay there in his open palm, flecked with spit and blood.

“Ahhhhh,” said Capa Barsavi as he plucked the tooth up and slipped it back into his waistcoat, blood and all. “So you see—you are bound by an oath of blood to my service. My tooth has tasted of your life, and your life is mine. So let us not be strangers, Locke Lamora. Let us be capa and pezon, as the Crooked Warden intended.”

At a gesture from Barsavi Locke stumbled to his feet, already inwardly cursing the now-familiar sensation of liquor rapidly going to his head. His stomach was empty from the day’s hangover; the room was already swaying a bit around him. When he set eyes on Nazca once again, he saw that she was smiling at him above her ale-jack, with the air of smarmy tolerance the older children in Shades’ Hill had once shown to him and his compatriots in Streets.

Before he knew what he was doing, Locke bent his knee to her as well.

“If you’re the next Capa Barsavi,” he said rapidly, “I should swear to serve you, too. I do. Madam. Madam Nazca. I mean … Madam Barsavi.”

The girl took a step back. “I already have servants, boy. I have assassins. My father has a hundred gangs and two thousand knives!”

“Nazca Belonna Jenavais Angeliza de Barsavi!” her father thundered. “Now it seems you only grasp the value of strong men as servants. In time, you will come to see the value of gracious ones as well. You shame me.”

Nonplussed, the girl glanced back and forth between Locke and her father several times. Her cheeks slowly turned red. After a few more moments of pouting consideration, she stiffly held out her ale-jack to Locke.

“You may have some of my beer.”

Locke responded as though this were the deepest honor ever conferred upon him, realizing (though hardly in so many words) all the while that the liquor was somehow running a sort of rump parliament in his brain that had overruled his usual cautious social interactions—especially with girls. Her beer was bitter dark stuff, slightly salted—she drank like a Verrari. Locke took two sips to be polite, then handed it back to her, bowing in a rather noodle-necked fashion as he did so. She was too flustered to say anything in return, so she merely nodded.

“Ha! Excellent!” Capa Barsavi chomped on his slender cigar in mirth. “Your first pezon! Of course, both of your brothers are going to want some just as soon as they hear about this.”

5

THE TRIP home was a muggy, misty blur to Locke; he clung to the neck of his Gentled goat while Chains led them back north toward the Temple District, frequently cackling to himself.

“Oh, my boy,” he muttered. “My dear, dear charming sot of a boy. It was all bullshit, you realize.”

“What?”

“The shark’s tooth. Capa Barsavi had a Bondsmage enchant that thing for him in Karthain years ago. Nobody can swallow it without cutting themselves. He’s been carrying it around ever since; all those years he spent studying Throne Therin theater have given him a substantial fetish for the dramatic.”

“So it wasn’t … like, fate, or the gods, or anything like that?”

“It was just a shark’s tooth with a tiny bit of sorcery. A good trick, I have to admit.” Chains rubbed his own cheek in sympathy and remembrance. “No, Locke, you don’t belong to Barsavi. He’s good enough for what he is—a powerful ally to have on your side, and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn’t own you. In the end, neither do I.”

“So I don’t have to …”

“Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less,” Chains confided through a feral grin, “than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo’s precious Secret Peace.”

II

COMPLICATION

“I can add colours to the chameleon,

Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

And set the murderous Machiavel to school.”

King Henry VI, Part III

CHAPTER FOUR

AT THE COURT OF CAPA BARSAVI

1

“NINETEEN THOUSAND,” SAID Bug, “nine hundred and twenty. That’s all of it. Can I please kill myself now?”

“What? I’d have thought you’d be enthusiastic about helping us tally the loot, Bug.” Jean sat cross-legged in the middle of the dining area in the glass cellar beneath the House of Perelandro; the table and chairs had been moved away to make room for a vast quantity of gold coins, stacked into little glittering mounds that circled Jean and Bug, nearly walling them in completely.

“You didn’t tell me you’d be hauling it home in tyrins.”

“Well, white iron is dear. Nobody’s going to hand out five thousand crowns in it, and nobody’s going to be dumb enough to carry it around like that. Meraggio’s makes all of its big payouts in tyrins.”

There was a rattling noise from the entrance passage to the cellar; then Locke appeared around the corner, dressed as Lukas Fehrwight. He whipped his false optics off, loosened his cravats, and shrugged out of his wool coat, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor. His face was flushed, and he was waving a piece of folded parchment affixed with a blue wax seal.

“Seventy-five hundred more, my boys! I told him we’d found four likely galleons, but that we were already having cash flow problems—bribes to be paid, crews to be called back and sobered up, officers to be placated, other cargo-shippers to be chased off … And he just handed it right over, smiling all the while. Gods. I should’ve thought this scam up five years ago. We don’t even have to bother setting up fake ships and paperwork and so forth, because Salvara knows the Fehrwight part of the game is a lie. There’s nothing for us to do except relax and count the money.”

“If it’s so relaxing, why don’t you count it, then?” Bug jumped to his feet and leaned backward until his back and his neck made a series of little popping noises.

“I’d be happy to, Bug.” Locke took a bottle of red wine out of a wooden cupboard and poured himself half a glass, then watered it from a brass pitcher of lukewarm rainwater until it was a soft pink. “And tomorrow you can play Lukas Fehrwight. I’m sure Don Salvara would never notice any difference. Is it all here?”

“Five thousand crowns delivered as twenty thousand tyrins,” said Jean, “less eighty for clerking fees and guards and a rented dray to haul it from Meraggio’s.”

The Gentlemen Bastards used a simple substitution scheme for hauling large quantities of valuables to their hideout at the House of Perelandro. At a series of quick stops, strongboxes of coins would vanish from one wagon and barrels marked as common food or drink would roll off on another. Even a decrepit little temple needed a steady infusion of basic supplies.

“Well,” said Locke, “let me get rid of poor Master Fehrwight’s clothes and I’ll give you a hand dumping it all in the vault.”

There were actually three vaults tucked away at the rear of the cellar, behind the sleeping quarters. Two of them were wide Elderglass-coated shafts that went down about ten feet; their original purpose was unknown. With simple wooden doors mounted on hinges set atop them, they resembled nothing so much as miniature grain-storage towers sunk into the earth and filled to a substantial depth with coins of every sort.

Silver and gold in large quantities went into the vaults; narrow wooden shelves around the periphery of the vault room held small bags or piles of more readily useful currency. There were cheap purses of copper barons, fine leather wallets with tight rolls of silver solons, and small bowls of clipped half-copper bits, all of them set out for the rapid taking for any scam or need one of the gang might face. There were even little stacks of foreign coinage; marks from the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows, solari from Tal Verrar, and so forth.

Even back in the days of Father Chains there had been no locks on these vaults or on the room that held them. This was not merely because the Gentlemen Bastards trusted one another (and they did), nor because the existence of their luxurious cellar was a closely guarded secret (and it certainly was). The primary reason was one of practicality—not one of them, Calo or Galdo or Locke or Jean or Bug, had anything they could conceivably do with their steadily growing pile of precious metal.

Outside of Capa Barsavi, they had to be the wealthiest thieves in Camorr; the little parchment ledger set aside on one of the shelves would list more than forty-three thousand full crowns when Don Salvara’s second note was turned into cold coin. They were as wealthy as the man they were currently robbing, and far wealthier than many of his peers.

Yet so far as anyone knew, the Gentlemen Bastards were an unassuming gang of ordinary sneak thieves; competent and discreet enough, steady earners, but hardly shooting stars. They could live comfortably for ten crowns apiece each year, and to spend much more than that would invite the most unwelcome scrutiny imaginable, from every authority in Camorr, legal or otherwise.

In four years, they’d brought off three huge scores and were currently working on their fourth; for four years, the vast majority of the money had simply been counted and thrown down into the darkness of the vaults.

The truth was, Chains had trained them superbly for the task of relieving Camorr’s nobility of the burden of some of its accumulated wealth, but had perhaps neglected to discuss the possible uses of the sums involved. Other than financing further theft, the Gentlemen Bastards really had no idea what they were eventually going to do with it all.

Their tithe to Capa Barsavi averaged about a crown a week.

2

“REJOICE!” CRIED Calo as he appeared in the kitchen, just as Locke and Jean were moving the dining table back to its customary position. “The Sanza brothers are returned!”

“I do wonder,” said Jean, “if that particular combination of words has ever been uttered by anyone, before now.”

“Only in the chambers of unattached young ladies across the city,” said Galdo as he set a small burlap sack down on the table. Locke shook it open and perused the contents—a few lockets set with semiprecious stones, a set of moderately well-crafted silver forks and knives, and an assortment of rings ranging from cheap engraved copper to one made of threaded gold and platinum, set with flecks of obsidian and diamond.

“Oh, very nice,” said Locke. “Very likely. Jean, would you pick out a few more bits from the Bullshit Box, and get me … twenty solons, right?”

“Twenty’s good and proper.”

While Locke gestured for Calo and Galdo to help him set chairs back in place around the dining table, Jean walked back to the vault room, where there was a tall, narrow wooden chest tucked against the left-hand wall. He threw back the lid on its creaky hinges and began rummaging inside, a thoughtful expression on his face.

The Bullshit Box was filled to a depth of about two feet with a glittering pile of jewelry, knickknacks, household items, and decorative gewgaws. There were crystal statues, mirrors in carved ivory frames, necklaces and rings, candleholders in five kinds of precious metal. There were even a few bottles of drugs and alchemical draughts, wrapped in felt to cushion them and marked with little paper labels.

Since the Gentlemen Bastards could hardly tell the Capa about the true nature of their operations, and since they had neither the time nor the inclination to actually break into houses and clamber down chimneys, the Bullshit Box was one of the pillars of their ongoing deception. They topped it off once or twice a year, going on buying sprees in the pawnshops and markets of Talisham or Ashmere, where they could get whatever they needed openly. They supplemented it only slightly and carefully with goods picked up in Camorr, usually things stolen on a whim by the Sanzas or secured by Bug as part of his continuing education.

Jean selected a pair of silver wine goblets, a pair of gold-framed optics inside a fine leather case, and one of the little wrapped bottles. Clutching all of this carefully in one hand, he then counted twenty small silver coins off a shelf, kicked the Bullshit Box shut, and hurried back out to the dining room. Bug had rejoined the group and was ostentatiously walking a solon across the knuckles of his right hand; he’d mastered the trick only weeks previously, after long months of watching the Sanzas, who could each do both hands at once, reversing directions in perfect unison.

“Let us say,” said Jean, “that we have had a somewhat slothful week. Nobody expects much from second-story men when the nights are wet like this anyway; we might look out of place if we haul in too much. Surely His Honor will understand.”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Quite a reasonable thought.” He reached out and took the felt-wrapped bottle for close examination; his handwritten label identified it as sugared milk of opium, a rich ladies’ vice made from dried Jeremite poppies. He removed the label and the felt, then tucked the faceted glass bottle with its brass stopper into the burlap sack. The rest of the loot followed.

“Right! Now, is there any speck of Lukas Fehrwight still clinging to me? Any makeup or mummery?” He stuck out his arms and twirled several times; Jean and the Sanzas assured him that he was entirely Locke Lamora for the moment.

“Well, then, if we’re all our proper selves, let’s go pay our taxes.” Locke lifted the sack of “stolen” items and tossed it casually to Bug; the boy yelped, dropped his coin, and caught the sack with a muffled clatter of shaken metal.

“Good for my moral education, I suppose?”

“No,” said Locke, “this time I really am just being a lazy old bastard. At least you won’t have to work the barge-pole.”

3

IT WAS the third hour of the afternoon when they set out from the Temple of Perelandro, via their assorted escape tunnels and side entrances. A warm drizzle was falling from the sky, which was neatly divided as though by some ruler and stylus of the gods—low dark clouds filled the north, while the sun was just starting downward in the bright, clear southwest. The pleasant scent of fresh rain on hot stone welled up everywhere, briefly washing the usual city miasmas from the air. The Gentlemen Bastards gathered once again at the southwestern docks of the Temple District, where they hailed a gondola-for-hire.

The boat was long and shallow and heavily weathered, with a freshly killed rat lashed to the bow spar just beneath a small wooden idol of Iono; this was allegedly a peerless ward against capsizing and other misfortunes. The poleman perched at the stern like a parrot in his red-and-orange striped cotton jacket, protected from the rain by a broad-brimmed straw hat that drooped out past his skinny shoulders. He turned out to be a canal-jumper and purse-cutter of their acquaintance, Nervous Vitale Vento of the Gray Faces gang.

Vitale rigged a mildewy leather umbrella to keep some of the drizzle off his passengers, and then began to pole them smoothly east between the high stone banks of the Temple District and the overgrown lushness of the Mara Camorrazza. The Mara had once been a garden maze for a rich governor of the Therin Throne era; now it was largely abandoned by the city watch and haunted by cutpurses. The only reason honest folk even ventured into its dangerous green passages was that it was the heart of a network of footbridges connecting eight other islands.

Jean settled in to read from a very small volume of verse he’d tucked into his belt, while Bug continued practicing his coin manipulation, albeit with a copper-piece that would look much less incongruous in public. Locke and the Sanza brothers talked shop with Vitale, whose job, in part, was to mark particularly lightly guarded or heavily loaded cargo barges for the attention of his fellows. On several occasions, he made hand signals to concealed watchers on shore while the Gentlemen Bastards politely pretended not to notice.

They drew close to Shades’ Hill; even by day those heights were steeped in gloom. By chance the rain stiffened and the old kingdom of tombs grew blurred behind a haze of mist. Vitale swung the boat to the right. Soon he was pushing them southward between Shades’ Hill and the Narrows, aided by the current of the seaward-flowing canal, now alive with the spreading ripples of raindrops.

Traffic grew steadily thinner and less reputable on the canal as they sped south; they were passing from the open rule of the duke of Camorr to the private dominion of Capa Barsavi. On the left, the forges of the Coalsmoke district were sending up columns of blackness, mushrooming and thinning out beneath the press of the rain. The Duke’s Wind would push it all down over Ashfall, the most ill-looking island in the city, where gangs and squatters contended for space in the moldering, smoke-darkened villas of an opulent age now centuries past.

A northbound barge moved past on their left, wafting forth the stench of old shit and new death. What looked to be an entire team of dead horses was lying in the barge, attended by half a dozen knackers. Some were slicing at the corpses with arm-length serrated blades while others were frantically unrolling and adjusting bloodstained tarps beneath the rain.

No Camorri could have asked for a more appropriate match for the sight and stink of the Cauldron. If the Dregs were poverty-racked, the Snare disreputable, the Mara Camorrazza openly dangerous, and Ashfall dirty and falling apart, the Cauldron was all of these things with a compound interest of human desperation. It smelled something like a keg of bad beer overturned in a mortician’s storage room on a hot summer day. Most of this district’s dead never made it as far as the pauper’s holes dug by convicts on the hills of the Beggar’s Barrow. They were tipped into canals or simply burned. No yellowjackets had dared enter the Cauldron save in platoons even before the Secret Peace; no temples had been maintained here for fifty years or more. Barsavi’s least sophisticated and restrained gangs ruled the Cauldron’s blocks; brawlers’ taverns and Gaze dens and itinerant gambling circles were packed wall to wall with families crammed into ratholes.

It was commonly held that one in three of Camorr’s Right People were crammed into the Cauldron—a thousand wasters and cutthroats bickering endlessly and terrorizing their neighbors, accomplishing nothing and going nowhere. Locke had come out of Catchfire, Jean from the comfortable North Corner. Calo and Galdo had been Dregs boys prior to their stay in Shades’ Hill. Only Bug had come out of the Cauldron, and he had never once spoken of it, not in the four years he’d been a Gentleman Bastard.

He was staring at it now, at the sagging docks and layered tenements, at the clothes flapping on washlines, soaking up water. The streets were brown with the unhealthy haze of sodden cookfires. Its floodwalls were crumbling, its Elderglass mostly buried in grime and piles of stone. Bug’s coin had ceased to flow across his knuckles and stood still on the back of his left hand.

A few minutes later, Locke was privately relieved to slip past the heart of the Cauldron and reach the high, thin breakwater that marked the eastern edge of the Wooden Waste. Camorr’s maritime graveyard seemed positively cheerful by comparison once the boat had put the Cauldron to its stern.

A graveyard it was; a wide sheltered bay, larger than the Shifting Market, filled with the bobbing, undulating wrecks of hundreds of ships and boats. They floated hull-up and hull-down, anchored as well as drifting freely, some merely rotting while others were torn open from collisions or catapult stones. A layer of smaller wooden debris floated on the water between the wrecks like scum on cold soup, ebbing and resurging with the tide. When Falselight fell, this junk would sometimes ripple with the unseen passage of creatures drawn in from Camorr Bay, for while tall iron gates shuttered every major canal against intrusion, the Wooden Waste was open to the sea on its south side.

At the heart of the Waste floated a fat, dismasted hulk, sixty yards long and nearly half as wide, anchored firmly in place by chains leading down into the water; two at the bow and two at the stern. Camorr had never built anything so heavy and ungainly; that vessel was one of the more optimistic products of the arsenals of distant Tal Verrar, just as Chains had told Locke many years before. Wide silk awnings now covered its high, flat castle decks; beneath those canopies parties could be thrown that rivaled the pleasure pavilions of Jerem for their decadence. But at the moment the decks were clear of everything but the cloaked shapes of armed men, peering out through the rain—Locke could see at least a dozen of them, standing in groups of two or three with longbows and crossbows at hand.

There was human movement here and there throughout the Waste; some of the less damaged vessels housed families of squatters, and some of them were being openly used as observation points by more teams of hard-looking men. Vitale navigated through the twisting channels between larger wrecks, carefully making obvious hand gestures at the men on guard whenever the gondola passed them.

“Gray King got another one last night,” he muttered, straining against his pole. “Lots of twitchy boys with big murder-pieces keeping an eye on us right now, that’s for damn sure.”

“Another one?” Calo narrowed his eyes. “We hadn’t heard yet. Who got it?”

“Tall Tesso, from the Full Crowns. They found him up in Rustwater, nailed to the wall of an old shop, balls cut off. His blood ran out, is what it looked like.”

Locke and Jean exchanged a glance, and Nervous Vitale grunted.

“Acquainted, were you?”

“After a fashion,” said Locke, “and some time ago.”

Locke pondered. Tesso was—had been—garrista of the Full Crowns; one of Barsavi’s big earners, and a close friend of the capa’s younger son, Pachero. Nobody in Camorr should have been able to touch him (save only Barsavi and the Spider), yet that damned invisible lunatic calling himself the Gray King had touched him in no uncertain terms.

“That’s six,” said Jean, “isn’t it?”

“Seven,” said Locke. “There haven’t been this many dead gods-damned garristas since you and I were five years old.”

“Heh,” said Vitale, “and to think I once envied you, Lamora, even with this tiny little gang of yours.”

Locke glared at him, willing the puzzle to come together in his head and not quite succeeding. Seven gang leaders in two months; all of them given the distance, but otherwise having little in common. Locke had long taken comfort in his own lack of importance to the capa’s affairs, but now he began to wonder. Might he be on someone’s list? Did he have some unguessed value to Barsavi that the Gray King might want to end with a crossbow bolt? How many others were between him and that bolt?

“Damn,” said Jean, “as if things needed to get more complicated.”

“Maybe we should take care of … current business.” Galdo had shifted against the side of the gondola and was looking around as he spoke. “And then maybe we should get lost for a while. See Tal Verrar, or Talisham … or at least get you out, Locke.”

“Nonsense.” Locke spat over the side of the boat. “Sorry, Galdo. I know it seems like wisdom, but do the sums. The capa would never forgive our running out in his desperate hour. He’d rescind the distance and put us under the thumb of the most graceless pig-hearted motherfucker he could find. We can’t run as long as he stays. Hell, Nazca would break my knees with a mallet before anyone else did anything.”

“You have my sympathy, boys.” Vitale shifted his pole from hand to hand, using precise shoves to warp the gondola around a chunk of debris too large to ignore. “Canal work ain’t easy, but at least nobody wants me dead for more’n the usual reasons. Did you want me to leave you at the Grave or at the quay?”

“We need to see Harza,” said Locke.

“Oh, he’s sure to be in a rare mood today.” Vitale began poling hard for the northern edge of the Waste, where a few stone docks jutted out before a row of shops and rooming houses. “The quay it is, then.”

4

THE PAWNSHOP of No-Hope Harza was one of the major landmarks of the reign of Capa Barsavi. While there were many shops that paid slightly more and a great many with less surly proprietors, there were no others located a bare stone’s throw from the very seat of the capa’s power. Right People cashing in their creatively acquired loot with Harza could be sure that their presence would be reported to Barsavi. It never hurt to reinforce the impression that one was an active, responsible thief.

“Oh, of course,” said the old Vadran as Jean held the barred and armored door open for the other four Gentlemen Bastards. “Figures only the least important garristas would dare show their faces on a day like this. Come in, my ill-looking sons of Camorri bitches. Rub your oily Therin fingers on my lovely merchandise. Drip water on my beautiful floors.”

Harza’s shop was always closed up like a coffin, rain or shine. Dusty canvas sheets were drawn over the narrow, barred windows; and the place smelled of silver polish, mildew, stale incense, and old sweat. Harza himself was a snow-skinned old man with wide, watery eyes; every seam and wrinkle on his face seemed to be steadily sliding toward the ground, as though he’d been shaped by a slightly drunk god who’d pressed the mortal clay just a little too far down. No-Hope had earned his moniker with his firm policy against extending credit or loaning coin; Calo had once remarked that if he ever took an arrow in the skull he’d sit around and wait for it to fall out on its own before he’d pay a physiker for so much as a gauze scrap.

In the right-hand corner of the shop a burly, bored-looking young man with cheap brass on all of his fingers and greasy ringlets hanging in his eyes shifted his position on the tall wooden stool he occupied. An iron-studded club swung from a loop at his belt, and he nodded slowly at the visitors, unsmiling, as though they were too stupid to comprehend his function.

“Locke Lamora,” said Harza. “Perfume bottles and ladies’ smallclothes. Tableware and drinking goblets. Scraped and dented metal I can’t sell to anyone with any class ever again. You breakers and second-story boys think you’re so clever. You’d steal shit from a dog’s asshole if you had the right sort of bag to bring it home with you.”

“Funny you should say that, Harza, because this bag here”—Locke plucked the burlap sack from Bug’s hands and held it up—“happens to contain—”

“Something other than dogshit; I can hear it jingling. Give over and let’s see if you accidentally brought in anything worth buying.”

Harza’s nostrils flared as he opened the sack and slid it along a leather pad atop his shop counter, gently spilling the contents. The appraisal of stolen goods seemed to be the only form of sensual gratification left to the old man, and he dove into the task with enthusiasm, long crooked fingers wiggling.

“Crap.” He lifted the three lockets secured by Calo and Galdo. “Fucking alchemical paste and river agates. Not fit for goat feed. Two coppers apiece.”

“Harsh,” said Locke.

“Fair,” said Harza. “Yes or no?”

“Seven coppers for all three.”

“Two times three is six,” said Harza. “Say yes or go twist a shark’s balls, for all I care.”

“I suppose I’ll say yes, then.”

“Hmmm.” Harza perused the silver goblets Jean had selected from the Bullshit Box. “Dented, of course. You idiots never see a pretty silver thing you don’t want to stuff inside a scratchy fucking bag. I suppose I can polish them and send them upriver. One solon three coppers apiece.”

“One solon four per,” said Locke.

“Three solons one copper total.”

“Fine.”

“And this.” Harza picked up the bottle of opium milk, unscrewed the cap, sniffed, grunted to himself, and sealed the vial once again. “Worth more than your life, but I can’t hardly do much with it. Fussy bitches like to make their own or get an alchemist to do it for them; they never buy premixed from strangers. Maybe I can pass it off on some poor fucker that needs a vacation from grapes or Gaze. Three solons three barons.”

“Four solons two.”

“The gods wouldn’t get four and two from me. Morgante himself with a flaming sword and ten naked virgins yanking at my breeches might get four solons one. You get three and four and that’s final.”

“Fine. And only because we’re in a hurry.”

Harza was keeping a running total with a goose quill and a scrap of parchment; he ran his fingers over the small pile of cheap rings from Calo and Galdo and laughed. “You can’t be serious. This crap is as welcome as a pile of severed dog cocks.”

“Oh come on …”

“I could sell the dog cocks to the knackers, at least.” Harza flung the brass and copper rings at the Gentlemen Bastards one by one. “I’m serious. Don’t bring that crap around; I’ve got boxes on boxes of the fucking things I won’t sell this side of death.”

He came to the threaded gold and platinum ring with the diamond and obsidian chips. “Mmmm. This one signifies, at least. Five solons flat. Gold’s real, but the platinum’s cheap Verrari shit, genuine as a glass eye. And I crap bigger diamonds five or six times weekly.”

“Seven and three,” said Locke. “I went to pains to get that particular piece.”

“I have to pay extra because your ass and your brains switched places at birth? I think not; if that were the case I’d have heard about it before. Take your five and consider yourself lucky.”

“I can assure you, Harza, that nobody who comes to this shop considers himself particularly …”

And so it went—the apparently summary judgment, the two-way flow of abuse, the grudging assent from Locke, and the gnashing of the old man’s remaining teeth when he took each item and set it down behind the counter. In short order Harza was sweeping the last few things he had no interest in back into the burlap sack. “Well, sweetmeats, looks as though we’re quits at sixteen solons five. I suppose it beats driving a shit-wagon, doesn’t it?”

“Or running a pawnshop, yes,” said Locke.

“Very amusing!” cried the old man as he counted out sixteen tarnished silver coins and five smaller copper discs. “I give you the legendary lost treasure of Camorr. Grab your things and fuck off until next week. Assuming the Gray King doesn’t get you first.”

5

THE RAIN had faded back to a drizzle when they emerged from Harza’s shop, giggling to themselves. “Chains used to claim that there’s no freedom quite like the freedom of being constantly underestimated,” said Locke.

“Gods, yes.” Calo rolled his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “If we were any freer we’d float away into the sky and fly like the birds.”

From the northern edge of the Wooden Waste, a long, high wooden bridge, wide enough for two people, ran straight out to the capa’s water-bound fortress. There were four men on guard at the shore, standing around in the open with weapons clearly visible under their lightweight oilcloaks. Locke surmised there would be at least as many concealed nearby, within easy crossbow shot. He made the month’s proper hand signs as he approached with his gang behind him; everyone here knew each other, but the formalities were nonnegotiable, especially at a time like this.

“Hullo, Lamora.” The oldest man in the guard detail, a wiry old fellow with faded shark tattoos running up his neck and his cheeks all the way to his temples, reached out; they grasped left forearms. “Heard about Tesso?”

“Yeah, hullo yourself, Bernell. One of the Gray Faces told us on the way down. So it’s true? Nailed up, balls, the whole bit?”

“Balls, the whole bit. You can imagine how the boss feels about it. Speaking of which, Nazca left orders. Just this morning—next time you came by she wanted to see you. Said not to let you pay your taxes until she’d had a word. You are here for taxes, right?”

Locke shook a little gray purse; Jean’s twenty solons plus Harza’s sixteen and change. “Here to do our civic duty, indeed.”

“Good. Not passing many folks for any other reason. Look, I know you’ve got the distance and Nazca’s a friend and all, but maybe you want to take it real easy today, right? Lots of pezon around, obvious and not so obvious. Tight as it’s ever been. Capa’s making inquiries with some of the Full Crowns right now, as regards their whereabouts last night.”

“Inquiries?”

“In the grand old fashion. So mind your manners and don’t make any sudden moves, right?”

“Savvy,” said Locke. “Thanks for the warning.”

“No trouble. Crossbow bolts cost money. Shame to waste them on the likes of you.”

Bernell waved them through, and they strolled down the wooden walkway, which was about a hundred yards long. It led to the stern of the wide, motionless vessel, where the timbers of the outer hull had been cut away and replaced with a pair of iron-reinforced witchwood doors. Another pair of guards stood here, one male and one female, the dark circles under their eyes plainly evident. The woman knocked four times at their approach, and the doors swung inward just a few seconds later. Stifling a yawn, the female guard leaned back against the outer wall and pulled the hood of her oilcloak up over her head. The dark clouds were sweeping in from the north, and the heat of the sun was starting to fade.

The reception hall of the Floating Grave was nearly four times Locke’s height, as the cramped horizontal decks of the old galleon had been torn out long ago, save for the upper castle and waist decks, which now served as roofs. The floor and walls were coffee-colored hardwood; the bulkheads were hung with black and red tapestries on which shark’s-teeth border patterns were embroidered in gold and silver thread.

A half dozen bravos stood facing the Gentlemen Bastards, crossbows leveled. These men and women wore leather bracers and leather doublets over silk tunics reinforced with light metal bands; their necks were girded with stiff leather collars. A more genteel foyer would have been decorated with glow-lamps and flower arrangements; the walls of this one held wicker baskets of crossbow quarrels and racks of spare blades.

“Ease up,” said a young woman standing behind the gaggle of guards. “I know they’re suspicious as hell, but I don’t see a Gray King among ’em.”

She wore men’s breeches and a loose black silk blouse with billowing sleeves, under a ribbed leather dueling harness that looked to have seen more use than storage. Her iron-shod boots (a taste she had never lost) clicked against the floor as she stepped between the sentries. Her welcoming smile didn’t quite reach all the way to her eyes, which darted nervously behind the lenses of her plain, black-rimmed optics.

“My apologies for the reception, loves,” said Nazca Barsavi, addressing all the Bastards but placing a hand on Locke’s left shoulder. She was a full two inches taller than he was. “And I know it’s cramped in here, but I need the four of you to wait around. Garristas only. Papa’s in a mood.”

There was a muffled scream from behind the doors that led to the inner chambers of the Floating Grave, followed by the faint murmur of raised voices—shouts, cursing, another scream.

Nazca rubbed her temples, pushed back a few stray curls of her black hair, and sighed. “He’s making a vigorous case for … full disclosure from some of the Full Crowns. He’s got Sage Kindness in there with him.”

“Thirteen gods,” said Calo. “We’re happy to wait.”

“Indeed.” Galdo reached into his coat and pulled out a slightly soggy deck of playing cards. “We can certainly keep ourselves entertained out here. Indefinitely, if need be.”

At the sight of a Sanza brother offering cards, every guard in the room took a step back; some of them visibly struggled with the idea of raising their crossbows again.

“Oh, not you bastards, too,” said Galdo. “Look, those stories are all bullshit. Everyone else at that table was just having a very unlucky night.…”

Past the wide, heavy doors was a short passage, unguarded and empty. Nazca slid the foyer doors closed behind herself and Locke, then turned to him. She reached and slicked back his wet hair. The corners of her mouth were turned down. “Hello, pezon. I see you haven’t been eating.”

“I eat regular meals.”

“You should try eating for quantity as well as consistency. I believe I once mentioned that you looked like a skeleton.”

“And I believe I’d never before seen a seven-year-old girl pushy drunk in public.”

“Well. Perhaps I was pushy drunk then, but today I’m just pushy. Papa’s in a bad way, Locke. I wanted to see you before you saw him—he has some … things he wishes to discuss with you. I want you to know that whatever he asks, I don’t want you to … for my sake … well, please just agree. Please him, do you understand?”

“No garrista who loves life has ever tried to do otherwise. You think I’m inclined to walk in on a day like today and deliberately twist his breeches? If your father says ‘bark like a dog,’ I say ‘What breed, Your Honor?’ ”

“I know. Forgive me. But my point is this. He’s not himself. He’s afraid now, Locke. Absolutely, genuinely afraid. He was morose when Mother died, but damn, now he’s … he’s crying out in his sleep. Taking wine and laudanum every day to keep his temper in check. Used to be I was the only one not allowed to leave the Grave, but now he wants Anjais and Pachero to stay here, too. Fifty guards on duty at all times. The duke’s life is more carefree. Papa and my brothers were up shouting about it all night.”

“Well, ah … look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you with that. But just what is it you think he’s going to ask me?”

Nazca stared at him, mouth half-open as though she were preparing to speak; then she seemed to think better of it, and her lips compressed back into a frown.

“Dammit, Nazca, I’d jump in the bay and try to blackjack a shark if you wanted, really, but you’d have to tell me how big it was and how hungry it was first. Savvy?”

“Yes, look, I just … it’ll be less awkward if he does it himself. Just remember what I said. Hear him. Please him, and you and I can sort things out later. If we get a later.”

“What do you mean, ‘If we get a later’? Nazca, you’re worrying me.”

“This is it, Locke. This is the bad one. The Gray King is finally getting to Papa. Tesso had sixty knives, any ten of which were with him all the time. Tesso was deep into Papa’s good graces; there were big plans for him in the near future. But Papa’s had things his way for so long I … I can’t rightly say if he knows what to do about this. So he just wants to fold everything up and hide us here. Siege mentality.”

“Hmmmm.” Locke sighed. “I can’t say that what he’s done so far is imprudent, Nazca. He’s—”

“Papa’s mad if he thinks he can just keep us all here, locked up in this fortress forever! He used to be at the Last Mistake half the nights of the week. He used to walk the docks, walk the Mara, walk the Narrows any time he pleased. He used to throw out coppers at the Procession of the Shades. The duke of Camorr can lock himself in his privy and rule legitimately; the capa of Camorr cannot. He needs to be seen.”

“And risk assassination by the Gray King?”

“Locke, I’ve been stuck inside this fucking wooden tub for two months, and I tell you—we’re no safer here than we would be bathing naked at the dirtiest fountain in the darkest courtyard in the Cauldron.” Nazca had folded her arms beneath her breasts so tightly that her leather cuirass creaked. “Who is this Gray King? Where is he? Who are his men? We don’t have a single idea—and yet this man reaches out and kills our people at leisure, however he sees fit. Something is wrong. He has resources we don’t understand.”

“He’s clever and he’s lucky. Neither of those things lasts forever; trust me.”

“Not just clever and lucky, Locke. I agree there are limits to both. So what does he have up his sleeves? What does he know? Or who? If we are not betrayed, then it must be that we are overmatched. And I am reasonably certain that we are not yet betrayed.”

“Not yet?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Locke. Business could go on after a fashion with Papa and myself cooped up here. But if he won’t let Anjais and Pachero out to run the city, the whole regime will go to hell. The garristas might think it prudent for some of the Barsavis to stay here; they’ll think it cowardice for all of us to hide. And they won’t just talk behind our backs; they’ll actively court another capa. Maybe a pack of new capas. Or maybe the Gray King.”

“So, naturally, your brothers will never let him trap them here.”

“Depends on how mad and crazy the old man gets. But even if they stay free to roam, that’s only the lesser part of the problem solved. We are, again, overmatched. Three thousand knives at our command, and the ghost still has the twist on us.”

“What do you suspect? Sorcery?”

“I suspect everything. They say the Gray King can kill a man with just a touch. They say that blades won’t cut him. I suspect the gods themselves. And so my brothers think I’m crazy.

“When they look at the situation all they see is a regular war. They think we can just outlast it, lock the old man and the baby sister up and wait until we know where to hit back. But I don’t see that. I see a cat with his paw over a mouse’s tail. And if the cat’s claws haven’t come out yet, it’s not because of anything the mouse has done. Don’t you get it?”

“Nazca, I know you’re agitated. I’ll listen. I’m a stone. You can yell at me all you like. But what can I do for you? I’m just a thief, I’m your father’s littlest thief. If there’s a gang smaller than mine I’ll go play cards in a wolf shark’s mouth. I—”

“I need you to start helping me calm Papa down, Locke. I need him back to something resembling his normal self so I can get him to take my points seriously. That’s why I’m asking you to go in there and take pains to please him. Especially please him. Show him a loyal garrista who does whatever he’s told, the moment he’s told. When he starts to lay reasonable plans for the future again, I’ll know he’s coming back to a state of mind I can deal with.”

“Interesting,” said Locke. “And, uh, daunting.”

“Papa used to say someday I’d appreciate having a gracious man to order around. Believe me, Locke, I do. So … here we are.”

At the end of the short passage was another set of heavy wooden doors, nearly identical to the ones that led back to the reception hall. These doors, however, were barred and locked with an elaborate Verrari clockwork device attached to crossbars of polished iron. A dozen keyholes were visible in the lockbox at the center of the doors; Nazca withdrew two keys that hung on a chain around her neck and briefly put her body between Locke and the doors, so he couldn’t see the apertures she chose. There was a cascading series of clicks and the noise of machinery within the doors; one by one the hidden bolts unshot themselves and the gleaming crossbars slid open until the doors finally cracked open in the middle.

Another scream, loud and vivid without the closed door to muffle it, sounded from the room beyond.

“It’s worse than it sounds,” said Nazca.

“I know what Sage does for your father, Nazca.”

“Knowing’s one thing. Usually Sage just does one or two at a time. Papa’s got the bastard working wholesale today.”

6

“I’VE MADE it clear that I don’t enjoy this,” said Capa Barsavi, “so why do you force me to persist?”

The dark-haired young man was secured to a wooden rack. He hung upside down with metal shackles around his legs, with his arms tied downward at their maximum extension. The Capa’s heavy fist slammed into the prisoner’s side just beneath his armpit; the sound was like a hammer slapping meat. Droplets of sweat flew and the prisoner screamed, writhing against his restraints.

“Why do you insult me like this, Federico?”Another punch to the same spot, with the heavy old man’s first two knuckles cruelly extended. “Why won’t you even have the courtesy to give me a convincing lie?” Capa Barsavi lashed Federico’s throat with the flat of one hand; the prisoner gasped for breath, snorting wetly as blood and spit and sweat ran down into his nose.

The heart of the Floating Grave was something like an opulent ballroom with curving sides. Warm amber light came from glass globes suspended on silver chains. Stairs ran to overhead galleries, and from these galleries to the silk-canopied deck of the old hulk. A small raised platform against the far wall held the broad wooden chair from which Barsavi usually received visitors. The room was tastefully decorated in a restrained and regal fashion, and today it stank of fear and sweat and soiled breeches.

The frame that held Federico folded downward from the ceiling; an entire semicircle of the things could be pulled down at need, for Barsavi occasionally did this sort of business in a volume that rewarded the standardization of procedures. Six were now empty and spattered with blood; only two still held prisoners.

The capa looked up as Locke and Nazca entered; he nodded slightly and gestured for them to wait against the wall. Old Barsavi remained bullish, but he wore his years in plain view. He was rounder and softer now, his three braided gray beards backed by three wobbly chins. Dark circles cupped his eyes, and his cheeks were the unhealthy sort of red that came out of a bottle. Flushed with exertion, he had thrown off his overcoat and was working in his silk undertunic.

Standing nearby with folded arms were Anjais and Pachero Barsavi, Nazca’s older brothers. Anjais was like a miniature version of the Capa, minus thirty years and two beards, while Pachero was more of a kind with Nazca, tall and slender and curly-haired. Both of the brothers wore optics, for whatever eye trouble the old Madam Barsavi had borne had been passed to all three of her surviving children.

Leaning against the far wall were two women. They were not slender. Their bare, tanned arms were corded with muscle and crisscrossed with scars, and while they radiated an air of almost feral good health they were well past the girlishness of early youth. Cheryn and Raiza Berangias, identical twins, and the greatest contrarequialla the city of Camorr had ever known. Performing only as a pair, they had given the Shifting Revel almost a hundred performances against sharks, devilfish, death-lanterns, and other predators of the Iron Sea.

For nearly five years, they had been Capa Barsavi’s personal bodyguards and executioners. Their long, wild manes of smoke-black hair were tied back under nets of silver that jangled with sharks’ teeth. One tooth, it was said, for every man or woman the Berangias twins had killed in Barsavi’s service.

Last but certainly not least alarming in this exclusive gathering was Sage Kindness, a round-headed man of moderate height and middle years. His short-cropped hair was the butter yellow of certain Therin families from the westerly cities of Karthain and Lashain; his eyes always seemed to be wet with emotion, though his expression never changed. He was perhaps the most even-tempered man in Camorr—he could pull fingernails with the mellow disinterest of a man polishing boots. Capa Barsavi was a very capable torturer, but when he found himself stymied the Sage never disappointed him.

“He doesn’t know anything!” The last prisoner, as yet untouched, hollered at the top of his voice as Barsavi slapped Federico around some more. “Capa, Your Honor, please, none of us know anything! Gods! None of us remember!”

Barsavi stalked across the wooden floor and shut the second prisoner up by giving his windpipe a long, cruel squeeze. “Were the questions addressed to you? Are you eager to get involved in the proceedings? You were quiet enough when I sent your other six friends down into the water. Why do you cry for this one?”

“Please,” the man sobbed, sucking in air as Barsavi lightened his grip just enough to permit speech, “please, there’s no point. You must believe us, Capa Barsavi, please. We’d have told you anything you wanted if only we knew. We don’t remember! We just don’t—”

The Capa silenced him with a vicious cuff across the face. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the frightened sobbing and gasping of the two prisoners.

“I must believe you? I must do nothing, Julien. You give me bullshit, and tell me it’s steamed beef? So many of you, and you can’t even come up with a decent story. A serious attempt to lie would still piss me off, but I could understand it. Instead you cry that you don’t remember. You, the eight most powerful men in the Full Crowns, after Tesso himself. His chosen. His friends, his bodyguards, his loyal pezon. And you cry like babies to me about how you don’t remember where any of you were last night, when Tesso just happened to die.”

“But that’s just how it is, Capa Barsavi, please, it’s—”

“I ask you again, were you drinking last night?”

“No, not at all!”

“Were you smoking anything? All of you, together?”

“No, nothing like that. Certainly not … not together.”

“Gaze, then? A little something from Jerem’s pervert alchemists? A little bliss from a powder?”

“Tesso never permitted—”

“Well then.” Barsavi drove a fist into Julien’s solar plexus, almost casually. While the man gasped in pain, Barsavi turned away and held up his arms with theatrical joviality. “Since we’ve eliminated every possible earthly explanation for such dereliction of duty, short of sorcery or divine intervention … Oh, forgive me. You weren’t enchanted by the gods themselves, were you? They’re hard to miss.”

Julien writhed against his bonds, red-faced, shaking his head. “Please …”

“No gods, then. Didn’t think so. I was saying … well, I was saying that your little game is boring the hell out of me. Kindness.”

The round-headed man lowered his chin to his chest and stood with his palms out, facing upward, as though he were about to receive a gift.

“I want something creative. If Federico won’t talk, let’s give Julien one last chance to find his tongue.”

Federico began screaming before Barsavi had even finished speaking—the high, sobbing wail of the conscious damned. Locke found himself clenching his teeth to keep himself from shaking. So many meetings with slaughter as a backdrop … The gods could be perverse.

Sage Kindness moved to a small table to the side of the room, on which there was a pile of small glasses and a heavy cloth sack with a drawstring. Kindness threw several glasses into the sack and began banging it against the table; the sound of breaking, jangling glass wasn’t audible beneath Federico’s wild hollering, but Locke could imagine it easily enough. After a few moments, Kindness seemed satisfied, and walked slowly over to Federico.

“Don’t, don’t, no, don’t don’t please no no …”

With one hand holding the desperate young man’s head still, Kindness rapidly drew the bag up over the top of his head, over his face, all the way to Federico’s neck, where he cinched the drawstring tight. The bag muffled Federico’s screams, which had become high and wordless again. Kindness then began to knead the bag, gently at first, almost tenderly; the torturer’s long fingers pushed the jagged contents of the sack up and around Federico’s face. Red stains began to appear on the surface of the bag; Kindness manipulated the contents of the sack like a sculptor giving form to his clay. Federico’s throat mercifully gave out just then, and for the next few moments the man choked out nothing more than a few hoarse moans. Locke prayed silently that he had already fled beyond pain to the temporary refuge of madness.

Kindness increased the vigor with which he massaged the cloth. He pressed now where Federico’s eyes would be, and on the nose, and the mouth, and the chin. The bag grew wetter and redder until at last Federico’s twitching stopped altogether. When Kindness took his hands off the bag they looked as though he’d been pulping tomatoes. Smiling sadly, he let his red hands drip red trails on the wood, and he walked over to Julien, staring intently, saying nothing.

“Surely,” said Capa Barsavi, “if I’ve convinced you of anything by this point, it must be the depth of my resolve. Will you not speak?”

“Please, Capa Barsavi,” whispered Julien, “there’s no need for this. I have nothing I can tell you. Ask me anything, anything at all. What happened last night is a blank. I don’t remember. I would tell you, please, gods, please believe me, I would tell you anything. We are loyal pezon, the most loyal you have!”

“I sincerely hope not.” Barsavi seemed to come to a decision; he gestured to the Berangias sisters and pointed at Julien. The dark-haired ladies worked quickly and silently, undoing the knots that held him to the wooden frame while leaving the ones that bound him from ankles to neck. They cradled the shivering man effortlessly, one at his shoulders and one at his feet.

“Loyal? Please. We are grown men, Julien. Refusing to tell me the truth of what happened last night is not a loyal act. You’ve let me down, so I give like for like.” On the far left side of the great hall a man-sized wooden floor panel had been slid aside; barely a yard down was the dark surface of the water beneath the Grave. The floor around the opening was wet with blood. “I shall let you down.”

Julien screamed one last time as the Berangias sisters heaved him into the opening, headfirst; he hit the water with a splash and didn’t come back up. It was the capa’s habit to keep something nasty down beneath the Grave at all times, constrained there by heavy nets of wire-reinforced rope that surrounded the underside of the galleon like a sieve.

“Kindness, you are dismissed. Boys, when I call you back you can get some people in here to clean up, but for now go wait on deck. Raiza, Cheryn—please go with them.”

Moving slowly, Capa Barsavi walked to his plain, comfortable old chair and settled into it. He was breathing heavily and quivering all the more for his effort not to show it. A brass wine goblet with the capacity of a large soup tureen was set out on the little table beside his chair; the capa took a deep draught and seemed to brood over the fumes for a few moments, his eyes closed. At last he came back to life and beckoned for Locke and Nazca to step forward.

“Well. My dear Master Lamora. How much money have you brought me this week?”

7

“THIRTY-SIX SOLONS, five coppers, Your Honor.”

“Mmm. A slender week’s work, it seems.”

“Yes, with all apologies, Capa Barsavi. The rain, well … sometimes it’s murder on those of us doing second-story work.”

“Mmmm.” Barsavi set the goblet down and folded his right hand inside his left, caressing the reddened knuckles. “You’ve brought me more, of course. Many times. Better weeks.”

“Ah … yes.”

“There are some that don’t, you know. They try to bring me the exact same amount, week after week after week, until I finally lose patience and correct them. Do you know what that sort of garrista must have, Locke?”

“Ah. A … very boring life?”

“Ha! Yes, exactly. How very stable of them to have the exact same income every single week, so they might give me the exact same percentage as a cut. As though I were an infant who would not notice. And then there are garristas such as yourself. I know you bring me the honest percentage, because you’re not afraid to walk in here and apologize for having less than last week.”

“I, ah, do hope I’m not considered shy about sharing when the balance tilts the other way.…”

“Not at all.” Barsavi smiled and settled back in his chair. Ominous splashing and muffled banging was coming from beneath the floor in the vicinity of the hatch that Julien had vanished down. “You are, if anything, the most reliably correct garrista in my service. Like Verrari clockwork. You deliver my cut yourself, promptly and without a summons. For four years, week in and week out. Unfailing, since Chains died. Never once did you suggest that anything took precedence over your personal appearance before me, with that bag in your hand.”

Capa Barsavi pointed at the small leather bag Locke held in his left hand, and gestured to Nazca. Her formal role in the Barsavi organization was to act as finnicker, or record-keeper. She could rattle off the running total of the payments made by any gang in the city, itemized week by week and year by year, without error. Locke knew she updated records on parchment for her father’s private use, but so far as the Capa’s subjects in general knew, every coin of his fabled treasure was catalogued solely behind her cold and lovely eyes. Locke tossed the leather purse to her, and she plucked it out of the air.

“Never,” said Capa Barsavi, “did you think to send a pezon to do a garrista’s job.”

“Well, ah, you’re most kind, Your Honor. But you made that very easy today, since only garristas are allowed past the door.”

“Don’t dissemble. You know of what I speak. Nazca, love, Locke and I must now be alone.”

Nazca gave her father a deep nod, and then gave a much quicker, shallower one to Locke. She turned and walked back toward the doors to the entrance hall, iron heels echoing on the wood.

“I have many garristas,” Barsavi said when she was gone, “tougher than yourself. Many more popular, many more charming, many with larger and more profitable gangs. But I have very few who are constantly at pains to be so courteous, so careful.”

Locke said nothing.

“My young man, while I take offense at many things, rest assured that courtesy is not one of them. Come, stand easy. I’m not fitting you for a noose.”

“Sorry, capa. It’s just … you’ve been known to begin expressing your displeasure in a very … ahhh …”

“Roundabout fashion?”

“Chains told me enough about scholars of the Therin Collegium,” said Locke, “to understand that their primary habit of speech is the, ah, booby trap.”

“Ha! Yes. When anyone tells you habits die hard, Locke, they’re lying—it seems they never die at all.” Barsavi chuckled and sipped from his wine before continuing. “These are … alarming times, Locke. This damn Gray King has finally begun to get under my skin. The loss of Tesso is particularly … Well, I had plans for him. Now I am forced to begin bringing other plans forward sooner than intended. Tell me, pezon … What do you think of Anjais and Pachero?”

“Uh. Ha. Well … my honest opinion, Your Honor?”

“Full and honest, pezon. By my command.”

“Ah. They’re very respected, very good at their jobs. Nobody jokes about them behind their backs. Jean says they really know how to handle themselves in a fight. The Sanzas are nervous about playing fair card games with them, which is saying something.”

“This I could hear from two dozen spies any time I wanted to. This I know. What is your personal opinion of my sons?”

Locke swallowed and looked Capa Barsavi straight in the eyes. “Well, they are worthy of respect. They are good at their jobs, and they must know their business in a fight. They’re fairly hard workers and they’re bright enough … but … Your Honor, begging your pardon, they tease Nazca when they should be heeding her warnings and taking her advice. She has the patience and the subtlety that … that …”

“Elude them?”

“You knew what I was going to say, didn’t you?”

“I said you were a careful and considerate garrista, Locke. Those are your distinguishing characteristics, though they imply many other qualities. Since the time of your prodigious early cock-ups, you have been the very picture of a careful thief, firmly in control of his own greed. You would be very sensitive to any opposing lack of caution in others. My sons have lived all their lives in a city that fears them because of their last name. They expect deference in an aristocratic fashion. They are incautious, a bit brazen. I need to make arrangements to ensure that they receive good counsel, in the months and years to come. I can’t live forever, even after I deal with the Gray King.”

The jovial certainty that filled Capa Barsavi’s voice when he said this made the hair on the back of Locke’s neck stand up. The capa was sitting in a fortress he hadn’t left in more than two months, drinking wine in air still rank with the blood of eight members of one of his most powerful and loyal gangs.

Was Locke speaking to a man with a far-ranging and subtle scheme? Or had Barsavi finally cracked, like window glass in a fire?

“I should very much like,” said the capa, “to have you in a position to give Anjais and Pachero the counsel they’ll require.”

“Ah … Your Honor, that’s extremely … flattering, but—I get along well enough with Anjais and Pachero, but I’m not exactly what you’d call a close friend. We play some cards every now and then, but … let’s be honest. I’m not a very important garrista.”

“As I said. Even with the Gray King at work in my city, I have many who are tougher than you, more daring than you, more popular. I don’t say this to strike a blow, because I’ve already discussed your own qualities. And it is those qualities they sorely need. Not toughness, daring, or charm, but cold and steady caution. Prudence. You are my most prudent garrista; you only think of yourself as the least important because you make the least noise. Tell me, now—what do you think of Nazca?”

“Nazca?” Locke was suddenly even warier than before. “She’s … brilliant, Your Honor. She can recite conversations we had ten years ago and get every word right, especially if it embarrasses me. You think I’m prudent? Compared to her I’m as reckless as a bear in an alchemist’s lab.”

“Yes,” said the capa. “Yes. She should be the next Capa Barsavi when I’m gone, but that won’t happen. It’s nothing to do with her being a woman, you know. Her older brothers would simply never stand to have their little sister lording it over them. And I should prefer not to have my children murdering one another for scraps of the legacy I intend to leave them, so I cannot push them aside in her favor.

“What I can do, and what I must do, is ensure that when the time comes, they will have a voice of sobriety in such a place that they cannot get rid of it. You and Nazca are old friends, yes? I remember the first time you met, so many years ago … when she used to sit on my knee and pretend to order my men around. In all the years since, you have always stopped to see her, always given her kind words? Always been her good pezon?”

“Ah … I certainly hope so, Your Honor.”

“I know you have.” Barsavi took a deep draught from his wine goblet, then set it back down firmly, a magnanimous smile on his round, wrinkled face. “And so I give you my permission to court my daughter.”

Let’s start wobbling, shall we? said Locke’s knees, but this offer was met by a counterproposal from his better judgment to simply freeze up and do nothing, like a man treading water who sees a tall black fin coming straight at him. “Oh,” he finally said, “I don’t … I didn’t expect …”

“Of course not,” said Barsavi. “But in this our purposes are complementary. I know you and Nazca have feelings for one another. A union between the two of you would bring you into the Barsavi family. You would become Anjais and Pachero’s responsibility … and they yours. Don’t you see? A brother-by-bonding would be much harder for them to ignore than even their most powerful garrista.” Barsavi set his left fist inside his right and smiled broadly once again, like a red-faced god dispensing benevolence from a celestial throne.

Locke took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it; the situation required absolute acquiescence, as surely as if the capa were holding a crossbow to his temple. Men died for refusing Barsavi far less; to refuse the capa’s own daughter would be a particularly messy sort of suicide. If Locke balked at the capa’s plan he wouldn’t live out the night.

“I … I’m honored, Capa Barsavi. So deeply honored. I hope not to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me? Certainly not. Now, I know that several of my other garristas have had their eyes on Nazca for some time. But if one of them was going to catch her eye, he’d have done it by now, eh? What a surprise, when they hear the news. They’ll never see this coming!”

And for a wedding present, thought Locke, the angry jealousy of an unknown number of jilted suitors!

“How, then … how and when should I begin, Your Honor?”

“Well,” said Barsavi, “why don’t I give you a few days to think it over? I’ll speak to her, in the interim. Of course, for the time being, she’s not to leave the Floating Grave. Once the Gray King is dealt with—well, I would expect you to begin courting her in a more colorful and public fashion.”

“You’re telling me,” Locke said, very carefully, “I should start stealing more, then.”

“Consider it my challenge to you, to go hand in hand with my blessing.” Barsavi smirked. “Let’s see if you can stay prudent while becoming more productive. I suspect you can—and I know that you wouldn’t want to disappoint me or my daughter.”

“Certainly not, Your Honor. I’ll … I’ll do my very best.”

Capa Barsavi beckoned Locke forward and held his left hand out, fingers outstretched, palm down. Locke knelt before Barsavi’s chair, took that hand with both of his own, and kissed the capa’s ring; that familiar black pearl with the bloodred heart. “Capa Barsavi,” he said with his eyes to the ground. The capa pulled him up again, by the shoulders.

“I give you my blessing, Locke Lamora. The blessing of an old man who worries for his children. I set you above many dangerous people by doing this for you. Surely, it has occurred to you that my sons will inherit a dangerous office. And if they’re not careful enough, or hard enough for the task … well, stranger things have happened. Someday this city could be ruled by Capa Lamora. Have you ever dreamed of this?”

“Truthfully,” whispered Locke, “I have never desired a capa’s power, because I would never want a capa’s problems.”

“Well, there’s that prudence again.” The capa smiled and gestured toward the far doors, giving Locke permission to withdraw. “A capa’s problems are very real. But you’ve helped me put one of them to rest.”

Locke walked back toward the entrance hall, thoughts racing. The capa sat on his chair behind him, staring at nothing, saying no more. The only sounds after that were Locke’s own footsteps and the steady drip of blood from the gore-soaked bag around Federico’s head.

8

“WELL, NAZCA, if I were a thousand years old and had already seen everything there is to see six times over, that still would have been about the last damn thing I’d have ever expected!”

She was waiting for him in the little hall beyond the foyer; once the clockwork mechanisms had sealed the door to the main hall behind them, she gave him a wry and apologetic look.

“But don’t you see that it would have been even stranger if I’d explained it beforehand?”

“The whole mess would be hard-pressed to get any gods-damned weirder. Look, please, don’t take any of this the wrong way. I—”

“I don’t take any of it the wrong way, Locke.…”

“You’re a good friend, and—”

“I feel the same way, and yet—”

“It’s hard to put this right.…”

“No, it isn’t. Look.” She grabbed him by the shoulders and bent down slightly to look right into his eyes. “You are a good friend, Locke. Probably the best I have. My loyal pezon. I am extremely fond of you, but not … as a possible husband. And I know that you—”

“I … ah …”

“Locke,” said Nazca, “I know that the only woman with the key to that peculiar heart of yours is a thousand miles away. And I know you’d rather be miserable over her than happy with anyone else.”

“Really?” Locke balled his fists. “Seems like it’s pretty common fucking knowledge. I bet the duke gets regular reports. Seems as though your father is the only person who doesn’t know.”

“Or doesn’t care.” Nazca raised her eyebrows. “Locke, it’s capa to pezon. It’s not personal. He gives the orders and you carry them out. In most cases.”

“But not this one? I thought you’d be happy. At least he’s making plans for the future again.”

“I said reasonable plans.” Nazca smiled—a real smile this time. “Come on, pezon. Play along for a few days. We can go through the motions and put our heads together to come up with a way out of this. It’s you and me we’re talking about, right? The old man can’t win, and he won’t even know he’s lost.”

“Right. If you say so.”

“Yes, I say so. Come back the day after tomorrow. We’ll scheme. We’ll slip this noose. Now go tend to your boys. And be careful.”

Locke stepped back out into the entrance hall, and Nazca pushed the doors shut behind him; he stared back at her as the space between the black doors narrowed, gradually sealing her off from view until they slammed shut with the click of tumbling locks. He could have sworn she winked just before the heavy black doors closed between them.

“… and this is the card you picked. The six of spires,” said Calo, holding up a card and displaying it for the entrance-hall guards.

“Fuck me,” said one of them, “that’s sorcery.”

“Nah, it’s just the old Sanza touch.” Calo reshuffled his deck onehanded and held it out toward Locke. “Care to give it a go, boss?”

“No thanks, Calo. Pack up, lads. Our business here is finished for the day, so let’s quit bothering the folks with the crossbows.” He punctuated this with hand gestures: Major complications; discuss elsewhere.

“Damn, I’m hungry,” said Jean, picking up the cue. “Why don’t we get something at the Last Mistake and take it up to our rooms?”

“Yeah,” said Bug. “Beer and apricot tarts!”

“A combination so disgusting I feel oddly compelled to actually try it.” Jean swatted the smallest Gentleman Bastard on the back of his head, then led the way as the gang made for the slender wooden path that tied the Floating Grave to the rest of the world.

9

SAVE CAPA Barsavi (who imagined that Locke’s gang merely continued sitting the steps a few days of the week even with Chains in his grave), no Right People of Camorr knew that the Gentlemen Bastards still worked out of the House of Perelandro. Calo and Galdo and Bug let rooms at various points in and around the Snare, moving every few months. Locke and Jean had maintained the fiction of rooming together for several years. By a great stroke of luck (though whether it was good or ill had yet to be determined, really) Jean had managed to get them the rooms on the seventh floor of the Broken Tower.

The night was dark and full of rain, and none of the gang were particularly eager to make their way back onto the creaking exterior stairs that staggered down the north side of the tower. Hissing rain rattled the window shutters, and the wind made an eerie rising-and-falling sigh as it passed over the gaps and crevices in the old tower. The Gentlemen Bastards sat on floor cushions in the light of paper lanterns and nursed the last of their beer, the pale sweet sort that most Camorr natives preferred to the bitter Verrari dark. The air was stuffy, but at least tolerably dry.

Locke had given them the whole story over dinner.

“Well,” said Galdo, “this is the damnedest damn thing that ever dammed things up for us.”

“I say again,” said Jean, “that we should pull an early blow-off on the Don Salvara game and get ready to ride out a storm. This Gray King business is getting scary, and we can’t have our attention diverted if Locke’s going to be mixed up at the middle of things.”

“Where do we cut ourselves off?” asked Calo.

“We cut ourselves off now,” said Jean. “Now, or after we get one more note out of the don. No later.”

“Mmmm.” Locke stared down at the dregs in the bottom of his tin cup. “We’ve worked hard for this one. I’m confident we can run it for another five or ten thousand crowns, at least. Maybe not the twenty-five thousand we were hoping to squeeze out of Salvara, but enough to make ourselves proud. I got the crap kicked out of me, and Bug jumped off a building for this money, you know.”

“And got rolled two miles inside a bloody barrel!”

“Now, Bug,” said Galdo, “it’s not as though the nasty old barrel jumped you in an alley and forced you to crawl inside it. And I concur with Jean. I said it this afternoon, Locke. Even if you won’t seriously consider using them, can we at least make some arrangements to get you under cover in a hurry? Maybe even out of town?”

“I still can’t believe I’m hearing a Sanza counsel caution,” Locke said with a grin. “I thought we were richer and cleverer than everyone else.”

“You’ll hear it again and again when there’s a chance you’ll get your throat slit, Locke.” Calo picked up his brother’s argument. “I’ve changed my mind about the Gray King, that’s for damn sure. Maybe the lone lunatic does have it over the three thousand of us. You might be one of his targets. And if Barsavi wants you even tighter with his inner circle, it invites further trouble.”

“Can we set aside talk of slitting throats, just for a moment?” Locke rose and turned toward the shuttered seaward window. He pretended to stare out of it with his hands folded behind his back. “Who are we, after all? I admit I was almost ready to jump into the gods-damned bay when the capa sprang this on me. But I’ve had time to think, so get this straight—we’ve got the old fox dead to rights. We’ve got him in the palms of our hands. Honestly, boys. We’re so good at what we do that he’s asking the Thorn of fucking Camorr to marry his daughter. We’re so far in the clear it’s comical.”

“Nonetheless,” said Jean, “it’s a complication that could mess up our arrangements forever, not an accomplishment we can crow about.”

“Of course we can crow about it, Jean. I’m going to crow about it right now. Don’t you see? This is nothing we don’t do every day. It’s a plain old Gentlemen Bastards sort of job—only we’ll have Nazca working with me to pull it off as well. We can’t lose. I’m no more likely to marry her than I am to be named Duke Nicovante’s heir tomorrow morning.”

“Do you have a plan?” Jean’s eyes said he was curious but wary.

“Not even remotely. I don’t have the first damned clue what we’re going to do. But all my best plans start just like this.” Locke tipped the last of his beer down his throat and tossed the tin cup against the wall. “I’ve had my beer and I’ve had my apricot tarts, and I say the hell with them both, Gray King and Capa Barsavi. Nobody’s going to scare us out of our Don Salvara game, and nobody’s going to hitch me and Nazca against our will. We’ll do what we always do—wait for an opening, take it, and fucking well win.”

“Uh … well.” Jean sighed. “Will you at least let us take a few precautions? And will you watch yourself, coming and going?”

“Naturally, Jean, naturally. You grab us some places on likely ships; spend whatever you have to. I don’t care where they’re going as long as it’s not Jerem. We can lose ourselves anywhere for a few weeks and creep back when we please. Calo, Galdo, you get out to the Viscount’s Gate tomorrow. Leave some considerations for the boys in yellow so we can get out of the city at an awkward hour if we need to. Don’t be shy with the silver and gold.”

“What can I do?” asked Bug.

“You can watch our backs. Keep your eyes wide open. Skulk around the temple. Spot me anyone out of place, anyone who lingers too long. If anyone is trying to keep an eye on us, I guarantee we will go to ground and vanish like piss into the ocean. Until then, trust me. I promise to do most of my moving around as Lukas Fehrwight for the next few days; I can swap in some cheaper disguises, too.”

“Then I suppose that’s that,” Jean said quietly.

“Jean, I can be your garrista or I can just be the fellow who buys beer and tarts when everyone else mysteriously misplaces their purses.” Locke eyed the gathering with an exaggerated scowl. “I can’t be both; it’s one or the other.”

“I’m nervous,” said Jean, “because I don’t like having as little information as I fear we do. I share Nazca’s suspicions. The Gray King has something up his sleeves, something we don’t understand. Our game is very delicate and our situation is very … fluid.”

“I know. But I follow my gut, and my gut says that we meet this one head-on with smiles on our faces. Look,” said Locke, “the more we do this, the more I learn about what I think Chains was really training us for. And this is it. He wasn’t training us for a calm and orderly world where we could pick and choose when we needed to be clever. He was training us for a situation that was fucked up on all sides. Well, we’re in it, and I say we’re equal to it. I don’t need to be reminded that we’re up to our heads in dark water. I just want you boys to remember that we’re the gods-damned sharks.”

“Right on,” cried Bug. “I knew there was a reason I let you lead this gang!”

“Well, I can’t argue with the manifest wisdom of the boy that jumps off temple roofs. But I trust my points are noted,” said Jean.

“Very noted,” said Locke. “Received, recognized, and duly considered with the utmost gravity. Sealed, notarized, and firmly imprinted upon my rational essence.”

“Gods, you really are cheerful about this, aren’t you? You only play vocabulary games when you feel genuinely sunny about the world.” Jean sighed, but couldn’t keep the slightest hint of a smile from tugging at the corners of his lips.

“If you do end up in danger, Locke,” said Calo, “you must understand that we will ignore the orders of our garrista, and we’ll bludgeon our friend on the back of his thick skull and smuggle him out of Camorr in a box. I have just the bludgeon for the job.”

“And I have a box,” said Galdo. “Been hoping for an excuse to use it for years, really.”

“Also noted,” said Locke, “with thanks. But by the grace of the Crooked Warden, I choose to trust us. I choose to trust Chains’ judgment. I choose to keep doing what we do best. Tomorrow, I’ve got some work to do as Fehrwight, and then I’ll go see Nazca again the day after. The capa will be expecting it, and I’m sure she’ll have some ideas of her own by then.”

Locke thought once again of his last glimpse of her, that wink as the two great doors of dark wood slammed shut between them. Maintaining her father’s secrets was Nazca’s entire life. Did it mean something for her, to have one of her own that she could keep from him?

INTERLUDE

The Boy Who Cried for a Corpse

1

Father Chains gave Locke no respite from his education on the day after the visit to the Last Mistake. With his head still pounding from a brown-sugar rum headache, Locke began to learn about the priesthood of Perelandro and the priesthood of the Benefactor. There were hand signs and ritual intonations; methods of greeting and meanings behind robe decorations. On his fourth day in Chains’ care, Locke began to sit the steps as one of the “Initiates of Perelandro,” clad in white and trying to look suitably humble and pathetic.

As the weeks passed, the breadth of Chains’ instruction expanded. Locke did two hours of reading and scribing each day; his pen-scratchings grew smoother step by halting step until the Sanza brothers announced that he no longer wrote “like a dog with an arrow in its brain.” Locke was moved enough by their praise to dust their sleeping pallets with red pepper. The Sanzas were distraught when their attempted retaliation was foiled by the utter paranoia Locke still carried with him from his experiences in Shades’ Hill and the Catchfire plague; it was simply impossible to sneak up on him or catch him sleeping.

“The brothers have never before met their match in mischief,” said Chains as he and Locke sat the steps one particularly slow day. “Now they’re wary of you. When they start coming to you for advice, well … that’s when you’ll know that you have them tamed.”

Locke had smiled and said nothing; just that morning Calo had offered to give Locke extra help with his sums if the smallest Gentleman Bastard would only tell the twins how he kept spotting their little booby traps and rendering them harmless.

Locke revealed precious few of his survival tricks, but he did accept the help of both Sanzas in his study of arithmetic. His only reward for each accomplishment was a more complex problem from Chains. At the same time, he began his education in spoken Vadran; Chains would issue simple commands in the language, and once Locke was reasonably familiar with the tongue Chains often forbade the three boys to speak anything else for hours at a time. Even their dinner conversation was conducted in the harsh and illogical language of the north. To Locke, it often seemed impossible to say anything in Vadran that didn’t sound angry.

“You won’t hear this among the Right People, much, but you’ll hear it on the docks and among the merchants, that’s for damn sure,” said Chains. “And when you hear someone speaking it, don’t ever let on that you know it unless you absolutely have to. You’d be surprised how arrogant some of those northern types are when it comes to their speech. Just play dumb, and you never know what they might let slip.”

There was more instruction in the culinary arts; Chains had Locke slaving away at the cooking hearth every other night, with Calo and Galdo vigorously henpecking him in tandem. “This is vicce alo apona, the fifth Beautiful Art of Camorr,” said Chains. “Guild chefs learn all eight styles better than they learn the uses of their own cocks, but you’ll just get the basics for now. Mind you, our basics piss on everyone else’s best. Only Karthain and Emberlain come close; most Vadrans wouldn’t know fine cuisine from rat shit in lamp oil. Now, this is Pinch-of-Gold Pepper, and this is Jereshti olive oil, and just behind them I keep dried cinnamon-lemon rind.…”

Locke stewed octopus and boiled potatoes; he sliced pears and apples and alchemical hybrid fruit that oozed honey-scented liquor. He spiced and seasoned and bit his tongue in furious concentration. He was frequently the architect of gruesome messes that were hauled out behind the temple and fed to the goat. But as he improved at everything else required of him, he improved steadily at the hearth; soon the Sanzas ceased to tease him and began to trust him as an assistant with their own delicate creations.

One night about half a year after his arrival at the House of Perelandro, Locke and the Sanzas collaborated on a stuffed platter of infant sharks; this was vicce enta merre, the first Beautiful Art, the cuisine of sea-creatures. Calo gutted the soft-skinned little sharks and stuffed them with red and yellow peppers, which had in turn been stuffed with sausage and blood-cheese by Locke. The tiny staring eyes of the creatures were replaced with black olives. Once the little teeth were plucked out, their mouths were stuffed with glazed carrots and rice, and their fins and tails were cut off to be boiled in soup. “Ahhh,” said Chains when the elaborate meal was settling in four appreciative gullets, “now that was genuinely excellent, boys. But while you’re cleaning up and scouring the dishes, I only want to hear you speaking Vadran.…”

And so it went; Locke was schooled further in the art of setting a table and waiting on individuals of high station. He learned how to hold out a chair and how to pour tea and wine; he and the Sanzas conducted elaborate dinner-table rituals with the gravity of physikers cutting open a patient. There were lessons in clothing: the tying of cravats, the buckling of shoes, the wearing of expensive affectations such as hose. In fact, there was a dizzying variety of instruction in virtually every sphere of human accomplishment except thievery.

As the first anniversary of Locke’s arrival at the temple loomed, that changed.

“I owe some favors, boys,” said Chains one night as they all hunkered down in the lifeless rooftop garden. This was where he preferred to discuss all the weightier matters of their life together, at least when it wasn’t raining. “Favors I can’t put off when certain people come calling.”

“Like the Capa?” asked Locke.

“Not this time.” Chains took a long drag on his habitual after-dinner smoke. “This time I owe the black alchemists. You know about them, right?”

Calo and Galdo nodded, but hesitantly; Locke shook his head.

“Well,” said Chains, “there’s a right and proper Guild of Alchemists, but they’re very choosy about the sort of person they let in, and the sort of work they let them do. Black alchemists are sort of the reason the guild has such strict rules. They do business in false shop fronts, with people like us. Drugs, poisons, what have you. The Capa owns them, same as he owns us, but nobody really leans on them directly. They’re, ah, not the sort of people you want to upset.

“Jessaline d’Aubart is probably the best of the lot. I, uh, I had occasion to get poisoned once. She took care of it for me. So I owe her, and she’s finally called in the favor. What she wants is a corpse.”

“Beggar’s Barrow,” said Calo.

“And a shovel,” said Galdo.

“No, she needs a fresh corpse. Still warm and juicy, as it were. See, the Guilds of Alchemists and Physikers are entitled to a certain number of fresh corpses each year by ducal charter. Straight off the gallows, for cutting open and poking around. The black alchemists don’t receive any such courtesy, and Jessaline has some theories she wants to put to the test. So I’ve decided you boys are going to work together on your first real job. I want you to find a corpse, fresher than morning bread. Get your hands on it without attracting undue attention, and bring it here so I can hand it off to Jessaline.”

“Steal a corpse? This won’t be any fun,” said Galdo.

“Think of it as a valuable test of your skills,” said Chains.

“Are we likely to steal many corpses in the future?” asked Calo.

“It’s not a test of your corpse-plucking abilities, you cheeky little nitwit,” Chains said amiably. “I mean to see how you all work together on something more serious than our dinner. I’ll consider setting you up with anything you ask for, but I’m not giving you hints. You get to figure this one out on your own.”

“Anything we ask for?” said Locke.

“Within reason,” said Chains. “And let me emphasize that you can’t make the corpse yourself. You have to find it honestly dead by someone else’s doing.”

So forceful was Chains’ voice when he said this that the Sanza brothers stared warily at Locke for a few seconds, then gave each other a look with eyebrows arched.

“When,” said Locke, “does this lady want it by?”

“She’d be very pleased to have it in the next week or two.”

Locke nodded, then stared down at his hands for a few seconds. “Calo, Galdo,” he said, “will you sit the steps tomorrow so I can think about this?”

“Yes,” they said without hesitation, and Father Chains didn’t miss the note of hope in their voices. He would remember that moment ever after; the night the Sanzas conceded that Locke would be the brains of their operation. The night they were relieved to have him as the brains of their operation.

“Honestly dead,” said Locke, “and not killed by us and not even stiff yet. Right. I know we can do it. It’ll be easy. I just don’t know why or how yet.”

“Your confidence heartens me,” said Chains. “But I want you to remember that you’re on a very short leash. If a tavern should happen to burn down or a riot should happen to break out around you, I’ll throw you off this roof with lead ingots tied around your neck.”

Calo and Galdo stared at Locke once again.

“Short leash. Right. But don’t worry,” said Locke. “I’m not as reckless as I was. You know, when I was little.”

2

THE NEXT day, Locke walked the length of the Temple District on his own for the very first time, hooded in a clean white robe of Perelandro’s order with silver embroidery on the sleeves, waist-high to virtually everyone around him. He was astonished at the courtesy given to the robe (a courtesy, he clearly understood, that in many cases only partially devolved on the poor fool wearing the robe).

Most Camorri regarded the Order of Perelandro with a mixture of cynicism and guilty pity. The unabashed charity of the god and his priesthood just didn’t speak to the rough heart of the city’s character. Yet the reputation of Father Chains as a colorful freak of piety paid certain dividends. Men who surely joked about the simpering of the Beggar God’s white-robed priests with their friends nonetheless threw coins into Chains’ kettle, eyes averted, when they passed his temple. It turned out they also let a little robed initiate pass on the street without harassment; groups parted fluidly and merchants nodded almost politely as Locke went on his way.

For the first time, he learned what a powerful thrill it was to go about in public in an effective disguise.

The sun was creeping upward toward noon; the crowds were thick and the city was alive with the echoes and murmurs of its masses. Locke padded intently to the southwest corner of the Temple District, where a glass catbridge arched across the canal to the island of the Old Citadel.

Catbridges were another legacy of the Eldren who’d ruled before the coming of men: narrow glass arches no wider than an ordinary man’s hips, arranged in pairs over most of Camorr’s canals and at several places along the Angevine River. Although they looked smooth, their glimmering surfaces were as rough as shark’s-hide leather; for those with a reasonable measure of agility and confidence, they provided the only convenient means of crossing water at many points. Traffic was always one-directional over each catbridge; ducal decree clearly stated that anyone going the wrong direction could be shoved off by those with the right-of-way.

As he scuttled across this bridge, pondering furiously, Locke recalled some of the history lessons Chains had drilled into him. The Old Citadel district had once been the home of the dukes of Camorr, centuries earlier, when all the city-states claimed by the Therin people had knelt to a single throne in the imperial city of Therim Pel. That line of Camorri nobility, in superstitious dread of the perfectly good glass towers left behind by the Eldren, had erected a massive stone palace in the heart of southern Camorr.

When one of Nicovante’s great-great-predecessors (on finer points of city lore such as this, Locke’s undeniably prodigious knowledge dissolved in a haze of total indifference) took up residence in the silver glass tower called Raven’s Reach, the old family fortress had become the Palace of Patience; the heart of Camorr’s municipal justice, such as it was. The yellowjackets and their officers were headquartered there, as were the duke’s magistrates—twelve men and women who presided over their cases in scarlet robes and velvet masks, their true identities never to be revealed to the general public. Each was named for one of the months of the year—Justice Parthis, Justice Festal, Justice Aurim, and so forth—though each one passed judgment year-round.

And there were dungeons, and there were the gallows on the Black Bridge that led to the Palace gates, and there were other things. While the Secret Peace had greatly reduced the number of people who took the short, sharp drop off the Black Bridge (and didn’t Duke Nicovante love to publicly pin that on his own magnanimity), the duke’s servants had devised other punishments that were spectacular in their cruel cleverness, if technically nonlethal.

The Palace was a great square heap of pitted black and gray stone, ten stories high; the huge bricks that formed its walls had been arranged into simple mosaics that had now weathered to a ghostly state. The rows of high arched windows that decorated every other level of the tower were stained glass, with black and red designs predominating. At night a light would burn ominously behind each one, dim red eyes in the darkness, staring out in all directions. Those windows were never dark; the intended message was clear.

There were four open-topped circular towers jutting out from each corner of the Palace, seemingly hanging in air from the sixth or seventh level up. On the sides of these hung black iron crow cages, in which prisoners singled out for special mistreatment would be aired out for a few hours or even a few days, with their feet dangling. Yet even these were seats in paradise compared to the spider cages, a spectacle that became visible to Locke (between the backs and shoulders of adults) as he stepped off the catbridge and into the crowds of the Old Citadel.

From the southeastern tower of the Palace of Patience there dangled a half dozen cages on long steel chains, swaying gently in the wind like little spiders on cords of silk. Two of these were moving, one slowly headed up and the other rapidly descending. Prisoners condemned to the spider cages were not to be allowed a moment’s peace, so other prisoners condemned to hard labor would toil at the huge capstans atop the tower, working in shifts around the clock until a subject in a cage was deemed to be sufficiently unhinged and contrite. Lurching and creaking and open to the elements on all sides, the cages would go up and down ceaselessly. At night, one could frequently hear the occupants pleading and screaming, even from a district or two away.

The Old Citadel wasn’t a very cosmopolitan district. Outside the Palace of Patience there were canal docks and stables reserved for the yellowjackets, offices for the duke’s tax collectors and scribes and other functionaries, and seedy little coffeehouses where freelance solicitors and lawscribes would try to drum up work from the families and friends of those being held in the Palace. A few pawnshops and other businesses clung tenaciously to the northern part of the island, but for the most part they were crowded out by the grimmer business of the duke’s government.

The district’s other major landmark was the Black Bridge that spanned the wide canal between Old Citadel and the Mara Camorrazza: a tall arch of black human-set stone adorned with red lamps that were fixed up with ceremonial black shrouds that could be lowered with a few tugs on a rope. The hangings were conducted from a wooden platform that jutted off the bridge’s south side. Supposedly, the unquiet shades of the condemned would be carried out to sea if they died over running water. Some thought that they would then be incarnated in the bodies of sharks, which explained why Camorr Bay had such a problem with the creatures, and the idea was not entirely scoffed at. As far as most Camorri were concerned, turnabout was fair play.

Locke stared at the Black Bridge for a good long while, exercising that capacity for conniving that Chains had so forcefully repressed for many long months. He was far too young for much self-analysis, but the process of scheming gave him real pleasure, like a little ball of tingling warmth in the pit of his stomach. He had no name for what he was doing, but in the collision of his whirling thoughts a plan began to form, and the more he thought on it the more pleased he became with himself. It was a fine thing that his white hood concealed his face from most passersby, lest anyone should see an initiate of Perelandro staring fixedly at a gallows and grinning wildly.

3

“I NEED the names of any men who are going to hang in the next week or two,” said Locke, as he and Chains sat the temple steps the next day.

“If you were enterprising,” said Chains, “and you most certainly are, you could get them yourself, and leave your poor fat old master in peace.”

“I would, but I need someone else to do it. It won’t work if I’m seen around the Palace of Patience before the hangings.”

“What won’t work?”

“The plan.”

“Oh-ho! Nervy little Shades’ Hill purse-clutcher, thinking you can keep me in the dark. What plan?”

“The plan to steal a corpse.”

“Ahem. Anything else you’d like to tell me about it?”

“It’s brilliant.”

A passerby tossed something into the kettle. Locke bowed and Chains waved his hands in the man’s general direction, his restraints clattering, and yelled, “Fifty years of health to you and your children, and the blessings of the Lord of the Overlooked!”

“It would’ve been a hundred years,” muttered Chains when the man had passed, “but that sounded like a clipped half-copper. Now, your brilliant plan. I know you’ve had audacious plans, but I’m not entirely sure you’ve had a brilliant one yet.”

“This is the one, then. Honest. But I need those names.”

“If it’s so, it’s so.” Chains leaned backward and stretched, grunting in satisfaction as his back creaked and popped. “I’ll get them for you tonight.”

“And I’ll need some money.”

“Ah. Well, I expected that. Take what you need from the vault and mark it on the ledger. Screw around with it, though …”

“I know. Lead ingots; screaming; death.”

“Something like that. You’re a little on the small side, but I suppose Jessaline might learn a thing or two from your corpse anyway.”

4

PENANCE DAY was the traditional day for hangings in Camorr. Each week a sullen handful of prisoners would be trotted out from the Palace of Patience, priests and guards surrounding them. Noon was the hour of the drop.

At the eighth hour of the morning, when the functionaries in the courtyard of the Palace threw open their wooden shutters and settled in for a long day of saying “fuck off in the name of the duke” to all comers, three robed initiates of Perelandro wheeled a narrow wooden pull-cart into the courtyard. The smallest of the three made his way over to the first available clerk; his thin little face barely topped the forward edge of the clerk’s booth.

“Well, this is odd,” said the clerk, a woman of late middle years, shaped something like a bag of potatoes but perhaps not quite as warm or sympathetic. “Help you with something?”

“There’s a man being hanged,” said Locke. “Noon today.”

“You don’t say. Here I thought it was a state secret.”

“His name’s Antrim. Antrim One-Hand, they call him. He’s got—”

“One hand. Yes, he drops today. Fire-setting, theft, dealing with slavers. Charming man.”

“I was going to say that he had a wife,” said Locke. “She has business. About him.”

“Look, the time for appeals is past. Saris, Festal, and Tathris sealed the death warrant. Antrim One-Hand belongs to Morgante now, and then to Aza Guilla. Not even one of the Beggar God’s cute little sprats can help him at this point.”

“I know,” said Locke. “I don’t want him spared. His wife doesn’t care if he gets hanged. I’m here about the body.”

“Really?” Genuine curiosity flickered in the clerk’s eyes for the first time. “Now that is odd. What about the body?”

“His wife knows he deserves to get hanged, but she wants him to get a fairer chance. You know, with the Lady of the Long Silence. So she’s paid for us to take the body and put it in our temple. So we can burn candles and pray for intercession in Perelandro’s name for three days and nights. We’ll bury him after that.”

“Well now,” said the clerk. “The corpses usually get cut down after an hour and tossed into holes on the Beggar’s Barrow. More than they deserve, but it’s tidy. We don’t usually just go handing them out to anyone who wants one.”

“I know. My master cannot see, or leave our temple, or else he’d be here to explain himself. But we’re all he has. I’m supposed to say that he knows this is making trouble for you.” Locke’s little hand appeared over the edge of the booth, and when it withdrew a small leather purse was sitting on the clerk’s counting-board.

“That’s very considerate of him. We all know how devoted old Father Chains is.” The clerk swept the purse behind her counter and gave it a shake; it jingled, and she grunted. “Still a bit of a problem, though.”

“My master would be grateful for any help you could give us.” Another purse appeared on the counter, and the clerk actually broke a smile.

“It’s within the realm of possibility,” she said. “Not quite certain yet, of course.”

Locke conjured a third purse, and the clerk nodded. “I’ll speak to the Masters of the Ropes, little one.”

“We even brought our own cart,” said Locke. “We don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I’m sure you won’t be.” Her demeanor softened for just a moment. “I didn’t mean ill by what I said about the Beggar God, boy.”

“I didn’t take it ill, madam. After all, it’s what we do.” He favored her with what he thought was his most endearing little grin. “Did you not give me what I asked for because I begged, simply out of the goodness of your own heart, with no coin involved?”

“Why, of course I did.” She actually winked at him.

“Twenty years of health to you and your children,” Locke said, bowing and briefly disappearing beneath the lip of her counter. “And the blessings of the Lord of the Overlooked.”

5

IT WAS a short, neat hanging; the duke’s Masters of the Ropes were nothing if not well practiced at their trade. It wasn’t the first execution Locke had ever seen, nor would it be the last. He and the Sanza brothers even had a chance to make all the proper reverential gestures when one of the condemned begged for Perelandro’s blessings at the last minute.

Traffic across the Black Bridge was halted for executions; a small crowd of guards, spectators, and priests milled about afterward as the requisite hour passed. The corpses twisted in the breeze beneath them, ropes creaking; Locke and the Sanzas stood off to the side respectfully with their little cart.

Eventually, yellowjackets began to haul the bodies up one by one under the watchful eyes of several priests of Aza Guilla. The corpses were carefully set down in an open dray pulled by two black horses draped in the black and silver of the Death Goddess’ order. The last corpse to be drawn up was that of a wiry man with a long beard and a shaved head; his left hand ended in a puckered red stump. Four yellowjackets carried this body over to the cart where the boys waited; a priestess of Aza Guilla accompanied them. Locke felt a chill run up and down his spine when that inscrutable silver-mesh mask tilted down toward him.

“Little brothers of Perelandro,” said the priestess, “what intercession would you plead for on behalf of this man?” Her voice was that of a very young woman, perhaps no more than fifteen or sixteen. If anything, that only enhanced her eeriness in Locke’s eyes, and he found his throat suddenly dry.

“We plead for whatever will be given,” said Calo.

“The will of the Twelve is not ours to presume,” continued Galdo.

The priestess inclined her head very slightly. “I’m told this man’s widow requested an interment in the House of Perelandro before burial.”

“Apparently she thought he might need it, begging pardon,” said Calo.

“It’s not without precedent. But it is far more usual for the aggrieved to seek our intercession with the Lady.”

“Our master,” managed Locke, “made, ah, a solemn promise to the poor woman that we would give our care. Surely, we, we mean no ill toward you or the Lady Most Fair if we must keep our word.”

“Of course. I did not mean to suggest that you had done anything wrong; the Lady will weigh him in the end, whatever is said and done before the vessel is entombed.” She gestured, and the yellowjackets set the corpse down on the cart. One of them unfurled a cheap cotton shroud and swung it over Antrim’s body, leaving only the top of his head uncovered. “Blessings of the Lady of the Long Silence to you and your master.”

“Blessings of the Lord of the Overlooked,” said Locke as he and the Sanzas bowed in unison from the waist; a braided silver cord around the priestess’ neck marked her as more than a simple initiate like themselves. “To you and your brothers and sisters.”

The Sanza brothers each took one pole at the front of the cart, and Locke took up the rear, to push and to keep the load balanced. He was instantly sorry that he’d taken this spot; the hanging had filled the man’s breeches with his own shit, and the smell was rising. Gritting his teeth, he called out, “To the House of Perelandro, with all dignity.”

Plodding slowly, the Sanzas pulled the cart down the western side of the Black Bridge, and then turned north to head for the wide, low bridge that led to the Shifting Market’s eastern district. It was a slightly roundabout way home, but not at all suspicious—at least until the three white-robed boys were well away from anyone who’d seen them leave the hanging. Moving with a bit more haste (and enjoying the added deference the dead man was bringing them—save only for Locke, who was still effectively downwind of the poor fellow’s last futile act in life), they turned left and headed for the bridges to the Fauria.

Once there, they pressed south and crossed into the Videnza district; a relatively clean and spacious island well patrolled by yellowjackets. At the heart of the Videnza was a market square of merchant-artisans; recognized names who disdained the churning chaos of the Shifting Market. They operated from the first floors of their fine old sagging houses, which were always freshly mortared and whitewashed over their post-and-timber frames. The district’s tiled roofs, by tradition, were glazed in brightly irregular colors; blue and purple and red and green, they teased the eyes and gleamed like glass under the glare of the sun.

At the northern entrance to this square, Calo darted away from the cart and vanished into the crowd; Locke came up from the rear (muttering prayers of gratitude) to take his place. So arrayed, they hauled their odd cargo toward the shop of Ambrosine Strollo, first lady of Camorr’s chandlers, furnisher to the duke himself.

“If there’s a niggardly speck of genuine fellowship in Camorr,” Chains had once said, “one little place where Perelandro’s name isn’t spoken with a sort of sorry contempt, it’s the Videnza. Merchants are a miserly lot, and craftsfolk are pressed with care. However, those that turn a very pretty profit plying their chosen trade are likely to be somewhat happy. They get the best of all worlds, for common folk. Assuming our lot doesn’t fuck with them.”

Locke was impressed with the response he and Galdo received as they drew the cart up in front of Madam Strollo’s four-story home. Here, the merchants and customers alike bowed their heads as the corpse passed; many of them even made the wordless gesture of benediction in the name of the Twelve, touching first their eyes with both hands, and then their lips, and finally their hearts.

“My dears,” said Madam Strollo, “what an honor, and what an unusual errand you must be on.” She was a slender woman getting well on in years, a sort of cosmic opposite to the clerk Locke had dealt with that morning. Strollo exuded attentive deference; she behaved as though the two little red-faced initiates, sweating heavily under their robes, were full priests of a more powerful order. If she could smell the mess in Antrim’s breeches, she refrained from saying so.

She sat at the street-side window of her shop, under a heavy wooden awning that folded down at night to seal the place tight against mischief. The window was perhaps ten feet wide and half as high, and Madam Strollo was surrounded by candles, stacked layer upon layer, tier upon tier, like the houses and towers of a fantastical wax city. Alchemical globes had largely replaced the cheap taper as the light source of choice for nobility and lowbility alike; the few remaining master chandlers fought back by mingling ever-more-lovely scents in their creations. Additionally, there was the ceremonial need of Camorr’s temples and believers—a need that cold glass light was generally considered inadequate to meet.

“We’re interring this man,” said Locke, “for three days and nights before his burial. My master needs new candles for the ceremony.”

“Old Chains, you mean? Poor dear man. Let’s see … you’ll want lavender for cleanliness, and autumn bloodflower for the blessing, and sulfur roses for the Lady Most Fair?”

“Please,” said Locke, pulling out a humble leather purse that jingled with silver. “And some votives without scent. Half a dozen of all four kinds.”

Madam Strollo carefully selected the candles and wrapped them in waxed burlap. (“A gift of the house,” she muttered when Locke began to open his mouth, “and perhaps I put a few more than half a dozen of each in the packet.”) Locke tried to argue with her for form’s sake, but the old woman grew conveniently deaf for a few crucial seconds as she finished wrapping her goods.

Locke paid three solons out of his purse (taking care to let her see that there were a dozen more nestled therein), and wished Madam Strollo a full hundred years of health for herself and her children in the name of the Lord of the Overlooked as he backed away. He set the package of candles on the cart, tucking it just under the blanket beside Antrim’s glassy, staring eyes.

No sooner had he turned around to resume his place next to Galdo when a taller boy dressed in ragged, dirty clothes walked right into him, sending him tumbling onto his back.

“Oh!” said the boy, who happened to be Calo Sanza. “A thousand pardons! I’m so clumsy; here, let me help you up.…”

He grabbed Locke’s outstretched hand and yanked the smaller boy back to his feet. “Twelve gods! An initiate. Forgive me, forgive me. I simply did not see you standing there.” Clucking with concern, he brushed dirt from Locke’s white robe. “Are you well?”

“I am, I am.”

“Forgive my clumsiness; I meant no insult.”

“None is taken. Thank you for helping me back up.”

With that, Calo gave a mock bow and ran off into the crowd; in just a few seconds he was lost to sight. Locke made a show of dusting himself off while he slowly counted to thirty inside his head. At thirty-one, he sat down suddenly beside the cart, put his hooded head in his hands, and began to sniffle. Just a few seconds later he was sobbing loudly. Responding to the cue, Galdo came over and knelt beside him, placing one hand on his shoulder.

“Boys,” said Ambrosine Strollo. “Boys! What’s the matter? Are you hurt? Did that oaf jar something?”

Galdo made a show of muttering into Locke’s ear; Locke muttered back, and Galdo fell backward onto his own posterior. He reached up and tugged at his hood in an excellent imitation of frustration, and his eyes were wide. “No, Madam Strollo,” he said, “it’s worse than that.”

“Worse? What do you mean? What’s the trouble?”

“The silver,” Locke burbled, looking up to let her see the tears pouring down his cheeks and the artful curl of his lips. “He took my purse. Picked my p-pocket.”

“It was payment,” said Galdo, “from this man’s widow. Not just for the candles, but for his interment, our blessings, and his funeral. We were to bring it back to Father Chains along with the—”

“—with the b-body,” Locke burst out. “I’ve failed him!”

“Twelve,” the old lady muttered. “That incredible little bastard!” Leaning out over the counter of her shop window, she hollered in a voice of surprising strength: “Thief! Stop, Thief!” As Locke buried his head in his hands once again, she turned her head upward and shouted, “Lucrezia!”

“Yes, gran’mama!” came a voice from an open window. “What’s this about a thief?”

“Rouse your brothers, child. Get them down here now and tell them to bring their sticks!” She turned to regard Locke and Galdo. “Don’t cry, my dear boys. Don’t cry. We’ll make this right somehow.”

“What’s this about a thief?” A lanky sergeant of the watch ran up, truncheon out, mustard-yellow coat flapping behind him and two other yellowjackets at his heels.

“A fine constable you are, Vidrik, to let those little coat-charmer bastards from the Cauldron sneak in and rob customers right in front of my shop!”

“What? Here? Them?” The watch-sergeant took in the distraught boys, the furious old woman, and the covered corpse; his eyebrows attempted to leap straight up off his forehead. “Ah, that … I say, that man is dead.…”

“Of course he’s dead, thimblebrains; these boys are taking him to the House of Perelandro for blessings and a funeral! That little cutpurse just stole the bag with his widow’s payment for it all!”

“Someone robbed the initiates of Perelandro? The boys who help that blind priest?” A florid man with an overachieving belly and an entire squad of spare chins wobbled up, with a walking stick in one hand and a wicked-looking hatchet in the other. “Pissant ratfucker bastards! Such an infamy! In the Videnza, in broad light of day!”

“I’m sorry,” Locke sobbed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize … I should have held it tighter, I just didn’t realize … He was so quick.…”

“Nonsense, boy, it was hardly your fault,” said Madam Strollo. The watch-sergeant began blowing his whistle; the fat man with the walking stick continued to spit vitriol, and a pair of young men appeared around the corner of the Strollo house, carrying curved truncheons shod with brass. There was more rapid shouting until they determined that their grandmother was unhurt; when they discovered the reason for her summons, they too began uttering threats and curses and promises of vengeance.

“Here,” said Madam Strollo, “here, boys. The candles will be my gift. This sort of thing doesn’t happen in the Videnza. We won’t stand for it.” She set the three solons Locke had given her back atop her counter. “How much was in the purse?”

“Fifteen solons before we paid you,” said Galdo. “So twelve got stolen. Chains is going to throw us out of the order.”

“Don’t be foolish,” said Madam Strollo. She added two more coins to the pile as the crowd around her shop began to swell.

“Hells yes!” cried the fat man. “We can’t let that little devil dishonor us like this! Madam Strollo, how much are you giving? I’ll give more!”

“Gods take you, you selfish old pig, this isn’t about showing me up—”

“I’ll give you a basket of oranges,” said one of the women in the crowd, “for you and for the Eyeless Priest.”

“I have a solon I can give,” said another merchant, pressing forward with the coin in his hand.

“Vidrik!” Madam Strollo turned from her argument with her florid neighbor. “Vidrik, this is your fault! You owe these initiates some copper, at the very least.”

“My fault? Now look here—”

“No, you look here! When they speak of the Videnza now they’ll say, ‘Ah, that’s where they rob priests, isn’t it?’ For the Twelve’s sake! Just like Catchfire! Or worse!” She spat. “You give something to make amends or I’ll harp on your captain and you’ll end up rowing a shitboat until your hair turns gray and your teeth come out at the roots.”

Grimacing, the watch-sergeant stepped forward and reached for his purse, but there was already a tight press around the two boys; they were helped to their feet, and Locke received too many comforting pats on the back to count. They were plied with coins, fruit, and small gifts; one merchant tossed his more valuable coins into a coat pocket and handed over his purse. Locke and Galdo adopted convincing expressions of bewilderment and surprise. As each gift was handed over to them, they protested as best they could, for form’s sake.

6

IT WAS the fourth hour of the afternoon before the body of Antrim One-Hand was safely stashed in the damp sanctuary of the House of Perelandro. The three white-robed boys (for Calo had rejoined them safely at the edge of the Temple District) padded down the steps and took their seats beside Father Chains, who sat in his usual spot with one burly arm thrown over the rim of his copper kettle.

“So,” he said. “Boys. Is Jessaline going to be sorry she saved my life?”

“Not at all,” said Locke.

“It’s a great corpse,” said Calo.

“Smells a bit,” said Galdo.

“Other than that,” said Calo, “it’s a fantastic corpse.”

“Hanged at noon,” said Locke. “Still fresh.”

“I’m very pleased. Very, very pleased. But I really must ask—why the hell have men and women been throwing money in my kettle for the past half hour, telling me they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza?”

“It’s because they’re sorry for what happened in the Videnza,” said Galdo.

“It wasn’t a burning tavern, Benefactor’s own truth,” said Locke.

“What,” said Chains, speaking slowly as though to a misbehaving pet, “did you boys do with the corpse before you stashed it in the temple?”

“Made money.” Locke tossed the merchant’s donated purse into the kettle, where it hit with a heavy clang. “Twenty-three solons three, to be precise.”

“And a basket of oranges,” said Calo.

“Plus a packet of candles,” added Galdo, “two loaves of black pepper bread, a wax carton of small beer, and some glow-globes.”

Chains was silent for a moment, and then he actually peeked down into the kettle, pretending to readjust his blindfold by raising it just a bit at the bottom. Calo and Galdo began to confide the roughest outline of the scheme Locke had prepared and executed with their help, giggling as they did so.

“Bugger me bloody with a boathook,” Chains said when they finished. “I don’t recall telling you that your leash was slipped enough for fucking street theater, Locke.”

“We had to get our money back somehow,” said Locke. “Cost us fifteen silvers to get the body from the Palace of Patience. Now we’re up some, plus candles and bread and beer.”

“Oranges,” said Calo.

“Glow-globes,” said Galdo. “Don’t forget those; they’re pretty.”

“Crooked Warden,” said Chains. “Just this morning I was suffering from the delusion that I was handing out the educations here.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments after that, while the sun settled into its downward arc in the west and long shadows began to creep across the face of the city.

“Well, what the hell.” Chains rattled his manacles a few times to keep up his circulation. “I’ll take back what I gave you to spend. Of the extra, Calo, you and Galdo can have a silver apiece to do as you please. Locke, you can have the rest to put toward your … dues. It was fairly stolen.”

At that moment, a well-dressed man in a forest-green coat and a four-cornered hat walked up to the temple steps. He threw a handful of coins into the kettle; they sounded like mingled silver and copper as they clattered. The man tipped his hat to the three boys and said, “I’m from the Videnza. I want you to know that I’m furious about what happened.”

“One hundred years of health for you and your children,” said Locke, “and the blessings of the Lord of the Overlooked.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE GRAY KING

1

“YOU SEEM TO be spending a great deal of our money very quickly, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia Salvara.

“Circumstance has blessed us, Doña Sofia.” Locke gave a smile that was a measure of great triumph by Fehrwight standards, a tight-lipped little thing that might have been a grimace of pain from anyone else. “Everything is proceeding with the most agreeable speed. Ships and men and cargo, and soon all we’ll need to do is pack your wardrobe for a short voyage!”

“Indeed, indeed.” Were those dark circles under her eyes? Was there the slightest hint of wariness in her attitude toward him? She certainly wasn’t at ease. Locke made a mental note to avoid pushing her too far, too fast. It was a delicate dance, playing straight lines and smiles with someone who knew he was a mummer but didn’t know that he knew she knew.

With the slightest sigh, Doña Sofia pressed her personal sigil down into the warm blue wax at the bottom of the parchment she was contemplating. She added a few flowing lines of ink above the seal, her signature in the curving Therin script that had become something of a fad among literate nobles in the past few years. “If you say you require another four thousand today, another four thousand it must be.”

“I am most sincerely grateful, my lady.”

“Well, you’ll certainly pay for it soon enough,” she said. “Many times over, if our hopes play out.” At that she smiled, with genuine good humor that crinkled the edges of her eyes, and held out the fresh promissory note.

Oh-ho, thought Locke. Much better. The more in control the mark thinks they are, the more easily they respond to real control. Another one of Father Chains’ old maxims, proven in Locke’s experience too many times to count.

“Please give my warmest regards to your husband when he returns from his business in the city, my lady,” said Locke, taking the wax-sealed parchment in hand. “Now, I fear, I must go see some men about … payments that will not appear on any official ledger.”

“Of course. I quite understand. Conté can show you out.”

The gruff, weathered man-at-arms was paler than usual, and it seemed to Locke that there was a slight but obvious hitch in his stride. Yes—the poor fellow was clearly favoring a certain badly bruised portion of his anatomy. Locke’s stomach turned in unconscious sympathy at his own memory of that night.

“I say, Conté,” he began politely, “are you feeling quite well? You seem … forgive me for saying so … troubled this past day or two.”

“I’m well for the most part, Master Fehrwight.” There was a slight hardening of the lines at the edges of the man’s mouth. “Perhaps a bit under the weather.”

“Nothing serious?”

“A minor ague, perhaps. They happen, this time of year.”

“Ah. One of the tricks of your climate. I’ve not yet felt such a thing, myself.”

“Well,” said Conté, with an absolute lack of expression on his face, “mind yourself then, Master Fehrwight. Camorr can be a very dangerous place in the most unlooked-for ways.”

Oh-ho-HO, Locke thought. So they’d let him in on the secret, as well. And the man had a proud streak at least as wide as Sofia’s, to drop even the slightest hint of a threat. Worth noting, that.

“I’m the very soul of caution, my dear Conté.” Locke tucked the promissory note within his black waistcoat and adjusted his cascading cravats as they approached the front door of the Salvara manor. “I keep my chambers very well illuminated, to ward off miasmas, and I wear copper rings after Falselight. Just the thing for your hot-and-cold fevers. I would wager that a few days at sea will put you right.”

“No doubt,” said Conté. “The voyage. I do look forward to the … voyage.”

“Then we are of one mind!” Locke waited for the don’s man to open the wide glass-and-iron door for him, and as he stepped out into the moist air of Falselight, he nodded stiffly but affably. “I shall pray for your health tomorrow, my good fellow.”

“Too kind, Master Fehrwight.” The ex-soldier had set one hand on the hilt of one of his knives, perhaps unconsciously. “I shall most assuredly offer prayers concerning yours.”

2

LOCKE BEGAN walking south at a leisurely pace, crossing from the Isla Durona to Twosilver Green as he and Calo had just a few nights previously. The Hangman’s Wind was stronger than usual, and as he walked through the park in the washed-out light of the city’s glowing Elderglass, the hiss and rustle of leaves was like the sighing of vast creatures hiding in the greenery all around him.

Just under seventeen thousand crowns in half a week; the Don Salvara game was well ahead of their original plans, which had called for a two-week span between first touch and final blow-off. Locke was certain he could get one more touch out of the don in perfect safety, push the total up over twenty-two or maybe twenty-three thousand, and then pull a vanish. Go to ground, take it easy for a few weeks, stay alert and let the Gray King mess sort itself out.

And then, as a bonus miracle, somehow convince Capa Barsavi to disengage him from Nazca, and do so without twisting the old man’s breeches. Locke sighed.

When Falselight died and true night fell, the glow never seemed to simply fade so much as recede, as though it were being drawn back within the glass, a loan reclaimed by a jealous creditor. Shadows widened and blackened until finally the whole park was swallowed by them from below. Emerald lanterns flickered to life here and there in the trees, their light soft and eerie and strangely relaxing. They offered just enough illumination to see the crushed stone paths that wound their way through the walls of trees and hedges. Locke felt as though the spring of tension within him was unwinding itself ever so slightly; he listened to the muted crunch of his own footsteps on gravel, and for a few moments he was surprised to find himself possessed by something perilously close to contentment.

He was alive, he was rich, he had made the decision not to skulk and cringe from the troubles that gnawed at his Gentlemen Bastards. And for one brief moment, in the middle of eighty-eight thousand people and all the heaving, stinking, ever-flowing noise and commerce and machinery of their city, he was alone with the gently swaying trees of Twosilver Green.

Alone.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and the old cold fear, the constant companion of anyone raised on the streets, was suddenly alive within him. It was a summer night in Twosilver Green, the safest open park in the city, patrolled at any given time by two or three squads of yellowjackets with their night-lanterns waving on poles. Filled, sometimes to the point of comedy, with the strolling sons and daughters of the wealthy classes, holding hands and swatting insects and seeking the privacy of nooks and shadows.

Locke gazed quickly up and down the curving paths around him; he was truly alone. There was no sound in the park but for the sighing of the leaves and the buzzing of the insects; no voices or footsteps that he could hear. He twisted his right forearm, and a thin stiletto of blackened steel fell from his coat sleeve into his palm, pommel-down. He carried it straight against his arm, rendering it invisible from any distance, and hurried toward the southern gate of the park.

A mist was rising, seeping up as though the grass were pouring gray vapors into the night; Locke shivered despite the warm, heavy air. A mist was perfectly natural, wasn’t it? The whole city was blanketed in the stuff two nights out of three; a man could lose track of the end of his own nose in it sometimes. But why—

The southern gate of the park. He was standing before the southern gate of the park, staring out across an empty cobbled lane, at a mist-shrouded bridge. That bridge was the Eldren Arch, its red lanterns soft and ominous in the fog.

The Eldren Arch leading north to the Isla Durona.

He’d gotten turned around. How was that possible? His heart was beating so fast, and then—Doña Sofia. That cunning, cunning bitch. She’d done something to him … slipped him some alchemical mischief on the parchment. The ink? The wax? Was it a poison, drawing some cloud around his senses before it did its work? Was it some other drug, intended to make him ill? Petty, perfectly deniable revenge to sate her for the time being? He fumbled for the parchment, missing his inner coat pocket, aware that he was moving a bit too slowly and clumsily for the confusion to be entirely in his imagination.

There were men moving under the trees.

One to his left, another to his right … The Eldren Arch was gone; he was back at the heart of the curving paths, staring out into a darkness cut only by the emerald light of the lanterns. He gasped, crouched, brought up the stiletto, head swimming. The men were cloaked; they were on either side; there was the sound of footsteps on gravel, not his own. The dark shape of crossbows, the backlit shapes of the men … His head whirled.

“Master Thorn,” said a man’s voice, muffled and distant, “we require an hour of your attention.”

“Crooked Warden.” Locke gasped, and then even the faint colors of the trees seemed to drain from his vision, and the whole night went black.

3

WHEN HE came to, he was already sitting up. It was a curious sensation. He’d awoken before from blackness brought on by injuries and by drugs, but this was different. It was as though someone had simply set the mechanisms of his consciousness moving again, like a scholar opening the spigot on a Verrari water-clock.

He was in the common room of a tavern, seated on a chair at a table by himself. He could see the bar, and the hearth, and the other tables, but the place was dank and empty, smelling of mold and dust. A flickering orange light came from behind him—an oil lantern. The windows were greasy and misted over, turning the light back upon itself; he couldn’t see anything of the outside through them.

“There’s a crossbow at your back,” said a voice just a few feet behind him, a pleasantly cultured man’s voice, definitely Camorri but somewhat off in a few of the pronunciations. A native who’d spent time elsewhere? The voice was entirely unknown to him. “Master Thorn.”

Icicles seemed to grow in Locke’s spine. He racked his brains furiously for recall of those last few seconds in the park.… Hadn’t one of the men there called him that, as well? He gulped. “Why do you call me that? My name is Lukas Fehrwight. I’m a citizen of Emberlain working for the House of bel Auster.”

“I could believe that, Master Thorn. Your accent is convincing, and your willingness to suffer that black wool is nothing short of heroic. Don Lorenzo and Doña Sofia certainly believed in Lukas Fehrwight, until you yourself disabused them of the notion.”

It isn’t Barsavi, Locke thought desperately. It couldn’t be Barsavi.… Barsavi would be conducting this conversation himself, if he knew. He would be conducting it at the heart of the Floating Grave, with every Gentleman Bastard tied to a post and every knife in Sage Kindness’ bag sharpened and gleaming.

“My name is Lukas Fehrwight,” Locke insisted. “I don’t understand what you want or what I’m doing here. Have you done anything to Graumann? Is he safe?”

“Jean Tannen is perfectly safe,” said the man. “As you well know. How I would have loved to see it up close, when you strolled into Don Salvara’s office with that silly sigil-wallet under your black cloak. Destroying his confidence in Lukas Fehrwight just as a father gently tells his children there’s really no such thing as the Blessed Bringer! You’re an artist, Master Thorn.”

“I have already told you, my name is Lukas, Lukas Fehrwight, and—”

“If you tell me that your name is Lukas Fehrwight one more time, I’m going to put a bolt through the back of your upper left arm. I wouldn’t mean to kill you, just to complicate your life. A nice big hole, maybe a broken bone. Ruin that fine suit of yours, perhaps get blood all over that lovely parchment. Wouldn’t the clerks at Meraggio’s love to hear an explanation for that? Promissory notes are so much more attention-getting when they’re covered in gore.”

Locke said nothing for quite a long while.

“Now that won’t do either, Locke. Surely you must have realized I can’t be one of Barsavi’s men.”

Thirteen, Locke thought. Where the hell did I make a mistake? If the man was speaking truthfully, if he didn’t work for Capa Barsavi, there was only one other possibility. The real Spider. The real Midnighters. Had Locke’s use of the pretend sigil-wallet been reported? Had that counterfeiter in Talisham decided to try for a bit of extra profit by dropping a word with the duke’s secret constables? It seemed the likeliest explanation.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Locke stood up and did so, and bit his tongue to avoid crying out in surprise.

The man seated at the table before him could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty; he was lean and rangy and gray at the temples. The mark of Camorr was upon his face; he bore the sun-darkened olive skin, the high temples and cheekbones, the sharp nose.

He wore a gray leather doublet over a gray silk tunic; his cloak and mantle were gray, as was the hood that was swept back behind his head. His hands, folded neatly before him, were covered with thin gray swordsman’s gloves, kid leather that was weathered and creased with use. The man had hunter’s eyes, cold and steady and measuring. The orange light of the lantern was reflected in their dark pupils. For a second it seemed to Locke that he was seeing not a reflection but a revelation; that the dark fire burned behind the man’s eyes. Locke shivered despite himself.… All that gray …

“You,” he whispered, dropping the accent of Lukas Fehrwight.

“None other,” said the Gray King. “I disdain these clothes as something of a theatrical touch, but it’s a necessary one. Of all the men in Camorr, surely you understand these things, Master Thorn.”

“I have no idea why you keep calling me that,” said Locke, shifting his footing as unobtrusively as he could, feeling the comforting weight of his second stiletto in the other sleeve of his coat. “And I don’t see this crossbow you mentioned.”

“I said it was at your back.” The Gray King gestured at the far wall with a thin, bemused smile. Warily, Locke turned his head—

There was a man standing against the wall of the tavern, standing right in the spot Locke had been staring at until the previous moment. A cloaked and hooded man, broad-shouldered, leaning lazily against the wall with a loaded alley-piece in the crook of his arm, the quarrel pointed casually at Locke’s chest.

“I …” Locke turned back, but the Gray King was no longer seated at the table. He was standing a dozen feet away, to Locke’s left, behind the disused bar. The lantern on the table hadn’t moved, and Locke could see that the man was grinning. “This isn’t possible.”

“Of course it is, Master Thorn. Think it through. The number of possibilities is actually vanishingly small.”

The Gray King waved his left hand in an arc, as though wiping a window; Locke glanced back at the wall and saw that the crossbowman had disappeared once again.

“Well, fuck me,” said Locke. “You’re a Bondsmage.”

“No,” said the Gray King, “I’m a man without that advantage, no different than yourself. But I employ a Bondsmage.” He pointed to the table where he’d previously been sitting.

There, without any sudden movement or jump in Locke’s perception, sat a slender man surely not yet out of his twenties. His chin and cheeks were peach-fuzzed, and his hairline was already in rapid retreat to the back of his head. His eyes were alight with amusement, and Locke immediately saw in him the sort of casual presumption of authority that most congenital bluebloods wore like a second skin.

He was dressed in an extremely well-tailored gray coat with flaring red silk cuffs; the bare skin of his left wrist bore three tattooed black lines. On his right hand was a heavy leather gauntlet, and perched atop this, staring at Locke as though he were nothing more than a field mouse with delusions of grandeur, was the fiercest hunting hawk Locke had ever seen. The bird of prey stared directly at him, its eyes pinpoints of black within gold on either side of a curved beak that looked dagger-sharp. Its brown-and-gray wings were folded back sleekly, and its talons—what was wrong with its talons? Its rear claws were huge, distended, oddly lengthened.

“My associate, the Falconer,” said the Gray King. “A Bondsmage of Karthain. My Bondsmage. The key to a great many things. And now that we’ve been introduced, let us speak of what I expect you to do for me.”

4

“THEY ARE not to be fucked with,” Chains had told him once, many years before.

“Why not?” Locke was twelve or thirteen at the time, about as cocksure as he’d ever be in life, which was saying something.

“I see you’ve been neglecting your history again. I’ll assign you more reading shortly.” Chains sighed. “The Bondsmagi of Karthain are the only sorcerers on the continent, because they permit no one else to study their art. Outsiders they find must join them or be slain.”

“And none resist? Nobody fights back or hides from them?”

“Of course they do, here and there. But what can two or five or ten sorcerers in hiding do against four hundred with a city-state at their command? What the Bondsmagi do to outsiders and renegades … They make Capa Barsavi look like a priest of Perelandro. They are utterly jealous, utterly ruthless, and utterly without competition. They have achieved their desired monopoly. No one will shelter sorcerers against the will of the Bondsmagi, no one. Not even the King of the Seven Marrows.”

“Curious,” said Locke, “that they would still call themselves Bondsmagi, then.”

“It’s false modesty. I think it amuses them. They set such ridiculous prices for their services, it’s less like mercenary work to them and more like a cruel joke at the expense of their clients.”

“Ridiculous prices?”

“A novice would cost you five hundred crowns a day. A more experienced spellbinder might cost you a thousand. They mark their rank with tattoos around their wrists. The more black circles you see, the more polite you become.”

“A thousand crowns a day?”

“You see now why they’re not everywhere, on retainer to every court and noble and pissant warlord with a treasury to waste. Even in times of war and other extreme crises, they can be secured for a very limited duration. When you do cross paths with one, you can be sure that the client is paying them for serious, active work.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Karthain.”

“Ha-ha. I mean their guild. Their monopoly.”

“That’s easy. One night a powerful sorcerer knocks on the door of a less-powerful sorcerer. ‘I’m starting an exclusive guild,’ he says. ‘Join me now or I’ll blast you out of your fucking boots right where you stand.’ So naturally the second mage says …”

“ ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to join a guild!’ ”

“Right. Those two go bother a third sorcerer. ‘Join the guild,’ they say, ‘or fight both of us, two on one, right here and right now.’ Repeat as necessary, until three or four hundred guild members are knocking on the door of the last independent mage around, and everyone who said no is dead.”

“They must have weaknesses,” said Locke.

“Of course they’ve got weaknesses, boy. They’re mortal men and women, same as us. They eat, they shit, they age, they die. But they’re like gods-damned hornets; mess with one and the rest show up to punch you full of holes. Thirteen help anyone who kills a Bondsmage, purposely or otherwise.”

“Why?”

“It’s the oldest rule of their guild, a rule without exceptions: kill a Bondsmage, and the whole guild drops whatever it’s doing to come after you. They seek you out by any means they need to use. They kill your friends, your family, your associates. They burn your home. They destroy everything you’ve ever built. Before they finally let you die, they make sure you know that your line has been wiped from the earth, root and branch.”

“So nobody is allowed to oppose them at all?”

“Oh, you can oppose them, all right. You can try to fight back, for what it’s worth when one of them is against you. But if you go as far as killing one, well, it’s just not worth it. Suicide would be preferable; at least then they won’t kill everyone you ever loved or befriended.”

“Wow.”

“Yes.” Chains shook his head. “Sorcery’s impressive enough, but it’s their fucking attitude that makes them such a pain. And that’s why, when you find yourself face to face with one, you bow and scrape and mind your ‘sirs’ and ‘madams.’ ”

5

“NICE BIRD, asshole,” said Locke.

The Bondsmage stared coldly at him, nonplussed.

“So you must be the reason nobody can find your boss. The reason none of the Full Crowns could remember what they were doing when Tall Tesso got nailed to a wall.”

The falcon screeched, and Locke flinched backward; the creature’s anger was extremely expressive. It was more than the cry of an agitated animal; it was somehow personal. Locke raised his eyebrows.

“My familiar mislikes your tone of voice,” said the Falconer. “I for one have always found her judgment to be impeccable. I would mind your tongue.”

“Your boss expects me to do something for him,” said Locke, “which means I have to remain functional. Which means the manner in which I address his fucking Karthani lackeys is immaterial. Some of the garristas you killed were friends of mine. I’m looking at an arranged fucking marriage because of you! So eat hemp and shit rope, Bondsmage.”

The falcon exploded, screeching, from its perch on its master’s hand. Locke raised his left arm in front of his face and the bird slammed against it, talons clutching with edges that sliced through the fabric of Locke’s coat sleeve. The bird fastened itself on Locke’s arm, excruciatingly, and beat its wings to steady itself. Locke hollered and raised his right hand to punch the bird.

“Do that,” said the Falconer, “and die. Look closely at my familiar’s talons.”

Biting the insides of his cheeks against the pain, Locke did just that. The creature’s rear talons weren’t talons at all, but more like smooth curved hooks that narrowed to needle points at their tips. There were strange pulsating sacs on the legs just above them, and even to Locke’s limited knowledge of hunting birds this seemed very wrong.

“Vestris,” said the Gray King, “is a scorpion hawk. A hybrid, facilitated by alchemy and sorcery. One of many that the Bondsmagi amuse themselves with. She carries not just talons, but a sting. If she were to cease being tolerant of you, you might make it ten steps before you fell dead in your tracks.”

Blood began to drip from Locke’s arm; he groaned. The bird snapped at him with its beak, clearly enjoying itself.

“Now,” said the Gray King, “are we not all grown men and birds here? Functional is such a relative state of affairs, Locke. I would hate to have to give you another demonstration of just how relative.”

“I apologize,” said Locke between gritted teeth. “Vestris is a fine and persuasive little bird.”

The Falconer said nothing, but Vestris released her grip on Locke’s left arm, unleashing new spikes of pain. Locke clutched his bloodied wool sleeve, massaging the wounds within it. Vestris fluttered back to her perch on her master’s glove and resumed staring at Locke.

“Isn’t it just as I said, Falconer?” The Gray King beamed at Locke. “Our Thorn knows how to recover his equilibrium. Two minutes ago, he was too scared to think. Now he’s already insulting us and no doubt scheming for a way out of this situation.”

“I don’t understand,” said Locke, “why you keep calling me Thorn.”

“Of course you do,” said the Gray King. “I’m only going to go over this once, Locke. I know about your little burrow beneath the House of Perelandro. Your vault. Your fortune. I know you don’t spend any of your nights sneak-thieving, as you claim to all the other Right People. I know you breach the Secret Peace to spring elaborate confidence schemes on nobles who don’t know any better, and I know you’re good at it. I know you didn’t start these ridiculous rumors about the Thorn of Camorr, but you and I both know they refer to your exploits, indirectly. Lastly, I understand that Capa Barsavi would do some very interesting things to you and all of your Gentlemen Bastards if the things I know were to be confided to him.”

“Oh, please,” said Locke, “you’re not exactly in any position to whisper politely in his ear and be taken seriously.”

“I’m not the one who would be whispering in his ear,” said the Gray King, smiling, “if you failed at the task I have for you. I have others close to him to speak for me. I trust I have made myself very clear.”

Locke glared for a few seconds, then sat down with a sigh, turning his chair around and leaning his injured arm against the back. “I see your point. And in exchange?”

“In exchange, for the task I require, I would promise you that Capa Barsavi won’t hear about your very cleverly arranged double life, nor that of your closest companions.”

“So,” said Locke slowly, “that’s how it is.”

“My Bondsmage excepted, I’m a thrifty man, Locke.” The Gray King stepped out from behind the bar and folded his arms. “You get paid in life, not coin.”

“What’s the task?”

“A straightforward beguilement,” said the Gray King. “I want you to become me.”

“I, ah, I don’t understand.”

“The time has come for me to quit this game of shadows. Barsavi and I need to speak face-to-face. I will very shortly arrange a clandestine conference with the capa, one that will bring him forth from the Floating Grave.”

“Fat chance.”

“In this you must trust me. I’m the architect of his current troubles; I assure you, I know what can bring him out from that soggy fortress of his. But it won’t be me that he’ll speak to. It will be you. The Thorn of Camorr. The greatest mummer this city has ever produced. You, cast in the role of me. Just for one night. A virtuoso performance.”

“A command performance. Why?”

“I will be required elsewhere at that time. The conference is one part of a wider concern.”

“I am personally known to Capa Barsavi and his entire family.”

“You have already convinced the Salvaras that you were two different men. In the same day, no less. I’ll coach you in what I wish you to say and provide you with a suitable wardrobe. Between your skills and my current anonymity, no one will ever be aware that you are even involved, or that you are not the real Gray King.”

“An amusing plan. It has balls, and that appeals to me. But you do realize that I’m going to look like quite the ass,” said Locke, “when the capa opens our conversation with a dozen crossbow bolts to my chest.”

“Hardly an issue. You’ll be quite well protected against routine foolishness on the capa’s part. I’ll be sending the Falconer with you.”

Locke flicked his gaze back to the Bondsmage, who smiled with obvious mock magnanimity.

“Do you really think,” continued the Gray King, “that I would have let you keep that other stiletto in your coat sleeve if any weapon in your hands could touch me? Try to cut me. I’ll let you borrow a crossbow or two, if you like. A quarrel will do no better. The same protection will be yours when you meet with the capa.”

“Then it’s true,” said Locke. “Those stories aren’t just stories. Your pet mage gives you more than just the ability to make my brain lock up like I’ve been drinking all night.”

“Yes. And it was my men who started spreading those stories, for one purpose—I wanted Barsavi’s gangs to so dread my presence that they wouldn’t dare to get close to you when the time came for you to speak to him. After all, I have the power to kill men with a touch.” The Gray King smiled. “And when you’re me, so will you.”

Locke frowned. That smile, that face … There was something damned familiar about the Gray King. Nothing immediately obvious, just a nagging sensation that Locke had been in his presence before. He cleared his throat. “That’s very thoughtful of you. And what happens when I’ve finished this task for you?”

“A parting of the ways,” said the Gray King. “You to your business, and me to my own.”

“I find that somewhat difficult to believe.”

“You’ll leave your meeting with Barsavi alive, Locke. Fear not for what happens after that; I assure you it won’t be as bad as you think. If I merely wanted to assassinate him, can you deny that I could have done it long ago?”

“You’ve killed seven of his garristas. You’ve kept him locked away on the Floating Grave for months. ‘Not as bad as I think’? He killed eight of his own Full Crowns after Tesso died. He won’t accept less than blood from you.”

“Barsavi has kept himself locked away on the Floating Grave, Locke. And as I said, you must trust me to deal with that end of the situation. The capa will acquiesce to what I have to offer him. We’ll settle the question of Camorr once and for all, to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“I grant that you’re dangerous,” said Locke, “but you must be mad.”

“Suit whatever meaning you wish to my actions, Locke, provided that you perform as required.”

“It would appear,” Locke said sourly, “that I have no choice.”

“This is no accident. Are we agreed? You’ll perform this task for me?”

“With instruction in what you wish me to say to Capa Barsavi?”

“Yes.”

“There will be one other condition.”

“Really?”

“If I’m going to do this for you,” said Locke, “I need to have a way to speak to you, or at least get a message to you, at my own will. Something may come up which can’t wait for you to prance around appearing out of nowhere.”

“It’s unlikely,” said the Gray King.

“It’s a necessity. Do you want me to be successful in this task or not?”

“Very well.” The Gray King nodded. “Falconer.”

The Falconer rose from his seat; Vestris never took her eyes from Locke’s. The hawk’s master reached inside his coat with his free hand and withdrew a candle—a tiny cylinder of white wax with an odd smear of crimson swirling through it. “Light this,” said the Bondsmage, “in a place of solitude. You must be absolutely alone. Speak my name, and I will hear and come, soon enough.”

“Thank you.” Locke took the candle with his right hand and slipped it into his own coat. “Falconer. Easy to remember, that.”

Vestris opened her beak, but made no noise. It snapped shut, and the bird blinked. A yawn? Her version of a chuckle at Locke’s expense?

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” said the Bondsmage. “Just as Vestris feels what I feel, I see what she sees.”

“That explains quite a bit,” said Locke.

“If we are agreed,” said the Gray King, “our business here is finished. I have something else to do, and it must be done tonight. Thank you, Master Thorn, for seeing reason.”

“Said the man with the crossbow to the man with the money purse.” Locke stood up and slipped his left hand into a coat pocket; the forearm was still throbbing with pain. “So when is this meeting supposed to take place?”

“Three nights hence,” said the Gray King. “No interruption at all for your Don Salvara game, I trust?”

“I don’t think you really care, but no.”

“All for the better, then. Let us return you to your own affairs.”

“You’re not going to—”

But it was too late; the Falconer had already begun to gesture with his free hand and move his lips, forming words but not quite vocalizing them. The room spun; the orange lantern light became a fading streak of color against the darkness of the room, and then there was only darkness.

6

WHEN LOCKE’S senses returned he found himself standing on the bridge between the Snare and Coin-Kisser’s Row; not a moment had passed by his own personal reckoning, but when he looked up he saw that the clouds were gone, the stars had whirled in the dark sky, and the moons were low in the west.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed. “It’s been hours! Jean’s got to be having fits.”

He thought quickly; Calo and Galdo had planned to spend the evening making their rounds in the Snare, with Bug in tow. They would probably have ended up at the Last Mistake, dicing and drinking and trying not to get thrown out for cardsharping. Jean had intended to spend the night feigning occupancy in the Broken Tower rooms, at least until Locke returned. That would be the closest place to begin hunting for them. Just then, Locke remembered that he was still dressed as Lukas Fehrwight. He slapped his forehead.

He pulled his coat and cravats off, yanked the false optics from the bridge of his nose, and stuffed them in a vest pocket. He gingerly felt the cuts on his left arm; they were deep and still painful, but the blood had crusted on them, so at least he wasn’t dripping all over the place. Gods damn the Gray King, thought Locke, and gods grant I get the chance to balance this night out in the ledger.

He ruffled his hair, unbuttoned his vest, untucked his shirt, and reached down to fold and conceal the ridiculous ribbon tongues of his shoes. His cravats and his decorative belts went into the coat, which Locke then folded up and tied by the sleeves. In the darkness, it bore an excellent resemblance to a plain old cloth sack. With the outward flourishes of Lukas Fehrwight broken down, he could at least pass without notice for a reasonably short period of time. Satisfied, he turned and began to walk quickly down the south side of the bridge, toward the still-lively lights and noises of the Snare.

Jean Tannen actually appeared from an alley and took him by the arm as he turned onto the street on the north side of the Broken Tower, where the main entrance to the Last Mistake opened onto the cobbles. “Locke! Where the hell have you been all night? Are you well?”

“Jean, gods, am I ever glad to see you! I’m far from well, as are you. Where are the others?”

“When you didn’t return,” Jean said, speaking in a low voice close to Locke’s ear, “I found them in the Last Mistake and sent them up to our rooms, with Bug. I’ve been pacing the alleys down here, trying to keep out of sight. I didn’t want us all getting scattered across the city by night. I … we feared …”

“I was taken, Jean. But then I was let go. Let’s get up to the rooms. We have a new problem, fresh from the oven and hot as hell.”

7

THEY LET the windows in their rooms stay open this time, with thin sheets of translucent mesh drawn down to keep out biting insects. The sky was turning gray, with lines of red visible just beneath the eastern windowsills, when Locke finished relating the events of the night. His listeners had shadows beneath their bleary eyes, but none showed any indication of sleepiness just then.

“At least we know now,” Locke finished, “that he won’t be trying to kill me like he did the other garristas.”

“Not until three nights hence, anyway,” said Galdo.

“Bastard simply can’t be trusted,” said Bug.

“But for the time being,” said Locke, “he must be obeyed.”

Locke had changed into spare clothes; he now looked much more suitably low-class. Jean had insisted on washing his arm with reinforced wine, heated to near boiling on an alchemical hearthstone. Locke now had a compress of brandy-soaked cloth pressed to it, and he bathed it in the light of a small white glow-globe. It was common knowledge among the physikers of Camorr that light drove back malodorous air and helped prevent lingering infections.

“Must he?” Calo scratched a stubbly chin. “How far do you figure we can get if we run like hell?”

“From the Gray King, who knows?” Locke sighed. “From the Bondsmage, not far enough, ever.”

“So we just sit back,” said Jean, “and let him pull your strings, like a marionette onstage.”

“I was rather taken,” said Locke, “with the whole idea of him not telling Capa Barsavi about our confidence games, yes.”

“This whole thing is mad,” said Galdo. “You said you saw three rings on this Falconer’s wrist?”

“The one that didn’t have the damn scorpion hawk, yeah.”

“Three rings,” Jean muttered. “It is mad. To keep one of those people in Service.… It must be two months now since the first stories of the Gray King appeared. Since the first garrista got it.… Who was it, again?”

“Gil the Cutter, from the Rum Hounds,” said Calo.

“The coin involved has to be … ludicrous. I doubt the duke could keep a Bondsmage of rank on for this long. So who the fuck is this Gray King, and how is he paying for this?”

“Immaterial,” said Locke. “Three nights hence, or two and a half now that the sun’s coming up, there’ll be two Gray Kings, and I’ll be one of them.”

“Thirteen,” said Jean. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

“So that’s the bad news. Capa Barsavi wants me to marry his daughter and now the Gray King wants me to impersonate him at a secret meeting with Capa Barsavi.” Locke grinned. “The good news is I didn’t get any blood on that new promissory note for four thousand crowns.”

“I’ll kill him,” said Bug. “Get me poisoned quarrels and an alley-piece and I’ll drill him in the eyes.”

“Bug,” said Locke, “that makes leaping off a temple roof sound reasonable by comparison.”

“But who would ever expect it?” Bug, sitting beneath one of the room’s eastern windows, turned his head to stare out it for a few moments, as he had been intermittently doing all night. “Look, everyone knows that one of you four could kill them. But nobody would expect me! Total surprise. One shot in the face, no more Gray King!”

“Assuming the Falconer allowed your crossbow bolts to hit his client,” said Locke, “he would probably cook us where we stood right after that. Also, I very much doubt that fucking bird is going to be fluttering around this tower where we can see it.”

“You never know,” said Bug. “I think I saw it before, when we made first touch on Don Salvara.”

“I’m pretty sure I did, too.” Calo was knuckle-walking a solon on his left hand, without looking at it. “While I was strangling you, Locke. Something flew overhead. Damn big and fast for a wren or a sparrow.”

“So,” said Jean, “he really has been watching us and he really knows all there is to know about us. Knuckling under might be wiser for the time being, but we’ve got to have some contingencies we can cook up.”

“Should we call off the Don Salvara game now?” asked Bug, meekly.

“Hmmm? No.” Locke shook his head vigorously. “There’s absolutely no reason, for the time being.”

“How,” said Galdo, “do you figure that?”

“The reason we discussed shortening the game was to keep our heads down and try to avoid getting killed by the Gray King. Now we can be pretty damn sure that won’t happen, at least not for three days. So the Salvara game stays in play.”

“For three days, yes. Until the Gray King has no further use for you.” Jean spat. “Next step in whatever the plans are: ‘Thanks for your cooperation, here’s a complimentary knife in the back for all of you.’ ”

“It’s a possibility,” said Locke. “So what we do is this: Jean, you scuttle around today after you’ve had some sleep. Cancel those arrangements for sea travel. If we need to run, waiting for a ship to put out will take too long. Likewise, drop more gold at the Viscount’s Gate. If we go out, we go out by land, and I want that gate swinging wider and faster than a whorehouse door.

“Calo, Galdo, you find us a wagon. Stash it behind the temple; set it up with tarps and rope for fast packing. Get us food and drink for the road. Simple stuff, sturdy stuff. Spare cloaks. Plain clothing. You know what to do. If any Right People spot you at work, maybe drop a hint that we’re after a fat score in the next few days. Barsavi would like that, if it gets back to him.

“Bug, tomorrow you and I are going to go through the vault. We’ll bring up every coin in there, and we’re going to pack them in canvas sacks, for easy transport. If we have to run, I want to be able to throw the whole mess on the back of our wagon in just a few minutes.”

“Makes sense,” said Bug.

“So, Sanzas, you stick together,” said Locke. “Bug, you’re with me. Nobody goes it alone, for any length of time, except Jean. You’re the least likely to get troubled, if the Gray King’s got anything less than an army hidden in the city.”

“Oh, you know me.” Jean reached behind his neck, down behind the loose leather vest he wore over his simple cotton tunic. He withdrew a pair of matching hatchets, each a foot and a half in length, with leather-wrapped handles and straight black blades that narrowed like scalpels. These were balanced with balls of blackened steel, each as wide around as a silver solon. The Wicked Sisters—Jean’s weapons of choice. “I never travel alone. It’s always the three of us.”

“Right, then.” Locke yawned. “If we need any other bright ideas, we can conjure them when we wake up. Let’s set something heavy against the door, shut the windows, and start snoring.”

The Gentlemen Bastards had just stumbled to their feet to begin putting this sensible plan into action when Jean held up one hand for silence. The stairs outside the door on the north wall of the chamber were creaking under the weight of many feet. A moment later, someone was banging on the door itself.

“Lamora,” came a loud male voice, “open up! Capa’s business!”

Jean slipped his hatchets into one hand and put that hand behind his back, then stood against the north wall, a few feet to the right of the door. Calo and Galdo reached under their shirts for their daggers, Galdo pushing Bug back behind him as they did so. Locke stood in the center of the room, remembering that his stilettos were still wrapped up in his Fehrwight coat.

“What’s the price of a loaf,” he shouted, “at the Shifting Market?”

“One copper flat, but the loaves ain’t dry,” came the response. Locke untensed just a bit—that was this week’s proper greeting and countersign, and if they’d been coming to haul him off for anything bloody, well, they’d have simply kicked in the door. Signaling with his hands for everyone to stay calm, he drew out the bolt and slid the front door open just wide enough to peek out.

There were four men on the platform outside his door, seventy feet in the air above the Last Mistake. The sky was the color of murky canal water behind them, with just a few twinkling stars vanishing slowly here and there. They were hard-looking men, standing ready and easy like trained fighters, wearing leather tunics, leather collars, and red cloth bandannas under black leather caps. Red Hands—the gang Barsavi turned to when he needed muscle work and he needed it fast.

“Begging your pardon, brother.” The apparent leader of the Red Hands put one arm up against the door. “Big man wants to see Locke Lamora right this very moment, and he don’t care what state he’s in, and he won’t let us take no for an answer.”

INTERLUDE

Jean Tannen

1

In the year that followed Locke grew, but not as much as he would have liked. Although it was difficult to guess his true age with any hope of accuracy, it was obvious that he was more than a little runty for it.

“You missed a few meals, in your very early years,” Chains told him. “You’ve done much better since you came here, to be sure, but I suspect you’ll always be a bit on the … medium side.”

“Always?”

“Don’t be too upset.” Chains put his hands on his own round belly and chuckled. “A little man can slip out of a pinch that a greater man might find inescapable.”

There was further schooling. More sums, more history, more maps, more languages. Once Locke and the Sanzas had a firm grasp of conversational Vadran, Chains began having them instructed in the art of accents. A few hours each week were spent in the company of an old Vadran sail-mender who would chide them for their “fumble-mouthed mangling” of the northern tongue while he drove his long, wicked needles through yard upon yard of folded canvas. They would chat about any subject on the old man’s mind, and he would fastidiously correct every consonant that was too short and every vowel that was too long. He would also get steadily more red-faced and belligerent as each session went on, for Chains paid him in wine for his services.

There were trials—some trivial and some quite harsh. Chains tested his boys constantly, almost ruthlessly, but when he was finished with each new conundrum he always took them to the temple roof to explain what he’d wanted, what the hardships signified. His openness after the fact made his games easier to bear, and they had the added effect of uniting Locke, Calo, and Galdo against the world around them. The more Chains tightened the screws, the closer the boys grew, the more smoothly they worked together, the less they had to say out loud to set a plan in motion.

The coming of Jean Tannen changed all that.

It was the month of Saris in the Seventy-seventh Year of Iono, the end of an unusually dry and cool autumn. Storms had lashed the Iron Sea but spared Camorr, by some trick of the winds or the gods, and the nights were finer than any in Locke’s living memory. He was sitting the steps with Father Chains, flexing his fingers, eagerly awaiting the rise of Falselight, when he spotted the Thiefmaker walking across the square toward the House of Perelandro.

Two years had removed some of the dread Locke had once felt toward his former master, but there was no denying that the skinny old fellow retained a certain grotesque magnetism. The Thiefmaker’s spindly fingers spread as he bowed from the waist, and his eyes lit up when they seized on Locke.

“My dear, bedeviling little boy, what a pleasure it is to see you leading a productive life in the Order of Perelandro.”

“He owes his success to your early discipline, of course.” Chains’ smile spread beneath his blindfold. “It’s what helped to make him the resolute and morally upright youth he is today.”

“Upright?” The Thiefmaker squinted at Locke, feigning concentration. “I’d be hard-pressed to say he’s grown an inch. But no matter. I’ve brought you the boy we discussed, the one from the North Corner. Step forward, Jean. You can’t hide behind me any more than you could hide under a copper coin.”

There was indeed a boy standing behind the Thiefmaker; when the old man shooed him out into plain view, Locke saw that he was about his own age, perhaps ten, and in every other respect his opposite. The new boy was fat, red-faced, shaped like a dirty pear with a greasy mop of black hair atop his head. His eyes were wide and shocked; he clenched and unclenched his soft hands nervously.

“Ahhh,” said Chains, “ahhh. I can’t see him, but then, the qualities the Lord of the Overlooked desires in his servants cannot be seen by any man. Are you penitent, my boy? Are you sincere? Are you as upright as those our charitable celestial master has already taken into his fold?”

He gave Locke a pat on the back, manacles and chains rattling. Locke, for his part, stared at the newcomer and said nothing.

“I hope so, sir,” said Jean, in a voice that was soft and haunted.

“Well,” said the Thiefmaker, “hope is what we all build lives for ourselves upon, is it not? The good Father Chains is your master now, boy. I leave you to his care.”

“Not mine, but that of the higher Power I serve,” said Chains. “Oh, before you leave, I just happened to find this purse sitting on my temple steps earlier today.” He held out a fat little leather bag, stuffed with coins, and waved it in the Thiefmaker’s general direction. “Is it yours, by chance?”

“Why, so it is! So it is!” The Thiefmaker plucked the purse from Chains’ hands and made it vanish into the pockets of his weather-eaten coat. “What a fortunate coincidence that is.” He bowed once more, turned, and began to walk back in the direction of Shades’ Hill, whistling tunelessly.

Chains arose, rubbed his legs, and clapped his hands. “Let us call an end to our public duties for the day. Jean, this is Locke Lamora, one of my initiates. Please help him carry this kettle in to the sanctuary. Careful, it’s heavy.”

The thin boy and the fat boy heaved the kettle up the steps and into the damp sanctuary; the Eyeless Priest groped along his chains, gathering the slack and dragging it with him until he was safely inside. Locke worked the wall mechanism to slide the temple doors shut, and Chains settled himself down in the middle of the sanctuary floor.

“The kindly gentleman,” said Chains, “who delivered you into my care said that you could speak, read, and write in three languages.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jean, gazing around him in trepidation. “Therin, Vadran, and Issavrai.”

“Very good. And you can do complex sums? Ledger-balancing?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Then you can help me count the day’s takings. But first, come over here and give me your hand. That’s it. Let us see if you have any of the gifts necessary to become an initiate of this temple, Jean Tannen.”

“What … what must I do?”

“Simply place your hands on my blindfold.… No, stand easy. Close your eyes. Concentrate. Let whatever virtuous thoughts you have within you bubble to the surface.…”

2

“I DON’T like him,” said Locke. “I don’t like him at all.”

He and Chains were preparing the breakfast meal early the next morning; Locke was simmering up a soup from sliced onions and irregular little brown cubes of reduced beef stock, while Chains was attempting to crack the wax seal on a honey crock. His bare fingers and nails having failed, he was hacking at it with a stiletto and muttering to himself.

“Don’t like him at all? That’s rather silly,” said Chains, his voice distant, “since he’s not yet been here a single day.”

“He’s fat. He’s soft. He’s not one of us.”

“He most certainly is. We showed him the temple and the burrow; he took oath as my pezon. I’ll go see the capa with him in just a day or two.”

“I don’t mean one of us, Gentlemen Bastards, I mean one of us, us. He’s not a thief. He’s a soft fat—”

“Merchant. Son of merchant parents is what he is. But he’s a thief now.”

“He didn’t steal things! He didn’t charm or tease! He said he was in the hill for a few days before he got brought here. So he’s not one of us.”

“Locke.” Chains turned from the business of the honey crock and stared down at him, frowning. “Jean Tannen is a thief because I’m going to train him as a thief. You do recall that’s what I train here; thieves of a very particular sort. This hasn’t slipped your mind?”

“But he’s—”

“He’s better-learned than any of you. Scribes in a clean, smooth hand. Understands business, ledgers, money-shifts, and a great many other things. Your former master knew I’d want him right away.”

“He’s fat.”

“So am I. And you’re ugly. Calo and Galdo have noses like siege engines. Sabetha had spots breaking out last we saw her. Did you have a point?”

“He kept us up all night. He was crying, and he wouldn’t shut up.”

“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice from behind them. Locke and Chains turned (the latter much more slowly than the former); Jean Tannen was standing by the door to the sleeping quarters, red-eyed. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it.”

“Ha!” Chains turned back to his stiletto and his honey crock. “Looks as though boys who live in glass burrows shouldn’t speak so loudly of those in the next room.”

“Well, don’t do it again, Jean,” said Locke, hopping down from the wooden step he still used to reach the top of the cooking hearth. He crossed to one of the spice cabinets and began shuffling jars, looking for something. “Shut up and let us sleep. Calo and Galdo and I don’t blubber.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jean, sounding close to tears again. “I’m sorry, it’s just … my mother. My father. I … I’m an orphan.”

“So what?” Locke took down a little glass bottle of pickled radishes, sealed with a stone stopper like an alchemical potion. “I’m an orphan. We’re all orphans here. Whining won’t make your family live again.”

Locke turned and took two steps back toward the cooking hearth, so he didn’t see Jean cross the space between them. He did feel Jean’s arm wrap around his neck from behind; it might have been soft but it was damned heavy, for a ten-year-old. Locke lost his grip on the pickled radishes; Jean picked him off the ground by main force, whirled, and heaved him.

Locke’s feet left the ground at the same time the radish jar shattered against it; a confused second later the back of Locke’s head bounced off the heavy witchwood dining table and he fell to the ground, landing painfully on his rather bony posterior.

“You shut up!” There was nothing subdued about Jean now; he was screaming, red-faced, with tears pouring out of his eyes. “You shut your filthy mouth! You never talk about my family!”

Locke put up his hands and tried to stand up; one of Jean’s fists grew in his field of vision until it seemed to blot out half the world. The blow folded him over like a bread-pretzel. When he recovered something resembling his senses he was hugging a table leg; the room was dancing a minuet around him.

“Wrrblg,” he said, his mouth full of blood and pain.

“Now, Jean,” said Chains, pulling the heavyset boy away from Locke. “I think your message is rather thoroughly delivered.”

“Ugh. That really hurt,” said Locke.

“It’s only fair.” Chains released Jean, who balled his fists and stood glaring at Locke, shuddering. “You really deserved it.”

“Huh … wha?”

“Sure we’re all orphans here. My parents were long dead before you were even born. Your parents are years gone. Same for Calo and Galdo and Sabetha. But Jean,” said Chains, “lost his only five nights ago.”

“Oh.” Locke sat up, groaning. “I didn’t … I didn’t know.”

“Well, then.” Chains finally succeeded in prying open the honey crock; the wax seal split with an audible crack. “When you don’t know everything you could know, it’s a fine time to shut your fucking noisemaker and be polite.”

“It was a fire.” Jean took a few deep breaths, still staring at Locke. “They burned to death. The whole shop. Everything gone.” He turned and walked back to the sleeping quarters, head down, rubbing at his eyes.

Chains turned his back on Locke and began stirring the honey, breaking up the little patches of crystallization.

There was an echoing clang from the fall of the secret door that led down from the temple above; a moment later Calo and Galdo appeared in the kitchen, each twin dressed in his white initiate’s robe, each one balancing a long, soft loaf of bread atop his head.

“We have returned,” said Calo.

“With bread!”

“Which is obvious!”

“No, you’re obvious!”

The twins stopped short when they saw Locke pulling himself up by the edge of the table, lips swollen, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.

“What did we miss?” asked Galdo.

“Boys,” said Chains, “I might have forgotten to tell you something when I introduced you to Jean and showed him around last night. Your old master from Shades’ Hill warned me that while Jean is mostly soft-spoken, the boy has one hell of a colorful temper.”

Shaking his head, Chains stepped over to Locke and helped him stand upright. “When the world stops spinning,” he said, “don’t forget that you’ve got broken glass and radishes to clean up, too.”

3

LOCKE AND Jean maintained a healthy distance from one another at the dinner table that night, saying nothing. Calo and Galdo exchanged exasperated looks approximately several hundred times per minute, but made no attempts at conversation themselves. Preparations for the meal were conducted in near silence, with Chains apparently happy to oblige his sullen crew.

Once Locke and Jean had seated themselves at the table, Chains set a carved ivory box down before each of them. The boxes were about a foot long and a foot wide, with hinged covers. Locke immediately recognized them as Determiner’s Boxes, delicate Verrari devices that used clockwork, sliding tiles, and rotating wooden knobs to enable a trained user to rapidly conduct certain mathematical operations. He’d been taught the basics of the device, but it had been months since he’d last used one.

“Locke and Jean,” said Father Chains, “if you would be so kind. I have nine hundred and ninety-five Camorri solons, and I am taking ship for Tal Verrar. I should very much like to have them converted to solari when I arrive, the solari currently being worth, ah, four-fifths of one Camorri full crown. How many solari will the changers owe me before their fee is deducted?”

Jean immediately flipped open the lid on his box and set to work, fiddling knobs, flicking tiles, and sliding little wooden rods back and forth. Locke, flustered, followed suit. His own nervous fiddlings with the machine were nowhere near fast enough, for Jean shortly announced, “Thirty-one full solari, with about nine hundredths of one left over.” He stuck out the tip of his tongue and calculated for a few more seconds. “Four silver volani and two coppers.”

“Marvelous,” said Chains. “Jean, you can eat this evening. Locke, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Thank you for trying, nonetheless. You may spend dinner in your quarters, if you wish.”

“What?” Locke felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. “But that’s not how it worked before! You always gave us individual problems! And I haven’t used this box for—”

“Would you like another problem, then?”

“Yes!”

“Very well. Jean, would you indulge us by doing it as well? Now … a Jereshti galleon sails the Iron Sea, and her captain is quite the penitent fellow. Every hour on the hour he has a sailor throw a loaf of ships’ biscuit into the sea as an offering to Iono. Each loaf weighs fourteen ounces; the captain is a remarkably neat fellow as well. The captain keeps his biscuit in casks, a quarter-ton apiece. He sails for one week even. How many casks does he open? And how much biscuit does the Lord of the Grasping Waters get?”

Again the boys worked their boxes, and again Jean looked up while Locke, little beads of sweat clearly visible on his little forehead, was still working. “He only opens one cask,” Jean said, “and he uses one hundred and forty-seven pounds of biscuit.”

Father Chains clapped softly. “Very good, Jean. You’ll still be eating with us tonight. As for you, Locke, well … I shall call you when the clearing-up needs to be done.”

“This is ridiculous,” Locke huffed. “He works the box better than I do! You set this up for me to lose.”

“Ridiculous, is it? You’ve been putting on airs recently, my dear boy. You’ve reached that certain age where many boys seem to just sort of fold up their better judgment and set it aside for a few years. Hell, Sabetha’s done it, too. Part of the reason I sent her off to where she is at the moment. Anyhow, it seems to me that your nose is tilting a little high in the air for someone with a death-mark around his throat.”

Locke’s blush deepened. Jean snuck a furtive glance at him; Calo and Galdo, who already knew about the shark’s tooth, stared fixedly at their empty plates and glasses.

“The world is full of conundrums that will tax your skills. Do you presume that you will always get to choose the ones that best suit your strengths? If I wanted to send a boy to impersonate a money-changer’s apprentice, who do you think I’d give the job to, if I had to choose between yourself and Jean? It’s no choice at all.”

“I … suppose.”

“You suppose too much. You deride your new brother because his figure aspires to the noble girth of my own.” Chains rubbed his stomach and grinned mirthlessly. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that he fits in some places even better than you do, because of it? Jean looks like a merchant’s son, like a well-fed noble, like a plump little scholar. His appearance could be as much an asset to him as yours is to you.”

“I guess.…”

“And if you needed any further demonstration that he can do things you cannot, well, why don’t I instruct him to wallop the shit out of you one more time?”

Locke attempted to spontaneously shrink down inside his tunic and vanish into thin air; failing, he hung his head.

“I’m sorry,” said Jean. “I hope I didn’t hurt you badly.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Locke mumbled. “I suppose I really did deserve it.”

“The threat of an empty stomach soon rekindles wisdom.” Chains smirked. “Hardships are arbitrary, Locke. You never know which particular quality in yourself or a fellow is going to get you past them. For example, raise your hands if your surname happens to be Sanza.”

Calo and Galdo did so, a bit hesitantly.

“Anyone with the surname Sanza,” said Chains, “may join our new brother Jean Tannen in dining this evening.”

“I love being used as an example!” said Galdo.

“Anyone with the surname Lamora,” said Chains, “may eat, but first he will serve forth all the courses, and attend on Jean Tannen.”

So Locke scuttled about, embarrassment and relief mingled on his face. The meal was roasted capon stuffed with garlic and onions, with grapes and figs scalded in a hot wine sauce on the side. Father Chains poured all of his usual prayer toasts, dedicating the last to “Jean Tannen, who lost one family but came to another soon enough.”

At that Jean’s eyes watered, and the boy lost whatever good cheer the food had brought to him. Noticing this, Calo and Galdo took action to salvage his mood.

“That was really good, what you did with the box,” said Calo.

“None of us can work it that fast,” said Galdo.

“And we’re good with sums!”

“Or at least,” said Galdo, “we thought we were, until we met you.”

“It was nothing,” said Jean. “I can be even faster. I am … I meant to say …”

He looked nervously at Father Chains before continuing.

“I need optics. Reading optics, for things up close. I can’t see right without them. I, um, I could work a box even faster if I had them. But … I lost mine. One of the boys in Shades’ Hill …”

“You shall have new ones,” said Chains. “Tomorrow or the next day. Don’t wear them in public; it might contravene our air of poverty. But you can certainly wear them in here.”

“You couldn’t even see straight,” asked Locke, “when you beat me?”

“I could see a little bit,” said Jean. “It’s all sort of blurry. That’s why I was leaning back so far.”

“A mathematical terror,” mused Father Chains, “and a capable little brawler. What an interesting combination the Benefactor has given the Gentlemen Bastards in young Master Tannen. And he is a Gentleman Bastard, isn’t he, Locke?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “I suppose he is.”

4

THE NEXT night was clear and dry; all the moons were up, shining like sovereigns in the blackness with the stars for their court. Jean Tannen sat beneath one parapet wall on the temple roof, a book held out before him at arm’s length. Two oil lamps in glass boxes sat beside him, outlining him in warm yellow light.

“I don’t mean to bother you,” said Locke, and Jean looked up, startled.

“Gods! You’re quiet.”

“Not all the time.” Locke stepped to within a few feet of the larger boy. “I can be very loud, when I’m being stupid.”

“I … um …”

“Can I sit?”

Jean nodded, and Locke plopped down beside him. He folded his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“I am sorry,” said Locke. “I guess I really can be a shit sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean … When I hit you, it just … I’m not myself. When I’m angry.”

“You did right. I didn’t know, about your mother and your father. I’m sorry. I should … I shouldn’t have presumed. I’ve had a long time … to get used to it, you know.”

The two boys said nothing for a few moments after that; Jean closed his book and stared up at the sky.

“You know, I might not even be one after all,” Locke said. “A real orphan, I mean.”

“How so?”

“Well, my … my mother’s dead. I saw that. I know that. But my father … he, um. He went away when I was very little. I don’t remember him; never knew him.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jean.

“We’re both sorry a lot, aren’t we? I think he might have been a sailor or something. Maybe a mercenary, you know? Mother never wanted to talk about him. I don’t know. I could be wrong.”

“My father was a good man,” said Jean. “He was … They both had a shop in North Corner. They shipped leathers and silks and some gems. All over the Iron Sea, some trips inland. I helped them. Not shipping, of course, but record-keeping. Counting. And I took care of the cats. We had nine. Mama used to say … she used to say that I was her only child who didn’t go about … on all fours.”

He sniffled a bit and wiped his eyes. “I seem to have used up all my tears,” he said. “I don’t know what to feel about all this anymore. My parents taught me to be honest, that the laws and the gods abhor thieving. But now I find out thieving has its very own god. And I can either starve on the street or be comfortable here.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Locke. “I’ve never done anything else, as long as I can remember. Thieving is an honest trade, when you look at it like we do. We can work really hard at it, sometimes.” Locke reached inside his tunic and brought out a soft cloth bag. “Here,” he said, handing it over to Jean.

“What … what’s this?”

“You said you needed optics.” Locke smiled. “There’s a lens-grinder over in the Videnza who’s older than the gods. He doesn’t watch his shop window like he ought to. I lifted some pairs for you.”

Jean shook the bag open and found himself looking down at three pairs of optics; there were two circular sets of lenses in gilt wire frames, and a square set with silver rims.

“I … thank you, Locke!” He held each pair up to his eyes and squinted through them in turn, frowning slightly. “I don’t … quite know … um, I’m not ungrateful, not at all, but none of these will work.” He pointed at his eyes and smiled sheepishly. “Lenses need to be made for the wearer’s problem. There’s some for people who can’t see long ways, and I think that’s what these pairs are for. But I’m what they call close-blind, not far-blind.”

“Oh. Damn.” Locke scratched the back of his neck and smiled sheepishly. “I don’t wear them; I didn’t know. I really am an idiot.”

“Not at all. I can keep the rims and do something with them, maybe. Rims break. I can just set proper lenses in them. They’ll be spares. Thank you again.”

The boys sat in silence for a short while after that, but this time it was a companionable silence. Jean leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Locke stared up at the moons, straining to see the little blue and green specks Chains had once told him were the forests of the gods. Eventually, Jean cleared his throat.

“So you’re really good at … stealing things?”

“I have to be good at something. It’s not fighting and it’s not mathematics, I guess.”

“You, um … Father Chains told me about this thing you can do, if you pray to the Benefactor. He called it a death-offering. Do you know about that?”

“Oh,” said Locke, “I know all about it, truth of all thirteen gods, cross my heart and pray to die.”

“I’d like to do that. For my mother and my father. But I … I’ve never stolen anything. Can you maybe help me?”

“Teach you how to steal so you can do a proper offering?”

“Yes.” Jean sighed. “I guess if this is where the gods have put me I should bend to local custom.”

“Can you teach me how to use a numbers-box so I look less like a half-wit next time?”

“I think so,” said Jean.

“Then it’s settled!” Locke jumped back up to his feet and spread his hands wide. “Tomorrow, Calo and Galdo can plant their asses on the temple steps. You and I will go out and plunder!”

“That sounds dangerous,” said Jean.

“For anyone else, maybe. For Gentlemen Bastards, well, it’s just what we do.”

“We?”

“We.”

CHAPTER SIX

LIMITATIONS

1

THE RED HANDS led Locke up the long gangway to the Floating Grave just as the scarlet sun broke above the dark buildings of the Ashfall district. The whole Wooden Waste turned to blood in that light, and when Locke blinked to clear the brightness from his eyes, even the darkness flashed with red.

Locke struggled to keep his head clear; the combination of nervous excitement and fatigue always made him feel as though he was sliding along an inch or two above the ground, his feet not quite reaching all the way down. There were sentries on the quay, sentries at the doors, sentries in the foyer—more than there had been before. They were all grim-faced and silent as the Red Hands led Locke deeper into the capa’s floating fortress. The inner clockwork doors weren’t locked.

Capa Barsavi stood in the middle of his great audience chamber, facing away from Locke, his head bowed and his hands behind his back. Curtains had been drawn away from the high glass windows on the eastern side of the galleon’s hull. Red fingers of light fell on Barsavi, his sons, a large wooden cask, and a long object that lay covered on a portable wooden bier.

“Father,” said Anjais, “it’s Lamora.”

Capa Barsavi grunted and turned. He stared at Locke for a few seconds, his eyes glassy and dead. He waved his left hand. “Leave us,” he said. “Leave us now.”

Heads down, Anjais and Pachero hurried out of the room, dragging the Red Hands with them. A moment later the hall echoed with the sound of the doors slamming shut and the clockwork locks tumbling into position.

“Your Honor,” said Locke. “What’s going on?”

“The bastard. The bastard killed her, Locke.”

“What?”

“He killed Nazca. Last night. Left us … the body, just a few hours ago.”

Locke stared at Barsavi, dumbfounded, aware that his mouth was hanging open.

“But … but she was here, wasn’t she?”

“She left.” Barsavi was clenching and unclenching his fists. “She snuck off, near as we can tell, or she was taken. Second or third hour of the morning. She … she was returned at half past the fourth hour of the morning.”

“Returned? By whom?”

“Come. See.”

Vencarlo Barsavi drew back the cloth that covered the bier, and there lay Nazca—her skin waxy, her eyes closed, her hair damp. Two livid purple bruises marred the otherwise smooth skin on the left side of her neck. Locke felt his eyes stinging, and he found himself biting down hard on the first knuckle of his right index finger.

“See what the bastard has done,” Barsavi said softly. “She was the living memory of her mother. My only daughter. I would rather be dead than see this.” Tears began sliding down the old man’s cheeks. “She has been … washed.”

“Washed? What do you mean?”

“She was returned,” said the Capa, “in that.” He gestured to the cask, which stood upright a few feet to the side of the bier.

“In a barrel?”

“Look inside.”

Locke slid the barrel’s cover back and recoiled as the full stench of the barrel’s contents wafted out at him.

It was full of urine. Horse urine, dark and cloudy.

Locke whirled away from the cask and clapped both hands over his mouth, his stomach spasming.

“Not just killed,” said Barsavi, “but drowned. Drowned in horse piss.”

Locke growled, fighting tears. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe it. This doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

He moved back beside the bier and took another look at Nazca’s neck. The purple bruises were actually raised bumps; straight red scratches were visible just in front of them. Locke stared at them, thinking back to the feel of talons in his own skin. The injury on his forearm still burned.

“Your Honor,” he said slowly, “maybe she was … returned in that thing, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t drown in it.”

“What can you possibly mean?”

“The marks on her neck, the little scratches beside them?” Locke extemporized, keeping his voice level and his face neutral. What would sound plausible? “I’ve, ah, seen them before, several years ago in Talisham. I saw a man murdered by a scorpion hawk. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

“Yes,” said the capa, “an unnatural hybrid, some sort of creature dreamed up by the sorcerers of Karthain. Is that … the marks on her neck? Can you be sure?”

“She was stung by a scorpion hawk,” Locke said. “The talon marks beside the wounds are clear. She would have been dead almost instantly.”

“So he merely … pickled her, afterward,” Barsavi whispered. “To increase the insult. To cut me more cruelly.”

“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I know it … it can’t be much comfort.”

“If you’re right, it was a much quicker death.” Barsavi pulled the cloth back up over her head, running his fingers through her hair one last time before he covered her completely. “If that is the only comfort I can pray that my little girl received, I will pray for it. That gray bastard will receive no such comfort when his time comes. I swear it.”

“Why would he do this?” Locke ran both of his hands through his hair, wide-eyed with agitation. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why her, why now?”

“He can tell you himself,” said Barsavi.

“What? I don’t understand.”

Capa Barsavi reached into his vest and drew out a folded piece of parchment. He passed it over to Locke, who opened the fold and saw that a note was scribed there in a clean, even hand:

BARSAVI

FOR THE NECESSITY OF WHAT WAS DONE, WE APOLOGIZE, THOUGH IT WAS DONE TO FACILITATE YOUR UNDERSTANDING OF OUR POWER, AND THEREFORE YOUR COOPERATION. WE EARNESTLY DESIRE A MEETING WITH YOURSELF, MAN TO MAN IN ALL COURTESY, TO SETTLE ONCE AND FOR ALL BETWEEN US THIS MATTER OF CAMORR. WE SHALL BE IN ATTENDANCE AT THE ECHO HOLE, AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR OF THE EVENING, ON THE DUKE’S DAY THREE NIGHTS HENCE. WE SHALL BE ALONE AND UNARMED, THOUGH YOU FOR YOUR PART MAY BRING AS MANY COUNSELORS AS YOU WISH, AND YOU MAY ARM THEM AS YOU WISH. MAN TO MAN, WE MAY DISCUSS OUR SITUATION—AND WITH THE KIND FAVOR OF THE GODS, PERHAPS ABJURE THE NEED FOR YOU TO LOSE ANY MORE OF YOUR LOYAL SUBJECTS, OR ANY MORE OF YOUR OWN FLESH AND BLOOD.

“I don’t believe it,” said Locke. “Meet in good faith, after this?”

“He cannot be Camorri,” said Barsavi. “I have become Camorri, in my years here. I am more of this place than many who were born here. But this man?” Barsavi shook his head vigorously. “He cannot understand what an infamy he has done to ‘get my attention’; what an insult my sons and I must bear if I negotiate with him. He wastes his time with his letter—and look, the royal ‘we.’ What an affectation!”

“Your Honor … what if he does understand what he’s done?”

“The possibility is very remote, Locke.” The capa chuckled sadly. “Or else he would not have done it.”

“Not if you presume that the meeting at the Echo Hole is an ambush. That he wants to get you off the Floating Grave and into a place where he has prepared some real harm for you.”

“Your prudence again.” Barsavi smiled without humor. “The thought has occurred to me, Locke. But if he wanted me dead, why not strike from surprise months ago, before he started killing my garristas? No, I believe he genuinely thinks that if he frightens me enough, I will negotiate in good faith. I am indeed going to the Echo Hole. We shall have our meeting. And for my counselors, I will bring my sons, my Berangias sisters, and a hundred of my best and my cruelest. And I will bring you and your friend Jean.”

Locke’s heart beat against the inside of his chest like a trapped bird. He wanted to scream.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course! Jean and I will do anything you ask. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“Good. Because the only negotiation we’ll be doing is with bolt, blade, and fist. I’ve got a surprise for that gray piece of shit, if he thinks to dictate terms to me over the body of my only daughter!”

Locke ground his teeth together. I know what can bring him out from that soggy fortress of his, the Gray King had said.

“Capa Barsavi,” said Locke, “have you considered … well, the things they say about the Gray King? He can kill men with a touch, he can walk through walls; he can’t be harmed by blades or by arrows.…”

“Stories told in wine. He does as I did, when I first took this city; he hides himself well and he chooses his targets wisely.” The capa sighed. “I admit that he is good at it, perhaps as good as I was. But he’s not a ghost.”

“There is another possibility,” said Locke, licking his lips. How much of what was said here might reach the Gray King’s ears? He’d unraveled the secrets of the Gentlemen Bastards thoroughly enough. To hell with him. “The possibility of a … Bondsmage.”

“Aiding the Gray King?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been vexing my city for months, Locke. It might explain some things, yes, but the price … Even I could not pay a Bondsmage for that length of time.”

“Scorpion hawks,” said Locke, “aren’t just created by the Bondsmagi. As far as I know, only Bondsmagi themselves keep them. Could an ordinary … falconer train a bird that could kill him with one accidental sting?” Bullshit well, he thought. Bullshit very well. “The Gray King wouldn’t need to have kept one this whole time. What if the Bondsmage is newly arrived? What if the Bondsmage has only been hired for the next few days, the critical point of whatever the Gray King’s scheme is? The rumors about the Gray King’s powers … could have been spread to prepare for all of this.”

“Fantastical,” said Barsavi, “and yet it would explain much.”

“It would explain why the Gray King is willing to meet you alone and unarmed. With a Bondsmage to shield him, he could appear both yet be neither.”

“Then my response is unchanged.” Barsavi squeezed one fist inside the other. “If one Bondsmage can best a hundred knives—including you and I, my sons, my Berangias sisters, your friend Jean and his hatchets—then the Gray King has chosen his weapons better than I. But for my part, I do not imagine that he has.”

“You will keep the possibility in mind?” Locke persisted.

“Yes. I shall.” Barsavi placed a hand on Locke’s shoulder. “You must forgive me, my boy. For what has happened.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Your Honor.” When the capa changes the subject, thought Locke, the subject is finished. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“It is my war. It’s me the Gray King truly wishes to cut.”

“You offered me a great deal, sir.” Locke licked his lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “I’d very much like to help you kill the bastard.”

“So we shall. At the ninth hour of the evening, on Duke’s Day, we begin to gather. Anjais will come to fetch you and Tannen at the Last Mistake.”

“What of the Sanzas? They’re good with knives.”

“And with cards, or so I hear. I like them well enough, Locke, but they’re fiddlers. Amusers. I’m taking serious folk for serious business.”

“As you say.”

“Now.” Barsavi took a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and slowly mopped his brow and cheeks with it. “Leave me, please. Come back tomorrow night, as a priest. I’ll have all my other priests of the Benefactor. We’ll give her … a proper ritual.”

Despite himself, Locke was flattered. The capa had known that all of Father Chains’ boys were initiates of the Benefactor, and Locke a full priest, but he’d never before asked for Locke’s blessing in any official sense.

“Of course,” he said quietly.

He withdrew then, leaving the capa standing in the bloody morning light, leaving him all alone at the heart of his fortress, for the second time, with nothing but a corpse for company.

2

“GENTLEMEN,” SAID Locke, huffing and puffing as he closed the door to the seventh-floor rooms behind him. “We have done our bit for appearances this week; let’s all work out of the temple until further notice.”

Jean was sitting in a chair facing the door, hatchets resting on his thigh, with his battered old volume of The Korish Romances in his hands. Bug was snoring on a sleeping pallet, sprawled in one of those utterly careless positions that give instant arthritis to all save the very young and foolish. The Sanzas were sitting against the far wall, playing a desultory hand of cards; they looked up as Locke entered.

“We are released from one complication,” said Locke, “and flung headlong into another. And this bitch has teeth.”

“What news?” said Jean.

“The worst sort.” Locke dropped into a chair, threw back his head, and closed his eyes. “Nazca’s dead.”

“What?” Calo leapt to his feet; Galdo wasn’t far behind. “How did that happen?”

“The Gray King happened. It must have been the ‘other business’ he referred to when I was his guest. He sent the body back to her father in a vat of horse piss.”

“Gods,” said Jean. “I’m so sorry, Locke.”

“And now,” continued Locke, “you and I are expected to accompany the Capa when he avenges her, at the ‘clandestine meeting’ three nights hence. Which will be at the Echo Hole, by the way. And the capa’s idea of ‘clandestine’ is a hundred knives charging in to cut the Gray King to bloody pieces.”

“Cut you to bloody pieces, you mean,” said Galdo.

“I’m well aware of who’s supposed to be strutting around wearing the Gray King’s clothes, thanks very much. I’m just debating whether or not I should hang an archery butt around my neck. Oh, and wondering if I can learn to split myself in two before Duke’s Day.”

“This entire situation is insane.” Jean slammed his book shut in disgust.

“It was insane before; now it’s become malicious.”

“Why would the Gray King kill Nazca?”

“To get the capa’s attention.” Locke sighed. “Either to frighten him, which it certainly hasn’t accomplished, or to piss him off beyond all mortal measure, which it has.”

“There will never be peace, now. The capa will kill the Gray King or get himself killed trying.” Calo paced furiously. “Surely the Gray King must realize this. He hasn’t facilitated negotiations; he’s made them impossible. Forever.”

“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Locke, “that the Gray King may not be telling us everything concerning this scheme of his.”

“Out the Viscount’s Gate, then,” said Galdo. “We can spend the afternoon securing transportation and goods. We can pack up our fortune; vanish onto the road. Fuck, if we can’t find somewhere to build another life with forty-odd thousand crowns at our fingertips, we don’t deserve to live. We could buy titles in Lashain; make Bug a count and set ourselves up as his household.”

“Or make ourselves counts,” said Calo, “and set Bug up as our household. Run him back and forth. It’d be good for his moral education.”

“We can’t,” said Locke. “We have to presume the Gray King can follow us wherever we go, or, perhaps more accurately, that his Bondsmage can. So long as the Falconer serves him, we can’t run. At least not as a first option.”

“What about as a second?” asked Jean.

“If it comes to that … we might as well try. We can get things ready, and if we absolutely must run for the road, well, we’ll put ourselves in harness and pull with the horses if we have to.”

“Which leaves only the conundrum,” said Jean, “of which commitment to slip you out of, the night of this meeting at the Echo Hole.”

“No conundrum,” said Locke. “The Gray King has it over us; Barsavi we know we can fool. So I’ll play the Gray King and figure out some way to ease us out of our commitment to the capa without getting executed for it.”

“That would be a good trick,” said Jean.

“But what if it’s not necessary?” Calo pointed at his brother. “One of us can play the Gray King, and you and Jean can stand beside Barsavi as required.”

“Yes,” said Galdo, “an excellent idea.”

“No,” said Locke. “For one thing, I’m a better false-facer than either of you, and you know it. You two are just slightly too conspicuous. It can’t be risked. For another, while I’m playing the Gray King, you two will be forgotten by everyone. You’ll be free to move around as you like. I’d rather have you waiting with transportation at one of our meeting spots, in case things go sour and we do need to flee.”

“And what about Bug?”

“Bug,” said Bug, “has been faking snoring for the past few minutes. And I know the Echo Hole; I used to hide there sometimes when I was with the Shades’ Hill gang. I’ll be down there under the floor, beside the waterfall, watching for trouble.”

“Bug,” said Locke, “you’ll—”

“If you don’t like it, you’ll have to lock me in a box to stop me. You need a spotter, and the Gray King didn’t say you couldn’t have friends lurking. That’s what I do. I lurk. None of you can do it like I can, because you’re all bigger and slower and creakier and—”

“Gods,” said Locke. “My days as a garrista are numbered; Duke Bug is dictating the terms of his service. Very well, Your Grace. I’ll give you a role that will keep you close at hand—but you lurk where I tell you to lurk, right?”

“Bloody right!”

“Then it’s settled,” said Locke. “And if no one else has a pressing need for me to imitate the great and powerful, or a friend of mine they’d like to murder, I could use some sleep.”

“It’s too gods-damned bad about Nazca,” said Galdo. “The son of a bitch.”

“Yes,” said Locke. “In fact, I’m going to speak to him about it this very evening. Him or his pet sorcerer, whichever thinks to come.”

“The candle,” said Jean.

“Yeah. After you and I finish our business, and after Falselight. You can wait down in the Last Mistake. I’ll sit up here, light it, and wait for them to show.” Locke grinned. “Let those fuckers enjoy the walk up our stairs.”

3

THE DAY turned out clear and pleasant, the evening as fresh as they ever came in Camorr. Locke sat in the seventh-floor rooms with the windows open and the mesh screens down as the purple sky lit up with rising streamers of ghostly light.

The Falconer’s candle smoldered on the table beside the remains of Locke’s small dinner and a half-empty bottle of wine. The other half of that bottle was warming Locke’s stomach as he sat, facing the door, massaging the fresh dressing Jean had insisted on wrapping his arm with before taking up his post in the Last Mistake.

“Crooked Warden,” said Locke to thin air, “if I’m pissing you off for some reason, you don’t need to go to such elaborate lengths to chastise me. And if I’m not pissing you off, well, I pray that you still find me amusing.” He flexed the fingers of his injured arm, wincing, then took up his wineglass and the bottle one more time.

“A glass poured to air for an absent friend,” he said as he filled it with dark red wine—a Nacozza retsina that had actually come from Don Salvara’s upriver vineyards. A gift to Lukas Fehrwight as he stepped off the don’s pleasure barge so many days earlier … or not so many days earlier. It felt like a lifetime.

“We miss Nazca Barsavi already, and we wish her well. She was a fair garrista and she tried to help her pezon out of an untenable situation for them both. She deserved better. Piss on me all you like, but do what you can for her. I beg this as your servant.”

“If you wish to measure a man’s true penitence,” said the Falconer, “observe him when he believes himself to be dining alone.”

The front door was just closing behind the Bondsmage; Locke had not seen or heard it open. For that matter, it had been bolted. The Falconer was without his bird, and dressed in the same wide-skirted gray coat with silver-buttoned scarlet cuffs Locke had seen the night before. A gray velvet cap was tilted back atop his head, adorned with a single feather under a silver pin, easily identified as having come from Vestris.

“I for one have never been a very penitent man,” he continued. “Nor have I ever been overly fond of stairs.”

“My heart is overcome with sorrow for your hardship,” said Locke. “Where’s your hawk?”

“Circling.”

Locke was suddenly acutely aware of the open windows, such a comfort just a moment earlier. The mesh wouldn’t keep Vestris out if the hawk decided to be unruly.

“I’d hoped that your master might come along with you.”

“My client,” said the Bondsmage, “is otherwise occupied. I speak for him, and I will bear your words to him. Assuming you have any worth hearing.”

“I always have words,” said Locke. “Words like ‘complete lunatic.’ And ‘fucking idiot.’ Did it ever occur to you or your client that the one certain way to ensure that a Camorri would never negotiate with you with any good faith would be to kill someone of his blood?”

“Heavens,” said the Falconer. “This is ill news indeed. And here the Gray King was so certain Barsavi would interpret his daughter’s murder as a friendly gesture.” The sorcerer’s eyebrows rose. “I say, did you want to tell him yourself, or shall I rush off right now with your revelation?”

“Very funny, you half-copper cocksucker. While I agreed under duress to prance around dressed as your master, you must admit that sending the capa’s only daughter back to him in a vat of piss does complicate my fucking job.”

“A pity,” said the Bondsmage, “but the task remains, as does the duress.”

“Barsavi wants me by his side at this meeting, Falconer. He made the request this morning. Maybe I might have slipped out of it before, but now? Nazca’s murder has put me in a hell of a squeeze.”

“You’re the Thorn of Camorr. I would be, personally, very disappointed if you couldn’t find a way past this difficulty. Barsavi’s summons is a request; my client’s is a requirement.”

“Your client isn’t telling me everything he should.”

“You may safely presume that he knows his own business better than you do.” The Falconer began to idly wind a slender thread back and forth between the fingers of his right hand; it had an odd silver sheen.

“Gods dammit,” Locke hissed, “maybe I don’t care what happens to the capa, but Nazca was my friend. Duress I can accept; gleeful malice I cannot. You fuckers didn’t need to do what you did to her!”

The Falconer splayed his fingers and the thread gleamed, woven into a sort of cat’s cradle. He began to move his fingers slowly, tightening some threads and loosening others, as deftly as the Sanzas moved coins across the backs of their hands.

“I cannot tell you,” said the sorcerer, “what a weight it is upon my conscience to learn that we might lose your gracious acceptance.”

Then the Falconer hissed a word, a single syllable in a language Locke didn’t understand. The very sound was harsh and unnerving; it echoed in the room as though heard from a distance.

The wood shutters behind Locke slammed closed, and he jumped out of his chair.

One by one, the other windows banged shut and their little clasps clicked, moved by an unseen hand. The Falconer shifted his fingers yet again; light gleamed on the web within his hands, and Locke gasped—his knees suddenly ached as though they’d been kicked from the sides, sharply.

“This is the second time,” said the Bondsmage, “that you have been flippant with me. I fail to find it amusing. So I will reinforce my client’s instructions, and I shall take my time doing so.”

Locke gritted his teeth; tears sprang unbidden to his eyes as the pain in his legs intensified, throbbed, spread. It now felt as though a cold flame were playing against his knee sockets from the inside. Unable to support his own weight, he tottered forward. One hand clutched helplessly at his legs while the other tried to hold him up against the table. He glared at the Bondsmage and tried to speak, but found that the muscles of his neck began spasming as he did.

“You are property, Lamora. You belong to the Gray King. He cares not that Nazca Barsavi was your friend; it was her ill fortune to be born to the father the gods gave her.”

The spasming spread down Locke’s spine, across his arms, and down his legs, where it met the freezing, gnawing pain already at work there in a hideous fusion. He fell onto his back, gasping, his face a rictus mask, his hands curved in the air above his head like claws.

“You look like an insect thrown into a fire. And this is the merest exercise of my art. The things I could do to you if I were to stitch your true name into cloth or scribe it on parchment … ‘Lamora’ is obviously not your given name; it’s Throne Therin for ‘shadow.’ But your first name, now that … that would be just enough to master you, if I wished to make use of it.”

The Falconer’s fingers flew back and forth, blurring in Locke’s vision, shifting and stretching those silver threads, and the tempo of Locke’s torment rose in direct proportion to the motion of that gleaming design. His heels were slapping against the floor; his teeth were rattling in his jaw; it seemed to him that someone was trying to cut the bones out of his thighs with icicles. Again and again he tried to suck in enough air to scream, but his lungs would not move. His throat was packed with thorns, and the world was growing black and red at the edges.…

Release itself was a shock. He lay on the ground, bonelessly, still feeling the ghosts of pain throbbing across his body. Warm tears slid down his cheeks.

“You’re not a particularly intelligent man, Lamora. An intelligent man would never deliberately waste my time. An intelligent man would grasp the nuances of the situation without the need for … repetition.”

Another motion of blurred silver in the corner of Locke’s vision, and new pain erupted in his chest, like a blossom of fire surrounding his heart. He could feel it there, burning the very core of his being. It seemed to him that he could actually smell the crisping flesh within his lungs, and feel the air in his throat warming until it was as hot as that of a bread oven. Locke groaned, writhed, threw his head back, and finally screamed.

“I need you,” said the Falconer, “but I will have you meek and grateful for my forbearance. Your friends are another matter. Shall I do this to Bug, while you watch? Shall I do it to the Sanzas?”

“No … please, no,” Locke cried out, curled in agony, his hands clutching at his left breast. He found himself tearing at his tunic, like an animal mad with pain. “Not them!”

“Why not? They are immaterial to my client. They are expendable.”

The burning pain abated, once again shocking Locke with its absence. He huddled on his side, breathing raggedly, unable to believe that heat so fierce could vanish so swiftly.

“One more sharp word,” said the Bondsmage, “one more flippant remark, one more demand, one more scrap of anything less than total abjection, and they will pay the price for your pride.” He lifted the glass of retsina from the table and sipped at it. He then snapped the fingers of his other hand and the liquid in the glass vanished in an instant, boiled away without a speck of flame. “Are we now free from misunderstanding?”

“Yes,” said Locke, “perfectly. Yes. Please don’t harm them. I’ll do whatever I must.”

“Of course you will. Now, I’ve brought the components of the costume you’ll be wearing at the Echo Hole. You’ll find them just outside your door. They’re appropriately theatrical. I won’t presume to tell you how to make ready with your mummery; be in position across from the Echo Hole at half past ten on the night of the meeting. I shall guide you from there, and direct you in what to say.”

“Barsavi,” Locke coughed out. “Barsavi … will mean to kill me.”

“Do you doubt that I could continue punishing you here, at my leisure, until you were mad with pain?”

“No … no.”

“Then do not doubt that I can protect you from whatever nonsense the capa might wish to employ.”

“How do you … how do you mean … to direct me?”

I do not need the air, came the voice of the Bondsmage, echoing in Locke’s head with shocking force, to carry forth my instructions. When you require prompting in your meeting with Barsavi, I shall supply it. When you must make a demand or accept a demand, I shall let you know how to proceed. Is this clear?

“Yes. Perfectly clear. Th-thank you.”

“You should be grateful for what my client and I have done on your behalf. Many men wait years for a chance to ingratiate themselves with Capa Barsavi. Your chance has been served forth to you like a fine meal. Are we not generous?”

“Yes … certainly.”

“Just so. I suggest you now find some means to extricate yourself from the duty he asks of you. This will leave you free to concentrate on the duty we require. We wouldn’t want your attention divided at a critical moment.”

4

THE LAST Mistake was half-empty, a phenomenon Locke had never before witnessed. Conversation was muted; eyes were cold and hard; entire gangs were conspicuous by their absence. Men and women alike wore heavier clothing than the season required; more half-cloaks and coats and layered vests. It was easier to conceal weapons that way.

“So what the hell happened to you?”

Jean helped Locke sit down; he’d gotten them a small table in a side cranny of the tavern, with a clear view of the doors. Locke settled into his chair, a slight echo of the Falconer’s phantom pains still haunting his joints and his neck muscles.

“The Falconer,” Locke said in a low voice, “had several opinions he wished to express, and apparently I’m not as charming as I think I am.” He idly fingered his torn tunic and sighed. “Beer now. Bitch later.”

Jean slid over a clay mug of warm Camorri ale, and Locke drank half of it down in two gulps. “Well,” he said after wiping his mouth, “I suppose it was worth it just to say what I said to him. I don’t believe Bondsmagi are used to being insulted.”

“Did you accomplish anything?”

“No.” Locke drank the remaining half of his ale and turned the mug upside down before setting it on the tabletop. “Not a gods-damned thing. I did get the shit tortured out of myself, though, which was informational, from a certain point of view.”

“That fucker.” Jean’s hands balled into fists. “I could do so much to him, without killing him. I very much hope I get to try.”

“Save it for the Gray King,” muttered Locke. “My thoughts are that if we survive what’s coming on Duke’s Day night, he won’t be able to keep the Falconer on retainer forever. When the Bondsmage leaves …”

“We talk to the Gray King again. With knives.”

“Too right. We follow him if we have to. We’ve been needing something to do with all of our money. Here’s something. Whenever that bastard can’t pay his mage anymore, we’ll show him just how much we like being knocked around like handballs. Even if we have to follow him down the Iron Sea and around the Cape of Nessek and all the way to Balinel on the Sea of Brass.”

“Now there’s a plan. And what are you going to do tonight?”

“Tonight?” Locke grunted. “I’m going to take Calo’s advice. I’m going to stroll over to the Guilded Lilies and get my brains wenched out. They can put them back in in the morning when they’re through with me; I understand there’s an extra fee involved, but I’ll pay it.”

“I must be going mad,” said Jean. “It’s been four years, and all this time you’ve been—”

“I’m frustrated and I need a break. And she’s a thousand miles away and I guess I’m human after all, gods damn it. Don’t wait up.”

“I’ll walk with you,” said Jean. “It’s not wise to be out alone on a night like this. The city’s in a mood, now that word of Nazca’s got around.”

“Not wise?” Locke laughed. “I’m the safest man in Camorr, Jean. I know for a fact I’m the only one that absolutely nobody out there wants to kill yet. Not until they finish pulling my strings.”

5

“THIS ISN’T working,” he said, less than two hours later. “I’m sorry, it’s … not your fault.”

The room was warm and dark and exceedingly pleasant, ventilated by the soft swish of a wooden fan flapping back and forth in a concealed shaft. Waterwheels churned outside the ornate House of the Guilded Lilies at the northern tip of the Snare, driving belts and chains to operate many mechanisms of comfort.

Locke lay on a wide bed with soft feather mattresses covered in silk sheets and overhung with a silk canopy. He sprawled naked in the soft red light of a misted alchemical globe, little stronger than scarlet moonlight, and admired the soft curves of the woman who was running her hands along the insides of his thighs. She smelled like mulled apple wine and cinnamon musk, and her curves were indeed admirable. Yet he was nothing resembling aroused.

“Felice, please,” he said. “This was a bad idea.”

“You’re tense,” whispered Felice. “You’ve obviously got something on your mind, and that cut on your arm—it can’t be helping at all. Let me try a few things more. I’m always up for a … professional challenge.”

“I can’t imagine anything would help.”

“Hmmm.” Locke could hear the pout in her voice, though her face was little more than soft slashes of shadow in the red half-light. “There’s wines, you know. Alchemical ones, from Tal Verrar. Aphrodisiacs. Not cheap, but they do work.” She rubbed his stomach, toying with the slender line of hair that ran down its center. “They can work miracles.”

“I don’t need wine,” he said distantly, grabbing her hand and moving it away from his skin. “Gods, I don’t know what I need.”

“Allow me to make a suggestion, then.” She moved herself up on the bed until she was crouched beside his chest, on her knees. With one confident motion (for there was real muscle under those curves) she flipped him over onto his stomach and began kneading the muscles of his neck and back, alternating gentle caresses and firm pressure.

“Suggestion … ow … accepted …

“Locke,” Felice said, losing the breathy, anything-to-please-you bedroom voice that was one of the cherished illusions of her trade, “you do know that the attendants in the waiting chambers tell us exactly what each client requests when they give us assignments?”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Well, I know you specifically asked for a redhead.”

“Which … ow, lower please … which means?”

“There’s only two of us in the Lilies,” she said, “and we get that request every now and again. But the thing is, some men want any redhead in general, and some men want one redhead in particular.”

“Oh …”

“Those that want a redhead in general have their fun and go their way. But you … you want one redhead in particular. And I’m not her.”

“I’m sorry. I said it’s not your fault.”

“I know. That’s ever so gracious of you.”

“And I’m happy paying anyways.”

“And that’s also sweet.” She chuckled. “But you’d be taking it up with the room full of armed men if you didn’t, not just worrying about hurting my poor feelings.”

“You know,” Locke said, “I think I prefer you like this to all that ‘how may I please you master’ bullshit earlier.”

“Well, some men like a straightforward whore. Some don’t want to hear anything but how wonderful they are.” She worked at his neck muscles with the bases of her palms. “It’s all business. But like I said, you seem to be pining for someone. And now that you’ve remembered yourself, I won’t do.”

“Sorry.”

“No need to keep apologizing to me. You’re the one whose lady-love ran halfway across the continent.”

“Gods.” Locke groaned. “Find me a single person in Camorr who doesn’t know, and I’ll give you a hundred crowns, I swear.”

“It’s just something I heard from one of the Sanzas.”

“One of the Sanzas? Which one?”

“Couldn’t say. They’re so hard to tell apart in the dark.”

“I’m going to cut their gods-damned tongues out.”

“Oh, tsk.” She ruffled his hair. “Please don’t. Us girls have a use for those, at least.”

“Hmmmph.”

“You poor, sweet idiot. You do have it bad for her. Well, what can I say, Locke? You’re fucked.” Felice laughed softly. “Just not by me.”

INTERLUDE

Brat Masterpieces

1

The summer after Jean came to the Gentlemen Bastards, Father Chains took him and Locke up to the temple roof one night after dinner. Chains smoked a paper-wrapped sheaf of Jeremite tobacco while the sunlight sank beneath the horizon and the caught fire of the city’s Elderglass rose glimmering in its place.

That night, he wanted to talk about the eventual necessity of cutting throats.

“I had this talk with Calo and Galdo and Sabetha last year,” he began. “You boys are investments, in time and treasure both.” He exhaled ragged crescents of pale smoke, failing as usual to conjure full rings. “Big investments. My life’s work, maybe. A pair of brat masterpieces. So I want you to remember that you can’t always smile your way around a fight. If someone pulls steel on you, I expect you to survive. Sometimes that means giving back in kind. Sometimes it means running like your ass is on fire. Always it means knowing which is the right choice—and that’s why we’ve got to talk about your inclinations.”

Chains fixed Locke with a stare while he took a long, deliberate drag on his sheaf—the final breath of a man treading in unpleasant water, preparing to go under the surface.

“You and I both know that you have multiple talents, Locke, genuine gifts for a great many things. So I have to give this to you straight. If it comes down to hard talk with a real foe, you’re nothing but a pair of pissed breeches and a bloodstain. You can kill, all right, that’s the gods’ own truth, but you’re just not made for stand-up, face-to-face bruising. And you know it, right?”

Locke’s red-cheeked silence was an answer in itself. Suddenly unable to look Father Chains in the eyes, he tried to pretend that his feet were fascinating objects that he’d never seen before.

“Locke, Locke, we can’t all be mad dogs with a blade in our hands, and it’s nothing to sob about, so let’s not see that lip of yours quivering like an old whore’s tits, right? You will learn steel, and you’ll learn rope, and you’ll learn the alley-piece. But you’ll learn them sneak-style. In the back, from the side, from above, in the dark.” Chains grabbed an imaginary opponent from behind, left hand round the throat, right hand thrusting at kidney-level with his half-smoked sheaf for a dagger. “All the twists, because fighting wisely will keep you from getting cut to mince.”

Chains pretended to wipe the blood from his ember-tipped “blade,” then took another drag. “That’s that. Put it in your hat and wear it to town, Locke. We need to face our shortcomings head-on. The old saying for a gang is ‘Lies go out, but the truth stays home.’ ” He forced twin streams of smoke from his nostrils, and cheered up visibly as the tails of gray vapor swirled around his head. “Now quit acting like there’s a fucking naked woman on your shoes, will you?”

Locke did grin at that, weakly, but he also looked up and nodded.

“Now, you,” Chains said, turning to regard Jean. “We all know you’ve got the sort of temper that cracks skulls when it’s off the leash. We’ve got a properly evil brain in Locke here, a fantastic liar. Calo and Galdo are silver at all trades and gold at none. Sabetha’s the born queen of all the charmers that ever lived. But what we don’t have yet is a plain old bruiser. I think it could be you, a stand-up brawler to keep your friends out of trouble. A real rabid-dog bastard with steel in your hand. Care to give it a go?”

Jean’s eyes were immediately drawn down to the fascinating spectacle of his own feet. “Um, well, if you think that would be good, I can try.…”

“Jean, I’ve seen you angry.”

“I’ve felt you angry,” said Locke, grinning.

“And give me some credit for being five times your fucking age, Jean. You don’t smolder and you don’t make threats; you just go cold, and then you make things happen. Some folks are made for hard situations.” He drew smoke from his sheaf once again, and flicked white ashes to the stones beneath his feet. “I think you have the knack for smacking brains out of heads. That’s neither good nor bad in itself, but it’s something we can use.”

Jean seemed to think this over for a few moments, but Locke and Chains could both see the decision already made in his eyes. They had gone hard and hungry under his black tangle of hair, and his nod was just a formality.

“Good, good! Thought you’d like the idea, so I took the liberty of making arrangements.” He produced a black leather wallet from one of the pockets of his coat and handed it over to Jean. “Half past noon tomorrow, you’re expected at the House of Glass Roses.”

Locke and Jean both widened their eyes at the mention of Camorr’s best-known and most exclusive school of arms. Jean flipped the sigil-wallet open. Inside was a flat token, a stylized rose in frosted glass, fused directly onto the inner surface of the leather. With this, Jean could pass north over the Angevine and past the guardposts to the Alcegrante islands. It placed him under the direct protection of Don Tomsa Maranzalla, Master of the House of Glass Roses.

“That rose will get you over the river and up among the swells, but don’t fuck around once you’re up there. Do what you’re told; go straight there and come straight back. You go four times a week from now on. And for all our sakes, tame that mess on top of your head. Use fire and a poleaxe if you have to.” Chains took a final drag of evergreen-scented smoke from his rapidly disappearing sheaf, then flicked the butt up and over the roof wall. His last exhalation of the night sailed over the heads of the two boys, a wobbly but otherwise fully formed ring.

“Fuck me! An omen.” Chains reached after the drifting ring as though he could pluck it back for examination. “Either this scheme is fated to work out, or the gods are pleased with me for engineering your demise, Jean Tannen. I love a win-win proposition. Now don’t you two have work to do?”

2

IN THE House of Glass Roses, there was a hungry garden.

The place was Camorr in microcosm; a thing of the Eldren, left behind for men to puzzle over—a dangerous treasure discarded like a toy. The Elderglass that mortared its stones rendered it proof against all human arts, much like the Five Towers and a dozen other structures scattered over the islands of the city. The men and women who lived in these places were squatters in glory, and the House of Glass Roses was the most glorious, dangerous place on the Alcegrante slopes. That Don Maranzalla held it was a sign of his high and lasting favor with the duke.

Just before the midpoint of the noon hour the next day, Jean Tannen stood at the door of Don Maranzalla’s tower: five cylindrical stories of gray stone and silver glass, a hulking fastness that made the lovely villas around it look like an architect’s scale models. Great waves of white heat beat down from the cloudless sky, and the air was heavy with the slightly beery breath of a city river boiling under long hours of sun. A frosted glass window was set into the stone beside the tower’s huge lacquered oaken doors, behind which the vague outline of a face could be discerned. Jean’s approach had been noted.

He’d gone north over the Angevine on a glass catbridge no wider than his hips, clinging to the guide ropes with sweaty hands for all six hundred feet of the crossing. There were no large bridges to the south bank of the Isla Zantara, second most easterly of the Alcegrante isles. Ferry rides were a copper half-baron. For those too poor to ride, that left the ecstatic terror of the catbridges. Jean had never been aloft on one before, and the sight of more experienced men and women ignoring the ropes as they crossed at speed had turned his bowels to ice water. The feel of hard pavement beneath his shoes had been a blessed relief when it came again.

The sweat-soaked yellowjackets on duty at the Isla Zantara gatehouse had let Jean pass far more quickly than he’d thought possible, and he’d seen the mirth drain from their ruddy faces the moment they recognized the sigil he carried. Their directions after that had been terse; was it pity that tinged their voices, or fear?

“We’ll look for you, boy,” one of them suddenly called after him as he started up the clean white stones of the street, “if you come back down the hill again!”

Mingled pity and fear, then. Had Jean really been enthusiastic for this adventure as recently as the night before?

The creak and rattle of counterweights heralded the appearance of a dark crack between the twin doors before him. A second later, the portals swung wide with slow majesty, muscled outward by a pair of men in bloodred waistcoats and sashes, and Jean saw that each door was half a foot of solid wood backed with iron bands. A wave of scents washed out over him: humid stone and old sweat, roasting meat and cinnamon incense. Smells of prosperity and security, of life within walls.

Jean held his wallet up to the men who’d opened the door, and one of them waved a hand impatiently. “You’re expected. Enter as a guest of Don Maranzalla and respect his house as you would your own.”

Against the left-hand wall of the opulent foyer, a pair of curlicue staircases in black iron wound upward; Jean followed the man around and up one set of narrow steps, self-consciously trying to keep his sweating and gasping under control. The tower doors were pulled shut beneath them with an echoing slam.

They wound their way up past three floors of glittering glass and ancient stone, decorated with thick red carpets and innumerable stained tapestries that Jean recognized as battle flags. Don Maranzalla had served as the duke’s personal swordmaster and the commander of his blackjackets for a quarter of a century. These bloody scraps of cloth were all that remained of countless companies of men fate had thrown against Nicovante and Maranzalla in fights that were now legend: the Iron Sea Wars, the Mad Count’s Rebellion, the Thousand-Day War against Tal Verrar.

At last, the winding stair brought them up into a small dim room, barely larger than a closet, lit by the gentle red glow of a paper lantern. The man placed one hand on a brass knob and turned to look down at Jean.

“This is the Garden Without Fragrance,” he said. “Step with care, and touch nothing as you love life.” Then he pushed the door to the roof open, letting in a sight so bright and astounding that Jean rocked backward on his heels.

The House of Glass Roses was more than twice as wide as it was tall, so the roof must have been at least one hundred feet in diameter, walled in on all sides. For a frightful moment, Jean thought he stood before a blazing, hundred-hued alchemical fire. All the stories and rumors had done nothing to prepare him for the sight of this place beneath the full light of a white summer sun; it seemed as though liquid diamond pulsed through a million delicate veins and scintillated on a million facets and edges. Here was an entire rose garden, wall after wall of perfect petals and stems and thorns, silent and scentless and alive with reflected fire—for it was all carved from Elderglass, a hundred thousand blossoms perfect down to the tiniest thorn. Dazzled, Jean stumbled forward and stretched out a hand to steady himself. When he forced his eyes closed the darkness was alive with afterimages like flashes of heat lightning.

Don Maranzalla’s man caught him by the shoulders, gently but firmly.

“It can be overwhelming at first. Your eyes will adjust in a few moments, but mark my words well, and by the gods, touch nothing.”

As Jean’s eyes recovered from the initial shock of the garden, he began to see past the dazzling glare. Each wall of roses was actually transparent; the nearest was just two paces away. And it was flawless—as flawless as the rumors claimed—as though the Eldren had frozen every blossom and every bush in an instant of summer’s fullest perfection. Yet there were patches of genuine color here and there in the hearts of the sculptures, swirled masses of reddish brown translucence, like clouds of rust-colored smoke frozen in ice.

These clouds of color were human blood.

Every petal, leaf, and thorn was sharper than any razor; the merest touch would open human skin like paper, and the roses would drink, or so the stories said, siphoning blood deep inside the network of glass stems and vines. Presumably, if enough lives were fed to the garden every blossom and every wall would someday turn a rich, rusty red. Some rumors had it that the garden merely drank what was spilled upon it; others claimed that the roses would actually draw blood forth from a wound, and could drain a man white from any cut, no matter how small.

It would take intense concentration to walk through these paths; most were only two or three paces wide, and a moment of distraction could be deadly. It said much about Don Maranzalla that he thought of his garden as the ideal place to teach young men how to fight. For the first time, Jean felt a sense of dreadful awe at the creatures who’d vanished from Camorr a thousand years before his birth. How many other alien surprises had they left behind for men to stumble over? What could drive away beings powerful enough to craft something like this? The answer did not bear thinking of.

Maranzalla’s man released his grip on Jean’s shoulders and reentered the dim room at the apex of the stairs; the room, as Jean now saw, jutted out of the tower’s wall like a gardener’s shack. “The don will be waiting at the center of the garden,” he said.

Then he pulled the door shut after him, and Jean seemed alone on the roof, with the naked sun overhead and the walls of thirsty glass before him.

Yet he wasn’t alone; there was noise coming from the heart of the glass garden, the whickering skirl of steel against steel, low grunts of exertion, a few terse commands in a deep voice rich with authority. Just a few minutes earlier, Jean would have sworn that the catbridge crossing was the most frightening thing he’d ever done, but now that he faced the Garden Without Fragrance, he would have gladly gone back to the midpoint of that slender arch fifty feet above the Angevine and danced on it without guide ropes.

Still, the black wallet clutched in his right hand drew his mind to the fact that Father Chains had thought him right for whatever awaited him in this garden. Despite their scintillating danger, the roses were inanimate and unthinking; how could he have the heart of a killer if he feared to walk among them? Shame drove him forward, step by sliding step, and he threaded the twisting paths of the garden with exquisite care, sweat sliding down his face and stinging his eyes.

“I am a Gentleman Bastard,” he muttered to himself.

It was the longest thirty feet of his brief life, that passage between the cold and waiting walls of roses.

He didn’t allow them a single taste of him.

At the center of the garden was a circular courtyard about thirty feet wide; here, two boys roughly Jean’s age were circling one another, rapiers flicking and darting. Another half dozen boys watched uneasily, along with a tall man of late middle age. This man had shoulder-length hair and drooping moustaches the color of cold campfire ashes. His face was like sanded leather, and though he wore a gentleman’s doublet in the same vivid red as the attendants downstairs, he wore it over weather-stained soldier’s breeches and tattered field boots.

There wasn’t a boy at the lesson who didn’t put his master’s clothes to shame. These were sons of the quality, in brocade jackets and tailored breeches, silk tunics and polished imitations of swordsman’s boots; each one also wore a white leather buff coat and silver-studded bracers of the same material; just the thing for warding off thrusts from training weapons. Jean felt naked the instant he stepped into the clearing, and only the threat of the glass roses kept him from leaping back into concealment.

One of the duelists was surprised to see Jean emerge from the garden, and his opponent made good use of that split second of inattention; he deftly thrust his rapier into the meat of the first boy’s upper arm, punching through the leather. The skewered boy let out an unbecoming holler and dropped his blade.

“My lord Maranzalla!” One of the boys in the crowd spoke up, and there was more oil in his voice than there was on a blade put away for storage. “Lorenzo was clearly distracted by the boy who just came out of the garden! That was not a fair strike.”

Every boy in the clearing turned to regard Jean, and it was impossible to guess what soonest ignited their naked disdain: his laborer’s clothing, his pearlike physique, his lack of weapons and armor? Only the boy with a spreading circle of blood on his tunic sleeve failed to stare at him with open loathing; he had other problems. The gray-haired man cleared his throat, then spoke in the deep voice Jean had heard earlier. He seemed amused.

“You were a fool to take your eyes from your opponent, Lorenzo, so in a sense you earned that sting. But it is true, all things being equal, that a young gentleman should not exploit an outside distraction to score a touch. You will both try to do better next time.” He pointed toward Jean without looking at him, and his voice lost its warmth. “And you, boy—lose yourself in the garden until we’ve finished here; I don’t want to see you again until these young gentlemen have left.”

Certain that the fire rising in his cheeks could outshine the sun itself, Jean rapidly scuttled out of sight; several seconds passed before he realized with horror that he had leapt back into the maze of sculpted glass walls without hesitation. Positioning himself a few bends back from the clearing, he stood in mingled fear and self-loathing, and tried to hold himself rigid as the sun’s heat cooked great rivers of sweat out of him.

Fortunately, he hadn’t much longer to wait; the sound of steel on steel faded, and Don Maranzalla dismissed his class. They filed past Jean with their coats off and their jackets open, each boy seemingly at ease with the lethal labyrinth of transparent blossoms. Not one said anything to Jean, for this was Don Maranzalla’s house, and it would be presumptuous of them to chastise a commoner within his domain. The fact that each boy had sweated his silk tunic to near translucency, and that several were red-faced and wobbly with sun-sickness, did little to leaven Jean’s misery.

“Boy,” called the don after the troop of young gentlemen had passed out of the garden and down the stairs, “attend me now.”

Summoning as much dignity as he could—and realizing that most of it was pure imagination—Jean sucked in his wobbling belly and went out into the courtyard once again. Don Maranzalla wasn’t facing him; the don held the undersized training rapier that had recently stung a careless boy’s biceps. In his hands, it looked like a toy, but the blood that glistened on its tip was quite real.

“I, uh, I’m sorry, sir, my lord Maranzalla. I must have come early. I, ah, didn’t mean to distract from the lesson.…”

The don turned on his heel, smooth as Tal Verrar clockwork, every muscle in his upper body ominously statue-still. He stared down at Jean now, and the cold scrutiny of those black, squinting eyes gave Jean the third great scare of the afternoon.

He suddenly remembered that he was alone on the roof with a man that had butchered his way into the position he currently held.

“Does it amuse you, lowborn,” the don asked in a serpentine whisper, “to speak before you are spoken to, in a place such as this, to a man such as myself? To a don?”

Jean’s blubbered apology died in his throat with an unmanly choke; the sort of wet noise a clam might make if you broke its shell and squeezed it out through the cracks.

“Because if you’re merely being careless, I’ll beat that habit out of your butter-fat ass before you can blink.” The don strode over to the nearest wall of glass roses, and with evident care slid the tip of the bloodied rapier into one of the blossoms. Jean watched in horrified fascination as the red stain quickly vanished from the blade and was drawn into the glass, where it diffused into a mistlike pink tendril and was carried into the heart of the sculpture. The don tossed the clean sword to the ground. “Is that it? Are you a careless little fat boy sent up here to pretend at arms? You’re a dirty little urchin from the Cauldron, no doubt; some whore’s gods-damned droppings.”

At first the paralysis of Jean’s tongue refused to lift; then he heard the blood pounding in his ears like the crashing of waves on a shore. His fists clenched on some impulse of their own.

“I was born in the North Corner,” he yelled, “and my mother and father were folk of business!”

Almost as soon as he’d finished spitting this out his heart seemed to stop. Mortified, he put his arms behind his back, bowed his head, and took a step backward.

After a moment of weighted silence, Maranzalla laughed loudly and cracked his knuckles with a sound like pine logs popping in a fire.

“You must forgive me, Jean,” he said. “I wanted to see if Chains was telling the truth. By the gods, you do have balls. And a temper.”

“You …” Jean stared at the don, comprehension dawning. “You wanted to make me angry, my lord?”

“I know you’re sensitive about your parents, boy. Chains told me quite a bit about you.” The don knelt on one knee before Jean, bringing them eye to eye, and put a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“Chains isn’t blind,” said Jean. “I’m not an initiate. And you’re not really … not really …”

“A mean old son-of-a-bitch?”

Jean giggled despite himself. “I, uh … I wonder if I’ll ever meet anyone who is what they seem to be, ever again, my lord.”

“You have. They walked out of my garden a few minutes ago. And I am a mean son-of-a-bitch, Jean. You’re going to hate my miserable old guts before this summer’s out. You’re going to curse me at Falselight and curse me at dawn.”

“Oh,” said Jean. “But … that’s just business.”

“Very true,” said Don Maranzalla. “You know, I wasn’t born to this place; it was a gift for services rendered. And don’t think that I don’t value it … but my mother and father weren’t even from the North Corner. I was actually born on a farm.”

“Wow,” said Jean.

“Yes. Up here in this garden, it won’t matter who your parents were; I’ll make you work until you sweat blood and plead for mercy. I’ll thrash on you until you’re inventing new gods to pray to. The only thing this garden respects is concentration. Can you concentrate, every moment you’re up here? Can you distill your attention, drive it down to the narrowest focus, live absolutely in the now, and shut out all other concerns?”

“I … I shall have to try, my lord. I already walked through the gardens once. I can do it again.”

“You will do it again. You’ll do it a thousand times. You’ll run through my roses. You’ll sleep among them. And you’ll learn to concentrate. I warn you, though, some men could not.” The don arose and swept a hand in a semicircle before him. “You can find what they left behind, here and there. In the glass.”

Jean swallowed nervously and nodded.

“Now, you tried to apologize before for coming early. Truth is, you didn’t. I let my previous lesson run long because I tend to indulge those wretched little shits when they want to cut each other up a bit. In future, come at the stroke of one, to make sure they’re long gone. They cannot be allowed to see me teaching you.”

Once, Jean had been the son of substantial wealth, and he had worn clothes as fine as any just seen on this rooftop. What he felt now was the old sting of his loss, he told himself, and not mere shame for anything as stupid as his hair or his clothes or even his hanging belly. This thought was just self-importantly noble enough to keep his eyes dry and his face composed.

“I understand, my lord. I … don’t wish to embarrass you again.”

“Embarrass me? Jean, you misunderstand.” Maranzalla kicked idly at the toy rapier, and it clattered across the tiles of the rooftop. “Those prancing little pants-wetters come here to learn the colorful and gentlemanly art of fencing, with its many sporting limitations and its proscriptions against dishonorable engagements.

“You, on the other hand,” he said as he turned to give Jean a firm but friendly poke in the center of his forehead, “you are going to learn how to kill men with a sword”

CHAPTER SEVEN

OUT THE WINDOW

1

LOCKE OUTLINED HIS plan over a long, nervous lunch.

The Gentlemen Bastards sat at the dining table in their glass burrow, just after noon on Duke’s Day. Outside the sun was pouring down its usual afternoon punishment, but in the burrow it was cool, perhaps unnaturally so, even for an underground cellar. Chains had often speculated that the Elderglass did tricks with more than just light.

They had laid on a feast more befitting a festival than a midday meeting. There was stewed mutton with onions and ginger, stuffed eels in spiced wine sauce, and green-apple tarts baked by Jean (with a liberal dose of Austershalin brandy poured over the fruit). “I’ll bet even the duke’s own cook would have his balls skinned if he did this,” he’d said. “Makes each tart worth two or three crowns, by my reckoning.”

“What’ll they be worth,” said Bug, “once they’re eaten, and they come out the other end?”

“You’re welcome to take measurements,” said Calo. “Grab a scale.”

“And a scoop,” added Galdo.

The Sanzas spent the meal picking at a seasoned omelette topped with minced sheep’s kidneys—usually a favorite with the whole table. But today, though they all agreed it was their best effort in weeks—topping even the celebration of their first success in the Salvara game—the savor seemed to have evaporated. Only Bug ate with real vigor, and his attention was largely concentrated on Jean’s plate of tarts.

“Look at me,” he said with his mouth half-full. “I’m worth more with every bite!”

Quiet half-smiles met his clowning, and nothing more; the boy “harrumphed” in annoyance and banged his fists on the table. “Well, if none of you want to eat,” he said, “why don’t we get on with planning how we’re going to dodge the axe tonight?”

“Indeed,” said Jean.

“Too right,” added Calo.

“Yes,” said Galdo, “what’s the game and how do we play it?”

“Well.” Locke pushed his plate away, crumpled his cloth napkin, and threw it into the center of the table. “For starters, we need to use the damn Broken Tower rooms again. It seems the stairs aren’t through with us just yet.”

Jean nodded. “What will we do with the place?”

“That’s where you and I will be when Anjais comes looking to collect us, at the ninth hour. And that’s where we’ll stay, after he’s thoroughly convinced that we have a very honest reason for not going with him.”

“What reason would that be?” asked Calo.

“A very colorful one,” said Locke. “I need you and Galdo to pay a quick visit to Jessaline d’Aubart this afternoon. I need help from a black alchemist for this. Here’s what you tell her.…”

2

THE ILLICIT apothecary shop of Jessaline d’Aubart and her daughter Janellaine was located above a scribe’s collective in the respectable Fountain Bend neighborhood. Calo and Galdo stepped onto the scribing floor at just past the second hour of the afternoon. Here, a dozen men and women were hunched over wide wooden boards, working quills and salt and charcoal sticks and drying sponges back and forth like automatons. A clever arrangement of mirrors and skylights let the natural light of day in to illuminate their work. There were few tradesfolk in Camorr more penny-conscious than journeymen scriveners.

At the rear of the first floor was a winding staircase, guarded by a tough-looking young woman who feigned boredom while fingering weapons beneath her brocaded brown coat. The Sanza twins established their bona fides with a combination of hand gestures and copper barons that made their way into the young woman’s coat pockets. She tugged on a bell-rope beside the stairs, then waved them up.

On the second floor there was a reception room, windowless, walls and floor alike paneled with a golden hardwood that retained a faint aroma of pine lacquer. A tall counter divided the room precisely in half; there were no chairs on the customer side, and nothing at all on display on the merchant’s side: just a single locked door.

Jessaline stood behind the counter—a striking woman in her midfifties, with a tumbling cascade of charcoal-colored hair and dark, wary eyes nestled in laugh-lines. Janellaine, half her age, stood to her mother’s right with a crossbow pointed just over Calo and Galdo’s heads. It was an indoor murder-piece, lightweight and low power, which almost certainly meant some hideous poison on the quarrel. Neither Sanza was particularly bothered; this was business as usual for a black alchemist.

“Madam d’Aubart and Miss d’Aubart,” said Calo, bowing from the waist, “your servants.”

“Not to mention,” said Galdo, “still very much available.”

“Master Sanza and Master Sanza,” said the elder d’Aubart, “pleased to see you.”

“Although we are,” said Janellaine, “still very much disinclined.”

“Perhaps you’d care to buy something, though?” Jessaline folded her hands on the counter and raised one eyebrow.

“As it happens, a friend of ours needs something special.” Calo fished a coin purse from under his waistcoat and held it in plain view without opening it.

“Special?”

“Or perhaps not so much special as specific. He’s got to get sick. Very sick.”

“Far be it from me to drive away business, my dears,” said the elder d’Aubart, “but three or four bottles of rum would do the trick at a fraction of the price for anything I could give you.”

“Ah, not that sort of sick,” said Galdo. “He’s got to be in a bad way, like to knocking on the Death Goddess’ bedchamber and asking if he can come in. And then he’s got to be able to recover his strength after playing ill for a while. A sort of mummer’s sick, if you will.”

“Hmmm,” said Janellaine. “I don’t know if we have anything that works quite like that, at least not on hand.”

“When,” said Jessaline, “would your friend require a solution by?”

“We were sort of hoping to walk out of here with one,” said Calo.

“We don’t brew miracles, my dears.” Jessaline drummed her fingers on her countertop. “Contrary to all common belief. We do prefer a bit of notice for something like this. Messing about with someone’s inside—fit to ill and then fit again in the span of a few hours … well, that’s delicate.”

“We’re not Bondsmagi,” added Janellaine.

“Praise the gods for that,” said Galdo, “but it’s very pressing.”

“Well,” sighed Jessaline, “perhaps we can bang something together. A bit on the crude, but it might do the trick.”

“Barrow-robber’s blossom,” said her daughter.

“Yes.” Jessaline nodded. “And Somnay pine, after.”

“I believe we’ve both in the shop,” Jannelaine said. “Shall I check?”

“Do, and hand over that alley-piece while you’re back there.”

Janellaine passed the crossbow to her mother, then unlocked the door at the rear of the room and disappeared, closing it behind her once again. Jessaline set the weapon gently down atop the counter, keeping one longfingered hand on the tiller.

“You wound us, madam,” said Calo. “We’re harmless as kittens.”

“More so,” said Galdo. “Kittens have claws and piss on things indiscriminately.”

“It’s not just you, boys. It’s the city. Whole place is like to boil, what with Nazca getting clipped. Old Barsavi’s got to have some retribution in the works. Gods know who this Gray King is or what he wants, but I’m more worried by the day for what might come up my stairs.”

“It is a messy time,” said Calo.

Janellaine returned, with two small pouches in her hands. She locked the door behind her, passed the pouches to her mother, and picked up the crossbow once again.

“Well,” said the elder d’Aubart, “here’s what it is, then. Your friend takes this, the red pouch. It’s barrow-robber’s blossom, a sort of purple powder. In the red pouch, remember. Put it in water. It’s an emetic, if the word means anything to you.”

“Nothing pleasant,” said Galdo.

“Five minutes after he drinks it, he gets an ache in the belly. Ten minutes and he gets wobbly at the knees. Fifteen minutes and he starts vomiting up every meal he’s had for the past week. Won’t be pretty. Have buckets close at hand.”

“And it’ll look absolutely real?” asked Calo.

“Look? Sweetmeat, it’ll be as real as it gets. You ever see anyone feign vomiting?”

“Yes,” said the Sanzas in perfect unison.

“He does this thing with chewed-up oranges,” added Galdo.

“Well, your friend won’t be feigning this. Any physiker in Camorr would swear it was a real and natural distress. You can’t even see the barrow-robber’s blossom once it comes up; it dissolves quickly.”

“And then,” said Calo, “what about the other pouch?”

“This is Somnay pine bark. Crumble it and steep it in a tea. It’s the perfect counter for the purple blossom; it’ll cancel it right out. But the blossom will already have done its work; keep that in mind. The bark won’t put food back in his belly, or give back the vigor he loses while he’s retching his guts out. He’s going to be weak and sore for at least an evening or two.”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Calo, “by our own peculiar definition of wonderful. What do we owe you?”

“Three crowns, twenty solons,” said Jessaline. “And that’s only because you were old Chains’ boys. This isn’t much by way of alchemy, just refined and purified, but the powders are hard to get hold of.”

Calo counted out twenty gold tyrins from his purse and set them atop the counter in a vertical stack. “Here’s five crowns, then. With the understanding that this transaction is best forgotten by everyone involved.”

“Sanza,” said Jessaline d’Aubart without humor, “every purchase at my shop is forgotten, as far as the outside world is concerned.”

“Then this one,” said Calo, adding four more tyrins to the pile, “needs to stay extra forgotten.”

“Well, if you really want to reinforce the point …” She pulled a wooden scraper from beneath the counter and used it to pull the coins over the back edge, into what sounded like a leather bag. She was careful not to touch the coins themselves; black alchemists rarely got to be her age if they relaxed their paranoia toward all things touched, tasted, or smelled.

“You have our thanks,” said Galdo. “And that of our friend, as well.”

“Oh, don’t count on that,” Jessaline d’Aubart chuckled. “Give him the red pouch first, then see what a grateful frame of mind it puts him in.”

3

“GET ME a glass of water, Jean.” Locke stared out the canal-side window of the seventh-floor room, as the buildings of southern Camorr grew long black shadows toward the east. “It’s time to take my medicine. I’m guessing it’s close on twenty minutes to nine.”

“Already set,” said Jean, passing over a tin cup with a cloudy lavender residue swirling in it. “That stuff did dissolve in a blink, just like the Sanzas said.”

“Well,” he said, “here’s to deep pockets poorly guarded. Here’s to true alchemists, a strong stomach, a clumsy Gray King, and the luck of the Crooked Warden.”

“Here’s to living out the night,” said Jean, miming the clink of a cup against Locke’s own.

“Mmm.” Locke sipped hesitantly, then tilted the cup back and poured it down his throat in one smooth series of gulps. “Actually not bad at all. Tastes minty, very refreshing.”

“A worthy epitaph,” said Jean, taking the cup.

Locke stared out the window a while longer; the mesh was up, as the Duke’s Wind was still blowing in strongly from the sea and the insects weren’t yet biting. Across the Via Camorrazza the Arsenal District was mostly silent and motionless. With the Iron Sea city-states at relative peace, all the great saw-yards and warehouses and wet docks had little business. In a time of need they could build or service two dozen ships at once; now Locke could see only one skeletal hull rising within the yards.

Beyond that, the sea broke white against the base of the South Needle, an Elderglass-mortared stone breakwater nearly three-quarters of a mile in length. At its southernmost tip, a human-built watchtower stood out against the darkening sea; beyond that, the white blurs of sails could be seen beneath the red tendrils of clouds in the sky.

“Oh,” he said, “I do believe something’s happening.”

“Take a seat,” said Jean. “You’re supposed to get wobbly in just a bit.”

“Already happening. In fact … gods, I think I’m going to …”

So it began; a great wave of nausea bubbled up in Locke’s throat, and with it came everything he’d eaten for the past day. For a few long minutes he crouched on his knees, clutching a wooden bucket as devoutly as any man had ever prayed over an altar for intercession from the gods.

“Jean,” he gasped out during a brief lull between spasms of retching, “next time I conceive a plan like this, consider planting a hatchet in my skull.”

“Hardly efficacious.” Jean swapped a full bucket for an empty one and gave Locke a friendly pat on the back. “Dulling my nice sharp blades on a skull as thick as yours …”

One by one, Jean shuttered the windows. Falselight was just rising outside. “Ghastly as it is,” he said, “we need the smell to make an impression when Anjais shows up.”

Even once Locke’s stomach was thoroughly emptied, the dry heaving continued. He shuddered and shook and moaned, clutching at his guts. Jean hauled him bodily over to a sleeping pallet, where he looked down in genuine worry. “You’re pale and clammy,” he muttered. “Not bad at all. Very realistic.”

“Pretty, isn’t it? Gods,” whispered Locke, “how much longer?”

“Can’t rightly say,” said Jean. “They should be arriving down there right about now; give them a few minutes to get impatient with waiting around for us and come storming up here.”

During those few minutes, Locke became intimately acquainted with the idea of “a short eternity.” Finally, there came the creak of footsteps on the stairs, and a loud banging on the door.

“Lamora!” Anjais Barsavi’s voice. “Tannen! Open up or I’ll kick the damn door in!”

“Thank the gods,” croaked Locke as Jean rose to unbolt the door.

“We’ve been waiting out front of the Last Mistake! Are you coming or … Gods, what the hell happened in here?”

Anjais threw one arm up over his face as he stepped into the apartment and the smell of sickness. Jean pointed to Locke, writhing on the bed, moaning, half wrapped in a thin blanket despite the moist heat of the evening.

“He took ill just half an hour ago, maybe,” said Jean. “Losing his stomach all over the damn place. I don’t know what’s the matter.”

“Gods, he’s turning green.” Anjais took a few steps closer to Locke, staring in horrified sympathy. He was dressed for a fight, with a boiled leather cuirass, an unbuckled leather collar, and a pair of studded leather bracers tied over his hamlike forearms. Several men had accompanied him up the stairs, but none of them seemed in any hurry to follow him into the rooms.

“I had capon for lunch,” said Jean, “and he had fish rolls. That’s the last thing either of us ate, and I’m fine.”

“Iono’s piss. Fish rolls. Fresher than he bargained for, I’d wager.”

“Anjais,” Locke croaked, reaching out toward him with a shaking hand. “Don’t … don’t leave me. I can still go. I can still fight.”

“Gods, no.” Anjais shook his head emphatically. “You’re in a bad way, Lamora. I think you’d best see a physiker. Have you summoned one, Tannen?”

“I haven’t had a chance. I fetched out the buckets and I’ve been looking after him since it started.”

“Well, keep it up. Both of you stay. No, don’t get angry, Jean; he clearly can’t be left on his own. Stay and tend him. Fetch a physiker when you can.”

Anjais gave Locke two brief pats on his exposed shoulder.

“We’ll get the fucker tonight, Locke. No worries. We’ll do him for good, and I’ll send someone to look in on you when we’re done. I’ll square this with Papa; he’ll understand.”

“Please … please, Jean can help me stand, I can still—”

“End of discussion. You can’t fucking stand up; you’re sick as a fish dropped in a wine bottle.” Anjais backed toward the door and gave Locke a brief, sympathetic wave before he ducked out. “If I get my hands on the bastard personally, I’ll deck him once for you, Locke. Rest easy.”

Then the door slammed, and Locke and Jean were alone once again.

4

LONG MINUTES passed; Jean unshuttered the canal-side window and stared out into the glimmer of Falselight. He watched as Anjais and his men broke loose from the crowds below, then hurried across a Via Camorrazza catbridge and into the Arsenal District. Anjais didn’t look back even once, and soon enough he was swallowed up by shadows and distance.

“Long gone. Can I help you out of …,” Jean said, turning away from the window. Locke had already stumbled out of bed and was splashing water on the alchemical hearthstone, looking ten years older and twenty pounds thinner. That was alarming; Locke didn’t have twenty pounds to spare.

“Lovely. The least complicated, least important job of the night is done. Carry on, Gentlemen Bastards,” said Locke. His face was alight in the reflected glow of the simmering stone as he set a glazed jug of water atop it. Ten years older? More like twenty. “Now for the tea, gods bless it, and it had better be as good as the purple powder.”

Jean grimaced and grabbed the two vomit buckets Locke had used, then moved back to the window. Falselight was dying down now; the Hangman’s Wind was blowing up warm and strong, bringing a low ceiling of dark clouds with it, visible just past the Five Towers. The moons would be swallowed by those clouds tonight, at least for a few hours. Pinpricks of firelight were appearing across the city as though an unseen jeweler were setting his wares out on a field of black cloth.

“Jessaline’s little potion seems to have brought up every meal I’ve had in the past five years,” said Locke. “Nothing left to spit up but my naked soul. Make sure it isn’t floating around in one of those before you toss them, right?” His hands shook as he crumbled the dry Somnay pine bark right into the jug of water; he didn’t feel like messing about with proper tea-brewing.

“I think I see it,” Jean said. “Nasty, crooked little thing it is, too; you’re better off with it floating out to sea.”

Jean took a quick glance out the window to ensure that there were no canal boats drifting below in the path of a truly foul surprise, then simply flung the buckets, one after the other. They hit the gray water seventy-odd feet below with loud splashes, but Jean was certain nobody noticed or cared. Camorri were always throwing disgusting things into the Via Camorrazza.

Satisfied with his aim, Jean then slid the hidden closet open and pulled out their disguises—cheap traveler’s cloaks and a pair of broad-brimmed Tal Verrar caps fashioned from some ignoble leather with the greasy texture of sausage casings. He flung one brownish gray cloak over Locke’s shoulders; Locke clutched at it gratefully and shivered.

“You’ve got that motherly concern in your eyes, Jean. I must look like hammered shit.”

“Actually, you look like you were executed last week. I hate to ask, but are you sure you’re going to be up for this?”

“Whatever I am, it has to be sufficient.” Locke wrapped one end of his cloak around his right hand and picked up the jug of half-boiled tea. He sipped and swallowed, bark and all, reasoning that the best place for the stuff would be his empty stomach. “Ugh. It tastes like a kick in the gut feels. Have I pissed Jessaline off recently, too?”

His expression was picturesque, as though the skin of his face were trying to peel itself back and leap off his bones, but he continued to choke the near tea down anyway. Jean steadied him by placing both hands on his shoulders, privately afraid that another bout of vomiting might be more than Locke could handle.

After a few minutes, Locke set the empty jug down and sighed deeply.

“I can’t wait to have words with the Gray King when this shit is all finished,” Locke whispered. “There’s a few things I want to ask him. Philosophical questions. Like, ‘How does it feel to be dangled out a window by a rope tied around your balls, motherfucker?’ ”

“Sounds more like physik than philosophy. But as you said, we have to wait for the Falconer to leave first.” Jean’s voice was steady and totally empty of emotion; the voice he always used when discussing a plan only loosely tethered to prudence and sanity. “Pity we can’t just blindside the bastard from an alley.”

“Couldn’t give him so much as a second to think, or we’d lose.”

“Anything less than twenty yards,” mused Jean. “One good throw with a Wicked Sister. Wouldn’t take but half a second.”

“But you and I both know,” Locke replied slowly, “that we can’t kill a Bondsmage. We wouldn’t live out the week. Karthain would make examples of us, plus Calo, Galdo, and Bug as well. Not very clever at all, that way out. A drawn-out suicide.”

Locke stared down at the fading glow of the hearthstone and rubbed his hands together.

“I wonder, Jean. I really wonder. Is this what other people feel like when we’re through with them? After we get the goods and pull the vanish and there’s nothing they can do about it?”

The light from the hearthstone sank several stages further before Jean answered.

“I thought we’d agreed long ago that they get what they deserve, Locke. Nothing more. This is a fantastically silly moment to start giving a shit.”

“Giving a shit?” Locke started, blinking as though he had just woken up. “No, don’t get me wrong. It’s just this sewn-up feeling. ‘No way out’ is for other people, not for the Gentlemen Bastards. I don’t like being trapped.”

At a sudden gesture from Locke, Jean pulled him to his feet. Jean wasn’t sure if the tea was any more responsible than the cloak, but Locke was no longer shivering.

“Too right,” Locke continued, his voice gaining strength. “Too right I don’t like it. Let’s get this shit job over with. We can have a good ponder on the subject of our favorite gray rat-fucker and his pet mage after I’ve danced to their little tune.”

Jean grinned and cracked his knuckles, then ran a hand down the small of his back. The old familiar gesture, making sure that the Wicked Sisters were ready for a night out.

“You sure,” he said, “that you’re ready for the Vine Highway?”

“Ready as I can be, Jean. Hell, I weigh considerably less than I did before I drank that potion. Climbing down’ll be the easiest thing I do all night.”

5

THE TRELLIS ran up the full height of the Broken Tower, on the westward face of the structure, overlooking a narrow alley. The lattice of wood was threaded with tough old vines and built around the windows on each floor. Though something of a bitch to climb, it was the perfect way to avoid the few dozen familiar faces that were sure to be in the Last Mistake on any given night. The Gentlemen Bastards used the Vine Highway frequently.

The alley-side shutters banged open on the top floor of the Broken Tower; all the light inside Locke and Jean’s suite of rooms had been extinguished. A large dark shape slid out into the mass of trellised vines, and was shortly followed by a smaller shape. Clinging with white-knuckled determination, Locke gently eased the shutters closed above him, then willed his queasy stomach to quit complaining for the duration of the climb. The Hangman’s Wind, on its way out to the salty blackness of the Iron Sea, caught at his cap and cloak with invisible fingers that smelled of marshes and farmers’ fields.

Jean kept himself two or three feet under Locke, and they descended steadily, one foothold or handhold at a time. The windows on the sixth floor were shuttered and dark.

Thin slivers of amber light could be seen around the shutters on the fifth floor. Both climbers slowed without the need for words and willed themselves to be as quiet as possible; to be patches of gray invisible against deeper darkness, nothing more. They continued down.

The fifth-floor shutters flew outward as Jean was abreast with them on their left.

One hinged panel rebounded off his back, almost startling him out of his hold on the trellis. He curled his fingers tightly around wood and vine, and looked to his right. Locke stepped on his head in surprise, but quickly pulled himself back up.

“I know there’s no other way out, you miserable bitch!” hissed a man’s voice.

There was a loud thump, and then a shudder ran up and down the trellis; someone else had just gone out the window, and was scrabbling in the vines beside and just below them. A black-haired woman stuck her head out of the window, intent on yelling something in return, but when she caught sight of Jean through the cracks in her swinging shutter, she gasped. This in turn drew the attention of the man clinging just beneath her; a larger man even than Jean.

“What the hell is this shit?” he gasped. “What are you doing outside this window?”

“Amusing the gods, asshole.” Jean kicked down and tried to nudge the newcomer further down the trellis, to no avail. “Kindly heave yourself down!”

“What are you doing outside this window, huh? You like to sneak a peek? You can sneak a peek of my fist, cocksucker!”

Grunting with exertion, he began to climb back upward, grabbing at Jean’s legs. Jean narrowly yanked himself out of the way, and the world reeled around him as he regained his balance. Black wall, black sky, wet black cobblestones fifty feet below. That was a bad fall, the kind that cracked men like eggs.

“All of you, get off my damned window now! Ferenz, for Morgante’s sake, leave them be and get down!” the woman hollered.

“Shit,” Locke muttered from a few feet above and to her left, his eloquence temporarily cowed into submission. “Madam, you’re complicating our night, so before we come in and complicate yours, kindly cork your bullshit bottle and close the gods-damned window!”

She looked up, aghast. “Two of you? All of you, get down, get down, get down!”

“Close your window, close your window, close your fucking window!”

“I’ll kill both you shitsuckers,” huffed Ferenz. “Drop you both off this fucking—”

There was a marrow-chillingly loud cracking noise, and the trellis shuddered beneath the hands of the three men clinging to it.

“Ah,” said Locke. “Ah, that figures. Thanks ever so much, Ferenz.”

Then there was a torrent of polysyllabic blasphemy from four mouths; exactly who said what would never be clearly recalled. Two careful men were apparently the trellis’ limit; under the weight of three careless flailers, it began to tear free of the stone wall with a series of creaks and pops.

Ferenz surrendered to gravity and common sense and began sliding downward at prodigious speed, burning his hands as he went, all but peeling the trellis off the wall above him. It finally gave way when he was about twenty feet above the ground, flipping over and dashing him down into the darkened alley, where he was promptly covered in falling vines and wood. His descent had snapped off a section of trellis at least thirty feet long, starting just beneath Jean’s dangling feet.

Wasting no time, Locke shimmied to his right and dropped down onto the window ledge, shoving the screaming woman back with the tip of one boot. Jean scrambled upward, for the shutter still blocked his direct access to the window, and as the section of trellis under his hands began to pull out of the wall, he gracelessly swung himself over the shutter and in through the window, taking Locke with him.

They wound up in a heap on the hardwood floor, tangled in cloaks.

“Get back out the fucking window, now!” the woman screamed, punctuating each word with a swift kick to Jean’s back and ribs. Fortunately, she wasn’t wearing shoes.

“That would be stupid,” Locke said, from somewhere under his larger friend.

“Hey,” Jean said. “Hey! Hey!” He caught the woman’s foot and propelled her backward. She landed on her bed; it was the sort commonly called a “dangler”—a two-person hammock of strong but lightweight demi-silk, anchored to the ceiling at four points. She went sprawling across it, and both Locke and Jean suddenly noticed that she wasn’t wearing anything but her smallclothes. In the summer, a Camorri woman’s smallclothes are small indeed.

“Out, you bastards! Out, out! I—”

As Locke and Jean stumbled to their feet, the door on the wall opposite the window slammed open, and in stepped a broad-shouldered man with the slablike muscles of a stevedore or a smith. Vengeful satisfaction gleamed in his eyes, and the smell of hard liquor rolled off him, sour and acute even from ten paces away.

Locke wasted half a second wondering how Ferenz had gotten back upstairs so quickly, and another half second realizing that the man in the doorway wasn’t Ferenz.

He giggled, briefly but uncontrollably.

The night wind slammed the shutter against the open window behind him.

The woman made a noise somewhere in the back of her throat; a noise not unlike a cat falling down a deep, dark well.

“You filthy bitch,” the man said, his speech a thick slow drawl. “Filthy, filthy bitch. I jus’ knew it. Knew you weren’ alone.” He spat, then shook his head at Locke and Jean. “Two guys at once, too. Damn. Go figure. Guess it takes that many t’ replace me.

“Hope you boys had y’rselves a fun time with ’nother man’s woman,” he continued, drawing nine inches of blackened-steel stiletto from his left boot, “ ’cause now I’m gonna make you women.”

Jean spread his feet and moved his left hand under his cloak, ready to draw the Sisters. With his right hand, he nudged Locke a pace behind him.

“Hold it!” Locke cried, waving both of his hands. “I know what this looks like, but you’ve got the wrong idea, friend.” He pointed at the petrified woman clinging to the hanging bed. “She came before we came!”

“Gathis,” hissed the woman. “Gathis, these men attacked me! Get them! Save me!”

Gathis charged at Jean, growling. He held his knife out before him in the grip of an experienced fighter, but he was still drunk and he was still angry. Locke dodged out of the way as Jean caught Gathis by his wrist, stepped inside his reach, and sent him sprawling to the floor with a quick sweep of the legs.

There was an unappetizing snapping noise, and the blade fell from Gathis’ grip; Jean had retained a firm hold on his wrist, and then twisted as the man went down on his back. For a moment Gathis was too bewildered to cry out; then the pain broke through to his dulled senses and he roared.

Jean hoisted him up off the ground with one quick yank by the front of his tunic, and then he shoved Gathis with all his might into the stone wall to the left of the window. The big man’s head bounced off the hard surface and he stumbled forward; the blurred arc of Jean’s right fist met his jaw with a crack, abruptly canceling his forward momentum. He flopped to the ground, boneless as a sack of dough.

“Yes!” cried the woman. “Now throw him out the window!”

“For the love of the gods, madam,” snapped Locke. “Can you please pick one man in your bedroom to cheer for and stick with him?”

“If he’s found dead in the alley beneath your window,” said Jean. “I’ll come back and give you the same.”

“And if you tell anyone that we came through here,” added Locke, “you’ll only wish he’d come back and given you the same.”

“Gathis will remember,” she screeched. “He’ll certainly remember!”

“A big man like him? Please.” Jean made a show of arranging his cloak and redonning his hat. “He’ll say it was eight men and they all had clubs.”

Locke and Jean hurried out the door through which Gathis had entered, which led to the landing of the fifth-floor steps on the north side of the tower. With the trellis damaged, there was nothing else for it but to proceed quickly down on foot and pray to the Crooked Warden. Locke drew the door closed behind them, leaving the bewildered woman sprawled on her hanging bed with the unconscious Gathis curled up beside her window.

“The luck of the gods must certainly be with us,” said Locke as they hurried down the creaking steps. “At least we didn’t lose these stupid fucking hats.”

A small dark shape hissed past them, wings fluttering, a sleek shadow visible as it swooped between them and the lights of the city.

“Well,” Locke added, “for better or worse, from this point on, I suppose we’re under the Falconer’s wing.”

INTERLUDE

Up the River

1

Jean was away at the House of Glass Roses the afternoon that Locke found out he was going to be sent up the Angevine to live on a farm for several months.

Hard rains were pounding Camorr that Idler’s Day, so Chains had taken Locke, Calo, and Galdo down into the dining room to teach them how to play Rich-Man, Beggar-Man, Soldier-Man, Duke—a card game that revolved around attempting to cheat one’s neighbor out of every last bent copper at his disposal. Naturally, the boys took to it quickly.

“Two, three, and five of Spires,” said Calo, “plus the Sigil of the Twelve.”

“Die screaming, half-wit,” said Galdo. “I’ve got a run of Chalices and the Sigil of the Sun.”

“Won’t do you any good, quarter-wit. Hand over your coins.”

“Actually,” said Father Chains, “a Sigil run beats a Sigil stand, Calo. Galdo would have you. Except—”

“Doesn’t anyone care what I’ve got in my hand?” asked Locke.

“Not particularly,” said Chains, “since nothing in the game tops a full Duke’s Hand.” He set his cards on the table and cracked his knuckles with great satisfaction.

“That’s cheating,” said Locke. “That’s six times in a row, and you’ve had the Duke’s Hand for two of them.”

“Of course I’m cheating,” said Chains. “Game’s no fun unless you cheat. When you figure out how I’m cheating, then I’ll know you’re starting to improve.”

“You shouldn’t have told us that,” said Calo.

“We’ll practice all week,” said Galdo.

“We’ll be robbing you blind,” said Locke, “by next Idler’s Day.”

“I don’t think so,” said Chains, chuckling, “since I’m sending you off on a three-month apprenticeship on Penance Day.”

“You’re what?”

“Remember last year, when I sent Calo off to Lashain to pretend to be an initiate in the Order of Gandolo? And Galdo went to Ashmere to slip into the Order of Sendovani? Well, your turn’s come. You’ll be going up the river to be a farmer for a few months.”

“A farmer?”

“Yes, you might have heard of them.” Chains gathered the cards from around the table and shuffled them. “They’re where our food comes from.”

“Yes, but … I don’t know anything about farming.”

“Of course not. You didn’t know how to cook, serve, dress like a gentleman, or speak Vadran when I bought you, either. So now you’re going to learn something else new.”

“Where?”

“Up the Angevine, seven or eight miles. Little place called Villa Senziano. It’s tenant farmers, mostly beholden to the duke or some of the minor swells from the Alcegrante. I’ll dress as a priest of Dama Elliza, and you’ll be my initiate, being sent off to work the earth as part of your service to the goddess. It’s what they do.”

“But I don’t know anything about the Order of Dama Elliza.”

“You won’t need to. The man you’ll be staying with understands that you’re one of my little bastards. The story’s just for everyone else.”

“What,” said Calo, “are we going to do in the meantime?”

“You’ll mind the temple. I’ll only be gone two days; the Eyeless Priest can be sick and locked away in his chambers. Don’t sit the steps while I’m away; people always get sympathetic if I’m out of sight for a bit, especially if I cough and hack when I return. You two and Jean can amuse yourselves as you see fit, so long as you don’t make a bloody mess of the place.”

“But by the time I get back,” said Locke, “I’ll be the worst card player in the temple.”

“Yes. Best wishes for a safe journey, Locke,” said Calo.

“Savor the country air,” said Galdo. “Stay as long as you like.”

2

THE FIVE Towers loomed over Camorr like the upstretched hand of a god; five irregular, soaring, Elderglass cylinders, dotted with turrets and spires and walkways and much curious evidence that the creatures that had designed them did not quite share the aesthetic sense of the humans who’d appropriated them.

Easternmost was Dawncatcher, four hundred feet high, its natural color a shimmery silver-red, like the reflection of a sunset sky in a still body of water. Behind it was Blackspear, slightly taller, made of an obsidian glass that shone with broken rainbows like a pool of oil. At the far side, as one might reckon by looking across the Five with Dawncatcher in the middle of one’s vision, was Westwatch, which shone with the soft violet of a tourmaline, shot through with veins of snow-white pearl. Beside it was stately Amberglass, with its elaborate flutings from which the wind would pull eerie melodies. In the middle, tallest and grandest of all, was Raven’s Reach, the palace of Duke Nicovante, which gleamed like molten silver and was crowned with the famous Sky Garden, whose lowest-hanging vine trailed in the air some six hundred feet above the ground.

A network of glassine cables (miles and miles of spun Elderglass cords had been found in the tunnels beneath Camorr, centuries before) threaded the roofs and turret tops of the Five Towers. Hanging baskets passed back and forth on these cables, drawn along by servants at huge clacking capstans. These baskets carried both passengers and cargo. Although many of the residents of lower Camorr proclaimed them mad, the nobles of the Five Families regarded the lurching, bobbing passage across the yawning empty spaces as a test of honor and courage.

Here and there, large cargo cages were being drawn up or lowered from jutting platforms on several of the towers. They reminded Locke, who stared up at all this with eyes that were not yet sated with such wonders, of the spider cages at the Palace of Patience.

He and Chains sat in a two-wheeled cart with a little walled space behind the seat, where Chains had stashed several parcels of goods under an old canvas tarp. Chains wore the loose brown robes with green and silver trim that marked a priest of Dama Elliza, Mother of Rains and Reaping. Locke wore a plain tunic and breeches, without shoes.

Chains had their two horses (un-Gentled, for Chains misliked using the white-eyed creatures outside city walls) trotting at a gentle pace up the winding cobbles of the Street of Seven Wheels, the heart of the Millfalls district. In truth, there were more than seven wheels spinning in the white froth of the Angevine; there were more in sight than Locke could count.

The Five Towers had been built on a plateau some sixty-odd feet above the lower city; the Alcegrante islands sloped up toward the base of this plateau. The Angevine came into Camorr at that height, just to the east of the Five, and fell down a crashing six-story waterfall nearly two hundred yards across. Wheels turned at the top of these falls, within a long glass-and-stone bridge topped with wooden mill-houses.

Wheels turned beneath the falls as well, jutting out into the river on both sides, making use of the rushing white flow to work everything from grinding stones to the bellows that blew air across the fires beneath brewers’ vats. It was a district choked with business-folk and laborers alike, with escorted nobles in gilded carriages rolling here and there to inspect their holdings or place orders.

They turned east at the tip of the Millfalls and crossed a wide low bridge into the Cenza Gate district, the means by which most northbound land traffic left the city. Here was a great mess, barely controlled by a small army of yellowjackets. Caravans of wagons were rolling into the city, their drivers at the mercy of the duke’s tax and customs agents, men and women marked by their tall black brimless caps and commonly referred to (when out of earshot) as “vexationers.”

Petty merchants were pitching everything from warm beer to cooked carrots; beggars were pleading countless improbable reasons for impoverishment and claiming lingering wounds from wars that had obviously ended long before they were born. Yellowjackets were driving the most persistent or malodorous off with their black lacquered sticks. It was not yet the tenth hour of the morning.

“You should see this place around noon,” said Chains, “especially during harvest time. And when it rains. Gods.”

Chains’ clerical vestments (and a silver solon passed over in a handshake) got them out of the city with little more than a “Good day, Your Holiness.” The Cenza Gate was fifteen yards wide, with huge ironwood doors almost as tall. The guardhouses on the wall were occupied, barrackslike, not just by the city watch but by the blackjackets, Camorr’s regular soldiers. They could be seen pacing here and there atop the wall, which was a good twenty feet thick.

North of Camorr proper was neighborhood after neighborhood of lightly built stone and wooden buildings, arranged in courts and squares more airy than those found on the islands of the city itself. Along the riverbank there were the beginnings of a marsh; to the north and the east were terraced hills, crisscrossed by the white lines of boundary stones set out to mark the property of the families that farmed them. The air took on divergent qualities depending on which way the chance breezes blew. It would smell of sea salt and wood smoke one minute, of manure and olive groves the next.

“Here beyond the walls,” said Chains, “is what many folks living outside the great cities would think of as cities; these little scatterings of wood and stone that probably don’t look like much to someone like you. Just as you haven’t really seen the country, most of them haven’t truly seen the city. So keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, and be mindful of differences until you’ve had a few days to acclimate yourself.”

“What’s the point of this trip, Chains, really?”

“You might one day have to pretend to be a person of very lowly station, Locke. If you learn something about being a farmer, you’ll probably learn something about being a teamster, a barge poleman, a village smith, a horse physiker, and maybe even a country bandit.”

The road north from Camorr was an old Therin Throne road: a raised stone expanse with shallow ditches at the sides. It was covered with a gravel of pebbles and iron filings, waste from the forges of the Coalsmoke district. Here and there the rains had fused or rusted the gravel into a reddish cement; the wheels clattered as they slid over these hard patches.

“A lot of blackjackets,” Chains said slowly, “come from the farms and villages north of Camorr. It’s what the dukes of Camorr do, when they need more men, and they can afford to wait a bit, without raising a general levy of the lowborn. It’s good wages, and there’s the promise of land for those that stay in service a full twenty-five years. Assuming they don’t get killed, of course. They come from the north, and mostly they go back to the north.”

“Is that why the blackjackets and the yellowjackets don’t like each other?”

“Heh.” Chains’ eyes twinkled. “Good guess. There’s some truth to it. Most of the yellowjackets are city boys that want to stay city boys. But on top of that, soldiers can be some of the cattiest, most clannish damn folk you’ll ever find outside of a highborn lady’s wardrobe. They’ll fight over anything; they’ll brawl over the colors of their hats and the shapes of their shoes. I know, believe me.”

“You pretended to be one once?”

“Thirteen gods, no. I was one.”

“A blackjacket?”

“Yes.” Chains sighed and settled back against the hard wooden seat of the horse cart. “Thirty years past, now. More than thirty. I was a pikeman for the old Duke Nicovante. Most of us from the village my age went; it was a bad time for wars. Duke needed fodder; we needed food and coin.”

“Which village?”

Chains favored him with a crooked smile. “Villa Senziano.”

“Oh.”

“Gods, it was a whole pile of us that went.” The horses and the cart rattled down the road for a few long moments before Chains continued. “There were three of us that came back. Or at least got out of it.”

“Only three?”

“That I know of.” Chains scratched at his beard. “One of them is the man I’m going to be leaving you with. Vandros. A good fellow; not book-smart but very wise in the everyday sense. He did his twenty-five years, and the duke gave him a spot of land as a tenancy.”

“Tenancy?”

“Most common folk outside the city don’t own their own land any more than city renters own their buildings. An old soldier with a tenancy gets a nice spot of land to farm until he dies; it’s a sort of allowance from the duke.” Chains chuckled. “Given in exchange for one’s youth and health.”

“You didn’t do the twenty-five, I’m guessing.”

“No.” Chains fiddled with his beard a bit more, an old nervous gesture. “Damn, I wish I could have a smoke. It’s a very frowned-on thing in the order of the Dama, mind you. No, I took sick after a battle. Something more than just the usual shits and sore feet. A wasting fever. I couldn’t march and I was like to die, so they left me behind … myself and many others. In the care of some itinerant priests of Perelandro.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“Clever lad,” said Chains, “to deduce that from such slender evidence after living with me for just three years.”

“And what happened?”

“A great many things,” said Chains. “And you know how it ends. I wound up in this cart, riding north and entertaining you.”

“Well, what happened to the third man from your village?”

“Him? Well,” said Chains, “he always had his head on right. He made banneret sergeant not long after I got laid up with the fever. At the Battle of Nessek, he helped young Nicovante hold the line together when old Nicovante took an arrow right between his eyes. He lived, got elevated, and served Nicovante in the next few wars that came their way.”

“And where is he?”

“At this very moment? How should I know? But,” said Chains, “later this afternoon, he’ll be giving Jean Tannen his usual afternoon weapons lesson at the House of Glass Roses.”

“Oh,” said Locke.

“Funny old world,” said Chains. “Three farmers became three soldiers; three soldiers became one farmer, one baron, and one thieving priest.”

“And now I’m to become a farmer, for a while.”

“Yes. Useful training indeed. But not just that.”

“What else?”

“Another test, my boy. Just another test.”

“Which is?”

“All these years, you’ve had me looking over you. You’ve had Calo and Galdo, and Jean, and Sabetha from time to time. You’ve gotten used to the temple as a home. But time’s a river, Locke, and we’ve always drifted farther down it than we think.” He smiled down at Locke with real affection. “I can’t stand watch on you forever, boy. Now we need to see what you can do when you’re off in a strange new place, all on your own.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE FUNERAL CASK

1

IT BEGAN LIKE this—with the slow, steady beat of mourning drums and the slow cadence of marchers moving north from the Floating Grave, red torches smoldering in their hands, a double line of bloodred light stretched out beneath the low dark clouds.

At its heart was Vencarlo Barsavi, Capa of Camorr, with a son at either hand. Before him was a covered casket draped in black silk and cloth of gold, carried at either side by six pallbearers—one for each of the twelve Therin gods—dressed in black cloaks and black masks. At Barsavi’s back was a huge wooden cask on a cart pulled by another six men, with a black-shrouded priestess of the Nameless Thirteenth close behind.

The drums echoed against stone walls; against stone streets and bridges and canals; the torches cast reflections of fire in every window and shred of Elderglass they passed. Folk looked on in apprehension, if they looked on at all; some bolted their doors and drew shutters over their windows as the funeral procession passed. This is how things are done in Camorr, for the rich and the powerful; the slow mournful march to the Hill of Whispers, the interment, the ceremony, and then the wild, tearful celebration afterward. A toast on behalf of the departed; a bittersweet revel for those not yet taken for judgment by Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence. The funeral cask is what fuels this tradition.

The lines of marchers left the Wooden Waste just after the tenth hour of the evening and marched into the Cauldron, where no urchin or drunkard dared to get in their way, where gangs of cutthroats and Gaze addicts stood in silent attention as their master and his court walked past.

Through Coalsmoke they marched, and then north into the Quiet, as silvery mist rose warm and clinging from the canals around them. Not a single yellowjacket crossed their path; not one constable even caught sight of the procession—arrangements had been made to keep them busy elsewhere that night. The east belonged to Barsavi and his long lines of torches, and the farther north he went the more honest families bolted their doors and doused their lights and prayed that the business of the marchers lay far away from them.

Had there been many staring eyes, they might have noticed that the procession had already failed to turn toward the Hill of Whispers; that it had instead gone north and snaked toward the western tip of the Rustwater district, where the great abandoned structure called the Echo Hole loomed in the darkness and the fog.

A curious observer might have wondered at the sheer size of the procession—more than a hundred men and women—and at their accoutrements. Only the pallbearers were dressed for a funeral. The torchbearers were dressed for war, in armor of boiled leather with blackened studs, in collars and helmets and bracers and gloves, with knives and clubs and axes and bucklers at their belts. They were the cream of Barsavi’s gangs, the hardest of the Right People—cold-eyed men and women with murders to their names. They were from all of his districts and all of his gangs—the Red Hands and the Rum Hounds, the Gray Faces and the Arsenal Boys, the Canal Jumpers and the Black Twists, the Catchfire Barons and a dozen others.

The most interesting thing about the procession, however, was something no casual observer could know.

The fact was, Nazca Barsavi’s body still lay in her old chambers in the Floating Grave, sealed away under silk sheets, alchemically impregnated to keep the rot of death from setting in too quickly. Locke Lamora and a dozen other priests of the Nameless Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, had said prayers for her the previous night and placed her within a circle of sacred candles, there to lie until her father finished his business this evening, which had nothing to do with the Hill of Whispers. The coffin that was draped in funeral silks was empty.

2

“I AM the Gray King,” said Locke Lamora. “I am the Gray King, gods damn his eyes, I am the Gray King.”

“A little lower,” said Jean Tannen, struggling with one of the gray cuffs of Locke’s coat, “and a little scratchier. Give it a hint of Tal Verrar. You said he had an accent.”

“I am the Gray King,” said Locke, “and I’ll be smiling out the other side of my head when the Gentlemen Bastards are through with me.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Calo, who was streaking Locke’s hair with a foul-scented alchemical paste that was steadily turning it charcoal gray. “I like that one. Just different enough to be noticed.”

Locke stood stock-still as a tailor’s mannequin, surrounded by Calo, Galdo, and Jean, who worked on him with clothes, cosmetics, and threaded needles. Bug leaned up against one wall of their little enclosure, keeping his eyes and ears alert for interlopers.

The Gentlemen Bastards were hidden away in an abandoned storefront in the fog-choked Rustwater district, just a few blocks north of the Echo Hole. Rustwater was a dead island, ill-favored and barely inhabited. A city that had thrown off its old prejudices about the structures of the Eldren still held Rustwater in an unequivocal dread. It was said that the black shapes that moved in the Rustwater lagoon were nothing as pleasant as mere man-eating sharks but something worse, something older. Whatever the truth of those rumors, it was a conveniently deserted place for Barsavi and the Gray King to play out their strange affair. Locke privately suspected that he’d been taken somewhere in this neighborhood on the night the Gray King had first interrupted his life.

They were working every trick of their masquerade art to fashion Locke into the Gray King. Already his hair was gray, his clothes were gray, he was dressed in heavy padded boots that added two inches to his height, and he had a drooping gray moustache firmly affixed above his lips.

“It looks good,” said Bug, an approving note in his voice.

“Damn showy, but Bug’s right,” said Jean. “Now that I’ve got this stupid coat cinched in to your proper size, you do look rather striking.”

“Pity this isn’t one of our games,” said Galdo. “I’d be enjoying myself. Lean forward for some wrinkles, Locke.”

Working very carefully, Galdo painted Locke’s face with a warm, waxy substance that pinched his skin as it went on; in seconds it dried and tightened, and in just a few moments Locke had a complete network of crow’s-feet, laugh-lines, and forehead wrinkles. He looked to be in his midforties, at the very least. The disguise would have done very well in the bright light of day; at night, it would be impenetrable.

“Virtuoso,” said Jean, “relatively speaking, for such short notice and the conditions we have in which to put it all together.”

Locke flipped his hood up and pulled on his gray leather gloves. “I am the Gray King,” he said, his voice low, mimicking the odd accent of the real Gray King.

“I bloody well believe it,” said Bug.

“Well, let’s get on with everything, then.” Locke moved his jaw up and down, feeling the false wrinkle-skin stretch back and forth as he did so. “Galdo, hand me my stilettos, would you? I think I’ll want one in my boot and one in my sleeve.”

Lamora, came a cold whisper, the Falconer’s voice. Locke tensed, then realized that the noise hadn’t come from the air.

“What is it?” asked Jean.

“It’s the Falconer,” said Locke. “He’s … he’s doing that damn thing …”

Barsavi will soon be at hand. You and your friends must be in place, ere long.

“We have an impatient Bondsmage,” said Locke. “Quickly now. Bug, you know the game, and you know where to put yourself?”

“I’ve got it down cold,” said Bug, grinning. “Don’t even have a temple roof to jump off this time, so don’t worry about anything.”

“Jean, you’re comfortable with your place?”

“Not really, but there’s none better.” Jean cracked his knuckles. “I’ll be in sight of Bug, down beneath the floor. If the whole thing goes to shit, you just remember to throw yourself down the damn waterfall. I’ll cover your back, the sharp and bloody way.”

“Calo, Galdo.” Locke whirled to face the twins, who had hurriedly packed away all the tools and substances used to dress Locke up for the evening. “Are we good to move at the temple?”

“It’ll be smoother than a Guilded Lily’s backside if we do,” said Galdo. “A sweet fat fortune wrapped up in sacks, two carts with horses, provisions for a nice long trip on the road.”

“And there’s men at the Viscount’s Gate who’ll slip us out so fast it’ll be like we’d never even set foot in Camorr in the first place,” added Calo.

“Good. Well. Shit.” Locke rubbed his gloved hands together. “I guess that’s that. I’m all out of rhetorical flourishes, so let’s just go get the bastards and pray for a straight deal.”

Bug stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“I’m only doing this,” he said, “because I really love hiding in haunted Eldren buildings on dark and creepy nights.”

“You’re a liar,” said Jean, slowly. “I’m only doing this because I’ve always wanted to see Bug get eaten by an Eldren ghost.”

“Liar,” said Calo. “I’m only doing this because I fucking love hauling half a ton of bloody coins up out of a vault and packing them away on a cart.”

“Liar!” Galdo chuckled. “I’m only doing this because while you’re all busy elsewhere, I’m going to go pawn all the furniture in the burrow at No-Hope Harza’s.”

“You’re all liars,” said Locke as their eyes turned expectantly to him. “We’re only doing this because nobody else in Camorr is good enough to pull this off, and nobody else is dumb enough to get stuck doing it in the first place.”

“Bastard!” They shouted in unison, forgetting their surroundings for a bare moment.

I can hear you shouting, came the ghostly voice of the Falconer. Have you all gone completely mad?

Locke sighed.

“Uncle doesn’t like us keeping him up all night with our carrying on,” he said. “Let’s get to it, and by the grace of the Crooked Warden, we’ll all see each other back at the temple when this mess is over.”

3

THE ECHO Hole is a cube of gray stone mortared with a dull sort of Elderglass; it never gleams at Falselight. In fact, it never returns the reflection of any light passed before it. It is perhaps one hundred feet on a side, with one dignified entrance—a man-sized door about twenty feet above the street at the top of a wide staircase.

A single aqueduct cuts from the upper Angevine, past the Millfalls, south at an angle and into Rustwater, where it spills its water into the heart of the Echo Hole. Like the stone cube itself, this aqueduct is thought to be touched by some ancient ill, and no use has ever been made of it. A small waterfall plunges through a hole in the floor, down into the catacombs beneath the Echo Hole, where dark water can be heard rushing. Some of these passages empty into the canal on the southwestern side of Rustwater; some empty into no place known to living men.

Locke Lamora stood in darkness at the center of the Echo Hole, listening to the rush of water down the break in the floor, staring fixedly at the patch of grayness that marked the door to the street. His only consolation was that Jean and Bug, crouched unseen in the wet darkness beneath the floor, would probably be even more apprehensive. At least until the proceedings started.

Near, came the voice of the Falconer, very near. Stand ready.

Locke heard the capa’s procession before he saw it; the sound of funeral drums came through the open door to the street, muffled and nearly drowned out by the falling water. Steadily, it grew louder; a red glow seemed to kindle beyond the door, and by that light Locke saw that the gray mist had thickened. Torches flickered softly, as though glimpsed from underwater. The red aura rose. The barest outline of the room around him became visible, etched in faint carmine. The beating of the drum ceased, and once again Locke was alone with the sound of the waterfall. He threw back his head, placed one hand behind his back, and stared at the door, his blood pounding in his ears.

Two small red fires appeared in the doorway like the eyes of a dragon from one of Jean’s stories. Black shadows moved behind them, and as Locke’s eyes adjusted to the influx of scarlet light he saw the faces of men, tall men, cloaked and armored. He could see enough of their features and posture to see that they were almost surprised to spot him; they hesitated, then continued forward, one moving to his left and the other to his right. For his part, he did nothing, moving not a muscle.

Two more torches followed, and then two more; Barsavi was sending his men up the stairs in pairs. Soon a loose semicircle of men faced Locke, and their torches cast the interior of the Echo Hole into red-shaded relief. There were carvings on the walls—strange old symbols in the tongue of the Eldren, which men had never deciphered.

A dozen men, two dozen; the crowd of armored shapes grew, and Locke saw faces that he recognized. Throat slitters, leg breakers, maulers. Assassins. A hard lot. Exactly what Barsavi had promised him, when they’d stood looking down at the body of Nazca together.

Moments passed. Still, Locke said nothing. Still, men and women filed in. The Berangias sisters—even in a dimmer light, Locke would have recognized their swagger. They stood at front and center of the gathering crowd, saying nothing, arms folded and eyes gleaming in the torchlight. By some unspoken command, none of Barsavi’s people moved behind Locke. He continued to stand alone, as the great press of Right People continued spreading before him.

At last, the crowd of cutthroats began to part. Locke could hear the echoes of their breathing and murmuring and the creaking of their leathers, bouncing from wall to wall, mingling with the sound of falling water. Some of those on the edges of the crowd extinguished their torches with wet leather pouches; gradually, the smell of smoke seeped into the air, and gradually the light sank, until perhaps one in five of the capa’s folk were still holding lit fires.

There was more than enough light to see Capa Barsavi as he turned the corner and stepped through the door. His gray hair was pulled back in oiled rows; his three beards were freshly brushed. He wore his coat of sharkskin leather, and a black cloak of velvet lined with cloth of gold, thrown back from one shoulder. Anjais was on his right and Pachero on his left as the capa strode forward, and in the reflected fires of their eyes Locke saw nothing but death.

Nothing is as it seems, came the voice of the Falconer. Stand resolute.

At the front of the crowd, Barsavi halted, and for a long moment he stared at the apparition before him, at the cool orange eyes within a shadowed hood, at Locke’s cloak and mantle and coat and gloves of gray.

“King,” he finally said.

“Capa,” Locke replied, willing himself to feel the hauteur, conjuring it forth from nothing. The sort of man who would stand in front of a hundred killers with a smile on his face; the sort of man who would summon Vencarlo Barsavi with a trail of corpses, the last of them his only daughter. That was the man Locke needed to be, not Nazca’s friend but her murderer; not the capa’s mischievous subject, but his equal. His superior.

Locke grinned, wolfishly, then swept his cloak back from his left shoulder. With his left hand he beckoned the capa, a taunting gesture, like a bully in an alley daring his opponent to step forward and take the first swing.

“Oblige him,” said the capa, and a dozen men and women raised crossbows.

Crooked Warden, thought Locke, give me strength. He ground his teeth in expectation. He could hear his jaw muscles creaking.

The snap-hiss of release echoed throughout the hall; a dozen taut strings twanged. The bolts were too fast to follow, dark afterimages that blurred the air, and then—

A dozen narrow black shapes rebounded off nothing right before his face, and fell clattering to the floor, scattered in an arc like dead birds at his feet.

Locke laughed, a high and genuine sound of pleasure. For one brief moment, he would have kissed the Falconer if the Bondsmage had stood before him.

“Please,” he said, “I thought you’d listened to the stories.”

“Just establishing your bona fides,” said Capa Barsavi, “Your Majesty.” The last word was sneered. Locke had at least expected a certain wariness following the blunting of the crossbow attack, but Barsavi stepped forward without apparent fear.

“I’m pleased that you’ve answered my summons,” Locke replied.

“The blood of my daughter is the only thing that’s summoned me,” said Barsavi.

“Dwell on it if you must,” said Locke, praying silently as he extemporized. Nazca, gods, please forgive me. “Were you any gentler, when you took this city for yourself, twenty-two years ago?”

“Is that what you think you’re doing?” Barsavi stopped and stared at him; they were about forty feet apart. “Taking my city from me?”

“I summoned you to discuss the matter of Camorr,” said Locke. “To settle it to our mutual satisfaction.” The Falconer hadn’t interrupted him yet; he presumed he was doing well.

“The satisfaction,” said Barsavi, “will not be mutual.” He raised his left hand, and one man stepped from the crowd.

Locke peered at this man carefully; he seemed to be an older fellow, slight and balding, and he wasn’t wearing armor. Very curious. He also appeared to be shivering.

“Do as we discussed, Eymon,” said the capa. “I’ll hold true to my bargain, truer than any I’ve ever made.”

The unarmored man began to walk forward, slowly, hesitantly, staring at Locke with obvious fear. But still he kept coming, straight toward Locke, while a hundred armed men and women waited behind him, doing nothing.

“I pray,” said Locke, with a bantering tone, “that man isn’t contemplating what I suspect.”

“We’ll all see what his business is soon enough,” said the capa.

“I cannot be cut or pierced,” said Locke, “and this man will die at my touch.”

“So it’s been said,” replied the capa. Eymon continued to move forward; he was thirty feet from Locke, then twenty.

“Eymon,” said Locke, “you are being ill-used. Stop now.”

Gods, he thought. Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Don’t make the Falconer kill you.

Eymon continued to shamble forward; his jowls were quivering, and he was breathing in short sharp gasps. His hands were out before him, shaking, like a man about to reach into a fire.

Crooked Warden, Locke thought, please, let him be scared. Please let him stop. Falconer, Falconer, please, put a fright into him, do anything else but kill him. A river of sweat ran down his spine; he bent his head slightly and fixed Eymon with a stare. Ten feet now lay between them.

“Eymon,” he said, striving for a casual tone and not entirely succeeding, “you have been warned. You are in mortal peril.”

“Oh yeah,” said the man, his voice quavering. “Yeah, that I know.” And then he closed the distance between them, and he reached out for Locke’s right arm with both of his hands—

Fuck, thought Locke, and although he knew deep down that it would be the Falconer killing the man and not himself …

He flinched back from Eymon’s touch.

Eymon’s eyes lit up; he gasped, and then, to Locke’s horror, he leapt forward and grabbed Locke’s arm with both of his hands, like a scavenger bird clutching at a long-delayed meal. “Haaaaaaaaaaaa!” he cried, and for one brief second Locke thought something terrible was happening to him.

But no; Eymon still lived, and he had a very firm grip.

“Double fuck,” Locke mumbled, bringing up his left fist to clout the poor fellow; but he was off balance, and Eymon had him at a disadvantage. The slender man gave Locke a shove backward, screaming once again, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” A cry of absolute triumph; Locke puzzled over it as he fell flat on his ass.

And then there were booted feet slapping the stones behind Eymon, and dark shapes rushing around him to grab at Locke. In the dancing light cast by two dozen moving torches, Locke found himself hauled back up to his feet, pinned by strong hands that clutched at his arms and his shoulders and his neck.

Capa Barsavi pushed through his eager crowd of men and women, forced Eymon more gently to the side, and stood face to face with Locke, his fat ruddy features alight with anticipation.

“Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “I’ll bet you’re one confused son of a bitch right about now.”

And then Barsavi’s people were laughing, cheering. And then the capa’s ham-hock fist planted itself in Locke’s stomach, and the air rushed out of his lungs, and black pain exploded in his chest. And then he knew just how deeply in the shit he truly was.

4

“YES, I’LL bet you’re pretty gods-damned curious at this point,” said Barsavi, strutting back and forth in front of Locke, who remained pinioned by half a dozen men, any one of them half again his size. “And so am I. Let’s throw that hood back, boys.”

Rough hands yanked at Locke’s hood and mantle, and the capa stared coldly at him, running one hand up and down his beards. “Gray, gray, gray. You look like you belong on a stage,” he laughed. “And such a skinny fellow, too. What a weak little man we’ve caught ourselves tonight—the Gray King, sovereign of fog and shadows and precious little else.”

The capa backhanded him, grinning; the stinging pain had just registered when he did it again, from the other direction. Locke’s head lolled. He was grabbed from behind by his hair and made to look the capa right in the face. Locke’s thoughts whirled. Had the capa’s men somehow located the Falconer? Had they distracted him? Was the capa mad enough to actually kill a Bondsmage, if he had the chance?

“Oh, we know you can’t be cut,” continued Barsavi, “and we know you can’t be pierced, more’s the pity. But bruised? It’s a curious thing about the spells of a Bondsmage. They’re so damn specific, aren’t they?”

And then he punched Locke in the stomach again, to a murmur of widespread amusement. Locke’s knees buckled beneath him, and his attendants hoisted him again, holding him upright, as bolts of pain radiated from his abdomen.

“One of your men,” said Barsavi, “strolled into my Floating Grave this very morning.”

A little chill crept down Locke’s spine.

“Seems I’m not the only one you pissed off when you sent my Nazca back to me the way you did,” said Barsavi, leering. “Seems that some of your men didn’t sign on with your merry little crew for that sort of gods-damned desecration. So your man and I, we had ourselves a talk. And we fixed a price. And then he told me all sorts of fascinating things about that spell of yours. And that story about you being able to kill men with a touch? Oh, he told me it was bullshit.”

Sewn up, said a little voice at the back of Locke’s head that most certainly was not the Falconer. Sewn up, sewn up. Of course the Falconer hadn’t been distracted, or taken by any of Barsavi’s men. Neat as a gods-damned hanging.

“But I was only willing to trust the fellow so far,” Barsavi said. “So I made a deal with Eymon, whom I’m sure you don’t recognize. Eymon is dying. He has the cold consumption, the tumors in his stomach and his back. The sort no physiker can cure. He’s got maybe two months, maybe less.” The capa clapped Eymon on the back as proudly as if the skinny man were his own flesh and blood.

“So I said, ‘Why don’t you step up and grab the filthy little bastard, Eymon? If he really can kill with a touch, well, you’ll go quick and easy. And if he can’t …’ ” Barsavi grinned, his red cheeks wrinkling grotesquely. “Well, then.”

“A thousand full crowns,” said Eymon, giggling.

“For starters,” added Barsavi. “A promise I intend to keep. A promise I intend to expand. I told Eymon he’d die in his own villa, with gems and silks and half a dozen ladies of his choice from the Guilded Lilies to keep him company. I will invent pleasures for him. He’ll die like a fucking duke, because tonight I name him the bravest man in Camorr.”

There was a general roar of approval; men and women applauded, and fists banged on armor and shields.

“Quite the opposite,” Barsavi whispered, “of a sneaking, cowardly piece of shit who would murder my only daughter. Who wouldn’t even do it with his own hands. Who’d let some fucking hireling work a twisted magic on her. A poisoner.” Barsavi spat in Locke’s face; the warm spittle trickled down his cheek. “Your man told me, of course, that your Bondsmage had set his spell and left your service last night; that you were so very confident, you didn’t want to keep paying him. Well, I for one applaud your sense of economy.”

Barsavi gestured to Anjais and Pachero; grim-faced, the two men stepped forward. They slipped their optics off and put them in vest pockets; an ominous gesture conducted in unconscious unison. Locke opened his mouth to say something—and then the realization of exactly how sewn up he was struck him cold.

He could proclaim his true identity, have the capa tear off his false moustache and rub away the wrinkles, spill the entire story—but what would it gain him? He would never be believed. He’d already displayed a Bondsmage’s protection. If he confessed to being Locke Lamora, the hundred men and women here would be after Jean and Bug and the Sanzas next.

If he was going to save them, he had to play the Gray King until the capa was finished with him, and then he would pray for a quick and easy death. Let Locke Lamora just vanish one night; let his friends slip away to whatever better fate awaited them. Blinking back hot tears, he summoned up a grin, looked at the two Barsavi sons, and said, “By all means, you fucking curs, let’s see if you can do any better than your father.”

Anjais and Pachero knew how to strike a man with the intent to kill, but just now they had no such intent. They bruised his ribs, knuckle-punched his arms, kicked his thighs, slapped his head from side to side, and punched him in the neck until every breath was a chore. At last, Anjais had him hoisted back up, and took hold of his chin so that the two of them were looking eye to eye.

“By the way,” said Anjais, “this is from Locke Lamora.”

Anjais balanced Locke’s chin on one finger and walloped him with his other hand. White-hot pain shot through Locke’s neck, and in the red-tinted darkness around him he saw stars. He spat blood, coughed, and licked his sore, swollen lips.

“Now,” said Barsavi, “I’ll have a father’s justice for Nazca’s death.”

He clapped his hands three times.

Behind him, there was an audible noise of men cursing, and heavy footfalls banging against the stone steps. Through the door came eight more men, carrying a large wooden cask—a cask the size of the one Nazca Barsavi had been returned to her father in. The funeral cask. The crowd around Barsavi and his sons parted eagerly to let the cask haulers through. They set it on the ground beside the capa, and inside it Locke heard the slosh of liquid.

Oh, thirteen gods, he thought.

“Can’t be cut, can’t be pierced,” said the capa, as though he were musing out loud. “But you can certainly be bruised. And you certainly need to breathe.”

Two of the capa’s men popped the lid on the cask open, and Locke was dragged over to it. The eye-watering stench of horse urine spilled out into the air, and he gagged, sobbing.

“Look at the Gray King cry,” whispered Barsavi. “Look at the Gray King sob. A sight I will treasure to the last hour of my dying day!” His voice rose. “Did Nazca sob? Did my daughter cry, as you gave her her death? Somehow I don’t think so.”

The capa was shouting now. “Take a last look! He gets what Nazca got; he dies as she died, but by my hand!”

Barsavi seized Locke by the hair and tilted his face toward the barrel; for one brief irrational moment, Locke was grateful that there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. The dry retching still brought spasms of pain to his much-abused stomach muscles.

“With one small touch,” said the capa, actually gulping back sobs of exhilaration. “With one small touch, you son of a bitch. No poison for you. No quick way out before I put you in. You get to taste it, the whole time. All the while as you drown in it.”

And then he hefted Locke by the mantle, grunting. His men joined in, and together they hoisted him up over the rim, and then down he plunged face-first, down into thick, lukewarm filth that blotted out the noise of the world around him, down into darkness that burned his eyes and his cuts and swallowed him whole.

5

BARSAVI’S MEN slammed the lid back onto the barrel; several of them hammered it down with mallets and axe-butts until it was cinched tight. The capa gave the top of the barrel a thump with his fist and smiled broadly. Tears were still running down his cheeks.

“Somehow I don’t think the poor fucker did as well as he hoped with our negotiations!”

The men and women around him whooped and hollered, arms in the air, torches waving and casting wild shadows on the walls.

“Take this bastard and send him out to sea,” said the capa, gesturing toward the waterfall.

A dozen pairs of eager hands grabbed at the barrel. Laughing and joking, a crowd of the capa’s people hoisted it and carried it over to the northwestern corner of the Echo Hole, where water poured in from the ceiling and vanished into blackness through a fissure about eight feet wide. “One,” said the leader, “two …” And on the cusp of “three,” they flung the barrel down into darkness. It struck water somewhere beneath them with a splash; then they threw up their arms and began cheering once again.

“Tonight,” cried Barsavi, “Duke Nicovante sleeps safe in his bed, locked away in his glass tower! Tonight the Gray King sleeps in piss, in a tomb that I have made for him! Tonight is my night! Who rules Camorr?”

“Barsavi!” came the response from every throat in the Echo Hole, reverberating around the alien-set stones of the structure, and the capa was surrounded by a sea of noise, laughter, applause.

“Tonight,” he yelled, “send messengers to every corner of my domains! Send runners to the Last Mistake! Send runners to Catchfire! Wake the Cauldron and the Narrows and the Dregs and all the Snare! Tonight, I throw open my doors! The Right People of Camorr will come to the Floating Grave as my guests! Tonight, we’ll have such a revel that the honest folk will bar their doors, that the yellowjackets will cringe in their barracks, that the gods themselves will look down and cry, ‘What is that fucking racket?’ ”

“Barsavi! Barsavi! Barsavi!” his people chanted.

“Tonight,” he said at last, “we will celebrate. Tonight Camorr has seen the last of kings.”

INTERLUDE

The Half-Crown War

1

As time went by, Locke and the other Gentlemen Bastards were occasionally set free to roam at leisure, dressed in ordinary clothing. Locke and Jean were getting on near twelve; the Sanzas were visibly slightly older. It was more difficult to keep them cooped up beneath the House of Perelandro all the time, when they weren’t sitting the steps or away on Father Chains’ “apprenticeships.”

Slowly but steadily, Chains was sending his boys out to be initiated in all the great temples of the other eleven Therin gods. One of them would enter a temple under a false name, sped along by whatever strings Chains could pull and whatever palms he could slip coins into. Once there, the young Gentleman Bastard would inevitably please his superiors with his scribing, his theological knowledge, his discipline, and his sincerity. Advancement came quickly, as fast as it could be had; soon the newcomer would receive training in what was called “interior ritual”: the phrases and activities that priests only shared among themselves and their initiates.

They were not quite secrets, these things—to any priest of a Therin order, the thought of someone being audacious enough to offend the gods by falsely seeking initiation was utterly alien. Even those who knew of the slightly heretical idea of the Thirteenth, and even the minority who actually believed in him, failed to imagine that anyone would want to do what Chains and his boys were doing.

Invariably, after several months of excellent accomplishments, each sterling young initiate would die in a sudden accident. Calo favored “drowning,” for he could hold his breath a very long time, and he enjoyed swimming underwater. Galdo preferred to simply disappear, preferably during a storm or some other dramatic event. Locke constructed elaborate little mummeries that took weeks to plan. On one occasion, he vanished from the Order of Nara (Plague Mistress, Lady of Ubiquitous Maladies) by leaving his initiate’s robe, torn apart and splashed with rabbit’s blood, wrapped around his copy-work and a few letters in an alley behind the temple.

Thus enlightened, each boy would return and teach the others of what he had seen and heard. “The point,” said Chains, “is not to make you all candidates for the High Conclave of the Twelve, but to allow you to throw on whatever robes and masks are required and pass as a priest for any short period of need. When you’re a priest, people tend to see the robe rather than the man.”

But there was no apprenticeship under way at the moment; Jean was drilling at the House of Glass Roses, and the other boys waited for him on the southern edge of the Shifting Market, on a crumbling stone pier at the end of a short alley. It was a warm spring day, breezy and fresh, with the sky half-occluded by crescents of gray and white clouds sweeping in from the northwest, heralding storms.

Locke and Calo and Galdo were watching the results of a collision between a chicken-seller’s boat and a transporter of cats. Several cages had flown open when the small boats cracked against one another, and now agitated merchants were stepping warily back and forth as the battle between birds and felines progressed. A few chickens had escaped into the water and were flapping uselessly in little circles, squawking, for nature had conspired to make them even worse at swimming than they were at flying.

“Well,” said a voice behind them. “Have a look at this. These little wasters seem very likely.”

Locke and the Sanzas turned around as one to see a half dozen boys and girls their own age standing behind them, spread out across the alley. They were dressed much as the Gentlemen Bastards were, in unassuming clothes of common cut. Their apparent leader had a thick, dark mane of curly black hair, pulled behind him and tied with a black silk ribbon—quite a mark of distinction for an urchin.

“Are you friends of the friends, lads? Are you the right sort of people?” The leader of the newcomers stood with his hands on his hips; behind him, a short girl made several hand gestures used for common identification by Capa Barsavi’s subjects.

“We are friends of the friends,” said Locke.

“The rightest sort of right,” added Galdo, making the appropriate countergestures.

“Good lads. We’re the seconds to the Full Crowns, in the Narrows. Call ourselves Half-Crowns. What’s your allegiance?”

“Gentlemen Bastards,” said Locke. “Temple District.”

“Who’re you seconds to?”

“We’re not seconds to anyone,” said Galdo. “It’s just the Gentlemen Bastards, one and all.”

“Savvy,” said the leader of the Half-Crowns, with a friendly grin. “I’m Tesso Volanti. This is my crew. We’re here to take your coin. Unless you want to kneel and give us your preference.”

Locke scowled. “Preference,” in the parlance of the Right People, meant that the Gentlemen Bastards would proclaim the Half-Crowns the better, tougher gang; make way for them on the street and tolerate whatever abuse the Half-Crowns saw fit to heap upon them.

“I’m Locke Lamora,” said Locke as he rose slowly to his feet, “and excepting the capa, the Gentlemen Bastards bend the knee to nobody.”

“Really?” Tesso feigned shock. “Even with six on three? It’s soft talk, if no’s your answer.”

“You must not hear very well,” said Calo, as he and his brother stood up in unison. “He said you get our preference when you pick the peas out of our shit and suck on ’em for dinner.”

“Now that was uncalled-for,” said Tesso, “so I’m gonna make some noise with your skulls.”

Even before he’d finished speaking, the Half-Crowns were moving forward, and it was six on three at the end of the pier. Locke was the smallest child involved, even counting the girls, and while he went into the melee with his little fists swinging, he caught mostly air and was quickly knocked down. One older girl sat on his back, while another kicked alley grit into his face.

The first boy to reach for Calo got a knee in the groin and went down moaning; right behind him came Tesso, with a hard right that sent Calo backward. Galdo tackled Tesso around the waist, howling, and they hit the ground scrabbling for leverage. “Soft talk” meant no weapons, and no blows that could kill or cripple, but just about anything else was on the table. The Sanzas were capable brawlers, but even if Locke had been able to hold up his end of the fight the numbers would have told against them. In the end, after a few minutes of wrestling and swearing and kicking, the three Gentlemen Bastards were dumped in the middle of the alley, dusty and battered.

“Right, lads. Preferences, is it? Let’s hear ’em.”

“Go fold yourself in half,” said Locke, “and lick your ass.”

“Oh, that’s the wrong answer, short-wit,” said Tesso, and while one of his boys pinned Locke’s arms, the leader of the Half-Crowns patted Locke down for coins. “Hmm. Nothing. Well then, sweetmeats, we’ll be looking for you again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. Until you bend the knee, we’ll watch you and we’ll make your lives miserable. Mark my words, Locke Lamora.”

The Half-Crowns strolled off laughing, a few nursing bruises and sprains, but not nearly as many as they’d inflicted. The Sanzas arose groaning and helped Locke to his feet. Warily, they limped back to the House of Perelandro together and slipped into the glass burrow through a drainage culvert equipped with a secret door.

“You’re not going to believe what happened,” said Locke as he and the Sanzas entered the dining room. Chains sat at the witchwood table, peering down at a collection of parchments, carefully scribing on one with a fine-cut quill. Forging customs papers was a sort of hobby, one he practiced the way some men kept gardens or bred hounds. He had a leather portfolio full of them, and he occasionally made good silver selling them.

“Mmmm,” said Chains, “you got your asses walloped by a pack of Half-Crowns.”

“How did you know?”

“Stopped by the Last Mistake last night. Heard about it from the Full Crowns. Told me their seconds might be sweeping the neighborhoods, looking for other juvies to push around.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I figured if you were being adequately cautious, they’d never be able to get the better of you. Looks like your attention was somewhere else.”

“They said they wanted our preferences.”

“Yeah,” said Chains. “It’s a juvie game. Most of the seconds don’t get to pull real jobs just yet, so they train themselves up by pushing other seconds around. You should be proud of yourselves; you finally got noticed. Now you’ve got a little war until one of you cries mercy. Soft talk only, mind you.”

“So,” Locke said slowly, “what should we do?”

Chains reached over and grabbed Locke’s fist, then mimed swinging it into Calo’s jaw. “Repeat as necessary,” said Chains, “until your problems are spitting up teeth.”

“We tried that. And they jumped us while Jean was away. And you know I’m not much good at that sort of thing.”

“Sure I do. So next time, make sure you’ve got Jean with you. And use that devious little brain of yours.” Chains began melting a cylinder of sealing wax over a small candle. “But I don’t want to see anything too elaborate, Locke. Don’t pull the watch or the temples or the duke’s army or anyone else into it. Try and make it look like you’re just the pack of ordinary sneak-thieves I tell everyone you are.”

“Oh, great.” Locke folded his arms while Calo and Galdo washed one another’s bruised faces with wet cloths. “So it’s just another bloody test.”

“What a clever boy,” muttered Chains, pouring liquid wax into a tiny silver vessel. “Of course it is. And I’ll personally be very upset if those little shits aren’t begging and pleading to give you their preference before midsummer.”

2

THE NEXT day, Locke and the Sanza brothers sat on the very same pier at the very same time. All over the Shifting Market, merchants were hauling down canvas tarps and furling canopies, for the rains that had drenched the city all night and half the morning were long gone.

“I must be seeing things,” came the voice of Tesso Volanti, “because I can’t imagine that you shit-wits would really be sitting there right where we beat the trouser gravy out of you just yesterday.”

“Why not,” said Locke, “since we’re closer to our turf than yours, and you’re going to be using your balls for tonsils in about two minutes?”

The three Gentlemen Bastards arose; facing them were the same halfdozen Half-Crowns, with eager smiles on their faces.

“I see you’re none better at sums than you were when we left you,” said Tesso, cracking his knuckles.

“Funny you should say that,” said Locke, “since the sums have changed.” He pointed past the Half-Crowns. Tesso warily shifted his head to look behind him, but when he saw Jean Tannen standing in the alley behind his gang, he laughed.

“Still in our favor, I’d say.” He strolled toward Jean, who simply looked at him with a bland smile on his round face. “What’s this? A fat red bastard. I can see your glass eyes in your vest pocket. What do you think you’re doing, fatty?”

“My name’s Jean Tannen, and I’m the ambush.”

Long months of training with Don Maranzalla had left Jean looking little different than when he’d first begun, but Locke and the Sanzas knew that a sort of alchemy had taken place beneath his soft exterior. Tesso stepped within his reach, grinning, and Jean’s arms lashed out like the brass pistons in a Verrari water-engine.

Tesso reeled backward, arms and legs wobbling like a marionette caught in a high wind. His head bowed forward; then he simply collapsed in a heap, his eyes rolling back in their sockets.

A minor sort of hell broke loose in the alley. Three Half-Crown boys charged Locke and the Sanzas; the two girls approached Jean warily. One of them tried to dash a handful of alley gravel in his face. He sidestepped, caught her arm, and swung her easily into one of the alley’s stone walls. One of Don Maranzalla’s lessons: let walls and streets do the work for you when you fight with empty hands. As she bounced backward, Jean clothes-lined her with a swift hook from his right arm and sent her face-first to the gravel.

“It’s not polite to hit girls,” said her companion, circling him.

“It’s even less polite to hit my friends,” said Jean.

She replied by pivoting on her left heel and snapping a swift kick at his throat; he recognized the art called chasson, a sort of foot-boxing imported from Tal Verrar. He deflected the kick with the palm of his right hand, and she whirled into a second, using the momentum from her first to send her left leg whirling up and around. But Jean was moving past it before she struck. Her thigh rather than her foot slapped into his side, and he snaked his left arm around it. While she flailed for balance, he let her have a vicious kidney punch, and then he hooked her right leg out from beneath her, sending her to the gravel on her back, where she lay writhing in pain.

“Ladies,” said Jean, “you must accept my deepest apologies.”

Locke, as usual, was getting the worst of his encounter, until Jean grabbed his opponent by the shoulder and spun him around. Jean wrapped his heavy arms around the boy’s waist and planted a head-butt in the boy’s solar plexus. No sooner did the Half-Crown gasp in pain than Jean straightened up, cracking the boy’s chin against the back of his head. The boy fell backward, dazed, and at that point the issue was decided. Calo and Galdo had been evenly matched with their opponents; when Jean suddenly loomed before them (with Locke at his side doing his best to look dangerous), the Half-Crowns scrambled back and put their hands in the air.

“Well, Tesso,” said Locke when the curly-haired boy arose a few minutes later, bloody-nosed and wobbly, “will you be giving over your preference now, or shall I let Jean beat on you some more?”

“I admit it was well done,” said Tesso as his gang limped into a semicircle behind him, “but I’d call us even at one and one. You’ll see us again soon.”

3

SO THE battle went, as the days lengthened and spring turned into summer. Chains excused the boys from sitting the steps with him after the first hour of the afternoon, and they began roaming the north of Camorr, hunting Half-Crowns with vigor.

Tesso responded by unleashing the full strength of his little band. The Full Crowns were the largest real gang in Camorr, and their seconds had a comparable pool of recruits, some of them fresh from Shades’ Hill. Even with the weight of numbers, however, the prowess of Jean Tannen was hard to answer, and so the nature of the battle changed.

The Full Crowns split into smaller groups, attempting to isolate and ambush the Gentlemen Bastards when they weren’t together. For the most part, Locke kept his gang close at hand, but sometimes individual errands were unavoidable. Locke was beaten fairly badly on several occasions; he came to Jean one afternoon nursing a split lip and a pair of bruised shins.

“Look,” he said, “it’s been a few days since we had any piece of Tesso. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to lurk just south of the market tomorrow and look like I’m up to something. You’re going to hide a long way off, two or three hundred yards maybe. Somewhere they can’t possibly spot you.”

“I’ll never get to you in time,” said Jean.

“The point isn’t to get to me before I get beaten,” said Locke. “The point is, when you do get there, you pound the crap out of him. You beat him so hard they’ll hear the screaming in Talisham. Smack him around like you’ve never smacked him before.”

“With pleasure,” said Jean, “but it won’t happen. They’ll only run away when they see me coming, as always. The one thing I can’t do is keep up with them on foot.”

“Just you leave that to me,” said Locke, “and fetch your sewing kit. There’s something I need you to do for me.”

4

SO IT was that Locke Lamora lurked in an alley on an overcast day, very near to the place where the whole affair with the Half-Crowns had started. The Shifting Market was doing a brisk business, as folk attempted to get their shopping done before the sky started pouring down rain. Out there somewhere, watching Locke with comfortable anonymity from a little cockleshell boat, was Jean Tannen.

Locke only had to lurk conspicuously for half an hour before Tesso found him.

“Lamora,” he said. “I thought you’d know better by now. I don’t see any of your friends in the neighborhood.”

“Tesso. Hello.” Locke yawned. “I think today’s the day you’ll be giving over your preference to me.”

“In a pig’s fucking eye,” said the older boy. “You know I don’t even need help to knock you flat. What I think I’m going to do is take your clothes when I’m done and throw them in a canal. That’ll be right humorous. Hell, the longer you put off bending the knee, the more fun I can have with you.”

He advanced confidently to the attack, knowing that Locke had never once so much as kept up with him in a fight. Locke met him head-on, shaking the left sleeve of his coat strangely. That sleeve was actually five feet longer than usual, courtesy of Jean Tannen’s alterations; Locke had kept it cleverly folded against his side to conceal its true nature as Tesso approached.

Although Locke had few gifts as a fighter, he could be startlingly fast, and the cuff of his sleeve had a small lead weight sewn into it to aid him in casting it. He flung it forth, wrapping it around Tesso’s chest beneath the taller boy’s arms. The lead weight carried it around as it stretched taut, and Locke caught it in his left hand.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Tesso huffed. He clouted Locke just above his right eye; Locke flinched but ignored the pain. He slipped the extended sleeve into a loop of cloth that hung out of his coat’s left pocket, folded it back over itself, and pulled another cord just below it. The network of knotted cords that Jean had sewn inside his coat’s lining cinched tight; now the boys were chest to chest, and nothing short of a knife could free Tesso from the loop of thick cloth that tied them together.

Locke wrapped his arms around Tesso’s abdomen for good measure, and then wrapped his spindly legs around Tesso’s legs, just above the taller boy’s knees. Tesso shoved and slapped at Locke, struggling to part the two of them. Failing, he began punching Locke in the teeth and on the top of his head—heavy blows that left Locke seeing flashes of light.

“What the hell is this, Lamora?” Tesso grunted with the effort of supporting Locke’s weight in addition to his own. Finally, as Locke had hoped and expected, he threw himself forward. Locke landed on his back in the gravel, with Tesso atop him. The air burst out of Locke’s lungs, and the whole world seemed to shudder. “This is ridiculous. You can’t fight me. And now you can’t run! Give up, Lamora!”

Locke spit blood into Tesso’s face. “I don’t have to fight you and I don’t have to run.” He grinned wildly. “I just have to keep you here … until Jean gets back.”

Tesso gasped and looked around. Out, on the Shifting Market one small cockleshell boat was heading straight toward them. The plump shape of Jean Tannen was clearly visible within it, hauling rapidly on the oars.

“Oh, shit. You little bastard. Let me go, let me go, let me go!”

Tesso punctuated this with a series of punches. Soon enough Locke was bleeding from his nose, his lips, his ears, and somewhere under his hair. Tesso was pounding him but good, yet he continued to cling madly to the older boy. His head was whirling with the combination of pain and triumph; Locke actually started laughing, high and gleeful and perhaps a little bit mad.

“I don’t have to fight or run,” he cackled. “I changed the rules of the game. I just have to keep you here … asshole. Here … until … Jean gets back.”

“Gods dammit,” Tesso hissed, and he redoubled his assault on Locke, punching and spitting and biting.

“Keep hitting,” Locke sputtered. “You just keep hitting. I can take it all day. You just keep … hitting me … until … Jean gets back!”

III

REVELATION

“Nature never deceives us;

it is always we who deceive ourselves.”

Jean-Jacques Rousseau
From Émile ou De l’éducation

CHAPTER NINE

A CURIOUS TALE FOR COUNTESS AMBERGLASS

1

AT HALF PAST the tenth hour of the evening on Duke’s Day, as low dark clouds fell in above Camorr, blotting out the stars and the moons, Doña Sofia Salvara was being hoisted up into the sky to have a late tea with Doña Angiavesta Vorchenza, dowager countess of Amberglass, at the top of the great lady’s Elderglass tower.

The passenger cage rattled and swayed, and Sofia clung to the black iron bars for support. The sweaty Hangman’s Wing fluttered at her hooded coat as she stared south. All of the city lay spread beneath her, black and gray from horizon to horizon, suffused with the glow of fire and alchemy. This was a point of quiet pride for her every time she had the chance to take in this view from one of the Five Towers. The Eldren had built glass wonders for men to claim; engineers had crafted buildings of stone and wood in the Eldren ruins to make the cities their own; Bondsmagi pretended to the powers the Eldren must have once held. But it was alchemy that drove back the darkness every evening; alchemy that lit the commonest home and the tallest tower alike, cleaner and safer than natural fire. It was her art that tamed the night.

At last, her long ascent ended; the cage rattled to a halt beside an embarkation platform four-fifths of the way up Amberglass’ full height. The wind sighed mournfully in the strange fluted arches at the peak of the tower. Two footmen in cream-white waistcoats and immaculate white gloves and breeches helped her out of the cage, as they might have assisted her from a carriage down on the ground. Once she was safely on the platform, the two men bowed from the waist.

“M’lady Salvara,” said the one on the left, “my mistress bids you welcome to Amberglass.”

“Most kind,” said Doña Sofia.

“If it would please you to wait on the terrace, she will join you momentarily.”

The same footman led the way past a half dozen servants in similar livery, who stood panting beside the elaborate arrangement of gears, levers, and chains they worked to haul the cargo cage up and down. They, too, bowed as she passed; she favored them with a smile and an acknowledging wave. It never hurt to be pleasant to the servants in charge of that particular operation.

Doña Vorchenza’s terrace was a wide crescent of transparent Elderglass jutting out from the north face of her tower, surrounded by brass safety rails. Doña Sofia looked straight down, as she had always been warned not to do, and as she always did. It seemed that she and the footman walked on thin air forty stories above the stone courtyards and storage buildings at the base of the tower; alchemical lamps were specks of light, and carriages were black squares smaller than one of her nails.

On her left, visible through a series of tall arched windows whose sills were on a level with her waist, were dimly lit apartments and parlors within the tower itself. Doña Vorchenza had very few living relatives, and no children; she was effectively the last of a once-powerful clan, and there was little doubt (among the grasping, ambitious nobles of the Alcegrante slopes, at least) that Amberglass would pass to some new family upon her death. Most of her tower was dark and quiet, most of its opulence packed away in closets and chests.

The old lady still knew how to host a late-night tea, however. At the far northwestern corner of her transparent terrace, with a commanding view of the lightless countryside to the north of the city, a silk awning fluttered in the Hangman’s Wind. Tall alchemical lanterns in cages of gold-gilded brass hung from the four corners of the awning, shedding warm light on the little table and the two high-backed chairs arranged therein.

The footman placed a thin black cushion upon the right-hand chair and pulled it out for her; with a swish of skirts she settled into it and nodded her thanks. The man bowed and strolled away, taking up a watch at a point that was politely out of earshot but within easy beckoning distance.

Sofia did not have long to wait for her hostess; a few minutes after her arrival, old Doña Vorchenza appeared out of a wooden door on the tower’s north wall.

Age has a way of exaggerating the physical traits of those who live to feel its strains; the round tend to grow rounder, and the slim tend to waste away. Time had narrowed Angiavesta Vorchenza. She was not so much withered as collapsed, a spindly living caricature like a wooden idol animated by the sorcery of sheer willpower. Seventy was a fading memory for her, yet she still moved about without an escort on her arm or a cane in her hands. She dressed eccentrically in a black velvet frock coat with fur collars and cuffs. Eschewing the cascading petticoats the ladies of her era had favored, she actually wore black pantaloons and silver slippers. Her white hair was pulled back and fixed with lacquered pins; her dark eyes were bright behind her half-moon optics.

“Sofia,” she said as she stepped daintily beneath the awning, “what a pleasure it is to have you up here again. It’s been months, my dear girl, months. No, do sit; pulling out my own chair holds no terrors for me. Ah. Tell me, how is Lorenzo? And surely we must speak of your garden.”

“Lorenzo and I are well, considered solely in ourselves. And the garden thrives, Doña Vorchenza. Thank you for asking.”

“Considered solely in yourselves? Then there is something else? Something, dare I pry, external?”

A night tea, in Camorr, was a womanly tradition when one wished to seek the advice of another, or simply make use of a sympathetic ear while expressing regrets or complaints—most frequently concerning men.

“You may pry, Doña Vorchenza, by all means. And yes, yes, ‘external’ is a very proper term for it.”

“But it’s not Lorenzo?”

“Oh, no. Lorenzo is satisfactory in every possible respect.” Sofia sighed and glanced down at the illusion of empty air beneath her feet and her chair. “It’s … both of us that may be in need of advice.”

“Advice,” chuckled Doña Vorchenza. “The years play a sort of alchemical trick, transmuting one’s mutterings to a state of respectability. Give advice at forty and you’re a nag. Give it at seventy and you’re a sage.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Sofia, “you have been of great help to me before. I couldn’t think … well, there was no one else I was comfortable speaking to about this matter, for the time being.”

“Indeed? Well, dear girl, I’m eager to be of whatever help I can. But here’s our tea—come, let us indulge ourselves for a few moments.”

One of Doña Vorchenza’s jacketed attendants wheeled a silver-domed cart toward them and slid it into place beside the little table. When he whisked the dome away, Sofia saw that the cart held a gleaming silver tea service and a subtlety—a perfect culinary replica of Amberglass Tower, barely nine inches high, complete with minuscule specks of alchemical light dotting its turrets. The little glass globes were not much larger than raisins.

“You see how little real work I give to my poor chef,” said Doña Vorchenza, cackling. “He suffers in the service of such a plain and simple palate; he takes his revenge with these surprises. I cannot order a softboiled egg, but that he finds a dancing chicken to lay it directly on my plate. Tell me, Gilles, is that edifice truly edible?”

“So I am assured, my lady Vorchenza, save for the tiny lights. The tower itself is spice cake; the turrets and terraces are jellied fruit. The buildings and carriages at the base of the tower are mostly chocolate; the heart of the tower is an apple brandy cream, and the windows—”

“Thank you, Gilles, that will do for an architectural synopsis. But spit out the lights when we’re finished, you say?”

“It would be more decorous, m’lady,” said the servant, a round, delicate-featured man with shoulder-length black ringlets, “to let me remove them for you prior to consumption.…”

“Decorous? Gilles, you would deny us the fun of spitting them over the side of the terrace like little girls. I’ll thank you not to touch them. The tea?”

“Your will, Doña Vorchenza,” he said smoothly. “Tea of Light.” He lifted a silver teapot and poured a steaming line of pale brownish liquid into a tea glass; Doña Vorchenza’s etched glasses were shaped like large tulip buds with silver bases. As the tea settled into the container, it began to glow faintly, shedding an inviting orange radiance.

“Oh, very pretty,” said Doña Sofia. “I’ve heard of it.… Verrari, is it?”

“Lashani.” Doña Vorchenza took the glass from Gilles and cradled it in both hands. “Quite the latest thing. Their tea masters are mad with the competitive spirit. This time next year we’ll have something even stranger to one-up one another with. But forgive me, my dear—I do hope you’re not averse to drinking the products of your art as well as working with them in your garden?”

“Not at all,” Sofia replied as the servant set her own glass before her and bowed. She took the cup into her hands and took a deep breath; the tea smelled of mingled vanilla and orange blossoms. When she sipped, the flavors ran warmly on her tongue and the scented steam rose into her nostrils. Gilles vanished back into the tower itself while the ladies commenced drinking. For a few moments they enjoyed their tea in appreciative silence, and for a few moments Sofia was almost content.

“Now we shall see,” said Doña Vorchenza as she set her half-empty glass down before her, “if it continues to glow when it comes out the other side.”

Doña Salvara giggled despite herself, and the lines on her hostess’ lean face drew upward as she smiled. “Now, what did you want to ask me about, my dear?”

“Doña Vorchenza,” Sofia began, then hesitated. “It is … it is commonly thought that you have some, ah, means to communicate with the … the duke’s secret constabulary.”

“The duke has a secret constabulary?” Doña Vorchenza placed a hand against her breast in an expression of polite disbelief.

“The Midnighters, Doña Vorchenza, the Midnighters, and their leader—”

“The duke’s Spider. Yes, yes. Forgive me, dear girl, I do know of what you speak. But this idea you have … ‘Commonly thought,’ you say? Many things are commonly thought, but perhaps not commonly thought all the way through.”

“It is very curious,” said Sofia Salvara, “that when the doñas come to you with problems, on more than one occasion, their problems have … reached the ear of the Spider. Or seemed to, since the duke’s men became involved in assisting with those problems.”

“Oh, my dear Sofia. When gossip comes to me I pass it on in packets and parcels. I drop a word or two in the right ear, and the gossip acquires a life of its own. Sooner or later it must reach the notice of someone who will take action.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Sofia, “I hope I can say without intending or giving offense that you are dissembling.”

“I hope I can say without disappointing you, dear girl, that you have a very slender basis for making that suggestion.”

“Doña Vorchenza.” Sofia clutched at her edge of the table so hard that several of her finger joints popped. “Lorenzo and I are being robbed.”

“Robbed? Whatever do you mean?”

“And we have Midnighters involved. They’ve … made the most extraordinary claims, and made requests of us. But … Doña Vorchenza, there must be some way to confirm that they are what they say they are.”

“You say Midnighters are robbing you?”

“No,” said Sofia, biting her upper lip. “No, it’s not the Midnighters themselves. They are … supposedly watching the situation and waiting for a chance to act. But something … something is just wrong. Or they are not telling us everything they perhaps should.”

“My dear Sofia,” said Doña Vorchenza. “My poor troubled girl, you must tell me exactly what has happened, and leave out not one detail.”

“It is … difficult, Doña Vorchenza. The situation is rather … embarrassing. And complicated.”

“We are all alone up here on my terrace, my dear. You have done all the hard work already, in coming over to see me. Now you must tell me everything. Then I’ll see to it that this particular bit of gossip speeds on its way to the right ear, I promise you.”

Sofia took another small sip of tea, cleared her throat, and hunched down in her seat to look Doña Vorchenza directly in the eyes.

“Surely,” she began, “you’ve heard of Austershalin brandy, Doña Vorchenza?”

“More than heard of, my dear. I may even have a few bottles hidden away in my wine cabinets.”

“And you know how it is made? The secrets surrounding it?”

“Oh, I believe I understand the essence of the Austershalin mystique. The fussy black-coated vintners of Emberlain are, shall we say, well served by the stories surrounding their wares.”

“Then you can understand, Doña Vorchenza, how Lorenzo and I reacted as we did when the following opportunity supposedly fell into our laps by an act of the gods.…”

2

THE CAGE containing Doña Salvara creaked and rattled toward the ground, growing ever smaller and fading into the background gray of the courtyard. Doña Vorchenza stood by the brass rails of the embarkation platform, staring into the night for many minutes, while her team of attendants pulled at the machinery of the capstan. Gilles wheeled the silver cart with the near-empty pot of tea and the half-eaten Amberglass cake past her, and she turned to him.

“No,” she said. “Send the cake up to the solarium. That’s where we’ll be.”

“Who, m’lady?”

“Reynart.” She was already striding back toward the door to her terrace-side apartments; her slippered feet made an echoing slap-slap-slap against the walkway. “Find Reynart. I don’t care what he’s doing. Find him and send him up to me, the moment you’ve seen to the cake.”

Inside the suite of apartments, through a locked door, up a curving stairway … Doña Vorchenza cursed under her breath. Her knees, her feet, her ankles. “Damn venerability,” she muttered. “I piss on the gods for the gift of rheumatism.” Her breathing was ragged. She undid the buttons on the front of her fur-trimmed coat as she continued to mount the steps.

At the top—the very peak of the inner tower—there was a heavy oaken door reinforced with iron joints and bands. She pulled forth a key that hung around her right wrist on a silk cord. This she inserted into the silver lockbox above the crystal knob while carefully pressing a certain decorative brass plate in a wall sconce. A series of clicks echoed within the walls and the door fell open, inward.

Forgetting the brass plate would be a poor idea; she’d specified a rather excessive pull for the concealed crossbow trap, when she’d had it installed three decades earlier.

This was the solarium, then, another eight stories up from the level of the terrace. The room took up the full diameter of the tower at its apex, fifty feet from edge to edge. The floor was thickly carpeted. A long curving brass-railed gallery, with stairs at either end, spread across the northern half of the space. This gallery held a row of tall witchwood shelves divided into thousands upon thousands of cubbyholes and compartments. The transparent hemispherical ceiling dome revealed the low clouds like a bubbling lake of smoke. Doña Vorchenza tapped alchemical globes to bring them to life as she mounted the stairs to her file gallery.

There she worked, engrossed, heedless of the passage of time as her narrow fingers flicked from compartment to compartment. She pulled out some piles of parchment and set them aside, half considered others and pushed them back in, muttering remembrances and conjecture under her breath. She snapped out of her fugue only when the solarium door clicked open once more.

The man who entered was tall and broad-shouldered; he had an angular Vadran face and ice-blond hair pulled back in a ribbon-bound tail. He wore a ribbed leather doublet over slashed black sleeves, with black breeches and tall black boots. The little silver pins at his collar gave him the rank of captain in the Nightglass Company; the blackjackets, the Duke’s Own. A rapier with straight quillons hung at his right hip.

“Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza without preamble, “have any of your boys or girls paid a recent visit to Don and Doña Salvara, on the Isla Durona?”

“The Salvaras? No, certainly not, m’lady.”

“You’re sure? Absolutely sure?” Parchments in hand, eyebrows arched, she stalked down the steps, barely keeping her balance. “I need certain truth from you right now as badly as I ever have.”

“I know the Salvaras, m’lady. I met them both at last year’s Day of Changes feast; I rode up to the Sky Garden in the same cage with them.”

“And you haven’t sent any of the Midnighters to pay them a visit?”

“Twelve gods, no. Not one.”

“Then someone is abusing our good name, Stephen. And I think we may finally have the Thorn of Camorr.”

Reynart stared at her, then grinned. “You’re joking. You’re not? Pinch me, I must be dreaming. What’s the situation?”

“First things first; I know you think fastest when we nurse that damned sweet tooth of yours. Peek inside the dumbwaiter; I’m going to have a seat.”

“Oh my,” said Reynart, peering into the chain-hoist shaft that held the dumbwaiter. “It looks as though someone’s already made a merry work of this poor spice cake. I’ll put it out of its misery. There’s wine and glasses, too—looks like one of your sweet whites.”

“Gods bless Gilles; I’d forgotten to ask him for that, I was in such haste to get to my files. Be a dear dutiful subordinate and pour us a glass.”

“Dear dutiful subordinate, indeed. For the cake, I’d polish your slippers as well.”

“I’ll hold that promise in reserve for the next time you vex me, Stephen. Oh, fill the glass, I’m not thirteen years old. Now, take your seat and listen to this. If everything signifies, as I believe it shall, the bastard has just been delivered to us right in the middle of one of his schemes.”

“How so?”

“I’ll answer a question with a question, Stephen.” She took a deep draught of her white wine and settled back into her chair. “Tell me, how much do you know of the body of lore surrounding Austershalin brandy?”

3

“POSING AS one of us,” Reynart mused after she’d finished her tale. “The sheer fucking cheek. But are you sure it’s the Thorn?”

“If it isn’t, then we could only presume that we now have another equally skilled and audacious thief picking the pockets of my peers. And I think that’s presuming a bit much. Even for a city crammed as full of ghosts as this one.”

“Mightn’t it be the Gray King? He’s the right sort of slippery, by all reports.”

“Mmmm. No, the Gray King’s been murdering Barsavi’s men. The Thorn’s mode of operation is plain trickery; not a drop of real blood shed yet, as near as I can tell. And I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Reynart set aside his empty cake plate and took a sip from his glass of wine. “So if we can trust Doña Salvara’s story, we’re looking at a gang of at least four men. The Thorn himself—let’s call him Lukas Fehrwight, for the sake of argument. His servant Graumann. And the two men who broke into the Salvara estate.”

“That’s a beginning, Stephen. But I’d say the gang is more probably five or six.”

“How do you figure?”

“I believe the false Midnighter was telling the truth when he told Don Salvara that the attack near the Temple of Fortunate Waters was staged; it would have to be, for a scheme this complex. So we have two more accomplices—the masked attackers.”

“Assuming they weren’t just hired for the task.”

“I doubt it. Consider the total paucity of information we’ve had previous to this: not one report, one boast, one slender whisper from anyone, anywhere. Not a speck of information pointing to anyone who even claimed to work with the Thorn of Camorr. Yet on any given day, thieves will boast loudly for hours about who among them can piss the farthest. This silence is unnatural.”

“Well,” said Reynart, “if you just slit a hireling’s throat when he’s done his job, you don’t have to pay him, either.”

“But we’re still dealing with the Thorn, and I hold that such an act would be outside his pattern of operations.”

“So his gang runs a closed shop.… That would make sense. But it still might not be six. The two in the alley could also be the two who entered the estate dressed as Midnighters.”

“Oh, my dear Stephen. An interesting conjecture. Let us say four minimum, six maximum as our first guess, or we’ll be here all night drawing diagrams for one another. I suspect anything larger would be difficult to hide as well as they have.”

“So be it, then.” Reynart thought for a moment. “I can give you fifteen or sixteen swords right this very hour; some of my lads are mumming it up tonight down in the Snare and the Cauldron, since we got those reports of Nazca Barsavi’s funeral. I can’t pull them on short notice. But give me until the dark of the morning and I can have everyone else kitted up and ready for a scrap. We’ve got the Nightglass to back us; no need to even bring the yellowjackets in on it. We know they’re probably compromised anyway.”

“That would be well, Stephen, if I wanted them snatched up right now. But I don’t. I think we have a few days, at least, to draw the web tight around this man. Sofia said they’d discussed an initial outlay of about twenty-five thousand crowns; I suspect the Thorn will wait around to collect the other seven or eight he’s due.”

“At least let me hold a squad ready, then. I’ll keep them at the Palace of Patience; tuck them in amongst the yellowjackets. They can be ready to dash off with five minutes’ notice.”

“Very prudent; do so. Now, as for how we move on the Thorn himself—send someone down to Meraggio’s tomorrow, the subtlest you have. See if Fehrwight holds an account there, and when it was begun.”

“Calviro. I’ll send Maraliza Calviro.”

“An excellent choice. As far as I’m concerned, anyone else this Fehrwight has introduced the Salvaras to is suspect. Have her check up on the lawscribe she said her husband met just after the staged attack behind the temple.”

“Eccari, wasn’t it? Evante Eccari?”

“Yes. And then I want you to check out the Temple of Fortunate Waters.”

“Me? M’lady, you of all people know I don’t keep the faith; I just inherited the looks.”

“But you can fake the faith, and it’s the looks I need. They’ll keep you from being too suspicious. Case the place; look for anyone out of sorts. Look for gangs or goings-on. It’s remotely possible someone at the temple was in on the staged attack. Even if that’s not so, we need to eliminate it as a possibility.”

“It’s as good as done, then. And what about their inn?”

“The Tumblehome, yes. Send one person and one person only. I have a pair of old informants on the staff; one of them thinks he’s reporting to the yellowjackets, and one thinks she’s working for the capa. I’ll pass the names along. For now, I just want to find out if they’re still there, at the Bowsprit Suite. If they are, you can place a few of your men there dressed as staff. Observation only, for the time being.”

“Very well.” Reynart rose from his chair and brushed crumbs from his breeches. “And the noose? Assuming you get your wish, where and when would you like to draw it tight?”

“Going after the Thorn has always been like trying to grab fish with bare hands,” she replied. “I’ll want him sewn up somewhere, someplace where escape will be impossible, cut off from his friends, and entirely surrounded by ours.”

“By ours? How …? Oh. Oh. Raven’s Reach!”

“Yes. Very good, Stephen. The Day of Changes, just a week and a half from now. The duke’s midsummer feast. Five hundred feet in the air, surrounded by the peers of Camorr and a hundred guards. I’ll instruct Doña Sofia to invite this Lukas Fehrwight to dine with the duke, as a guest of the Salvaras.”

“Assuming he doesn’t suspect a trap …”

“I think it’s just the sort of gesture he’d appreciate. I think our mysterious friend’s audacity is going to be what finally arranges our direct introduction. I shall have Sofia feign financial distress; she can tell Fehrwight that the last few thousand crowns won’t be forthcoming until after the festival. A double-baited hook, his greed hand in hand with his vanity. I daresay he’ll relish the temptation.”

“Shall I pull everyone in for it?”

“Of course.” Doña Vorchenza sipped her wine and smiled slowly. “I want a Midnighter to take his coat; I want Midnighters serving him before the meal. If he uses a chamber pot, I want a Midnighter to close it for him afterward. We’ll take him atop Raven’s Reach; then we’ll watch the ground to see who runs, and where they run to.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Get to it, Stephen. Come back and let me have your report in a few hours. I’ll still be up.… I’m expecting messages from the Floating Grave once Barsavi’s funeral procession gets back. In the meantime, I’ll send old Nicovante a note about what we suspect.”

“Your servant, m’lady.” Reynart bowed briefly and then departed the solarium, his strides long and rapid.

Before the heavy door had even slammed shut, Doña Vorchenza was up and moving toward a small scrivener’s desk tucked into an alcove to the left of the door. There she withdrew a half-sheet of parchment, scribbled a few hasty lines, folded it, and closed the fold with a small dollop of blue wax from a paper tube. The stuff was alchemical, hardening after a few moments of exposure to air. She preferred to allow no sources of open flame into this room, with its many decades of carefully collected and indexed records.

Within the desk was a signet ring that Doña Vorchenza never wore outside her solarium; on that ring was a sigil that appeared nowhere on the crest of the Vorchenza family. She pressed the ring into the stiffening blue wax and then withdrew it with a slight popping noise.

When she passed it down the dumbwaiter, one of her night attendants would immediately run to the northeastern cage platform of her tower and have himself cranked over to Raven’s Reach via cable car. There, he would place the message directly into the old duke’s hands, even if Nicovante had retired to his bedchamber.

Such was the custom with every note that was sealed in blue with nothing but the stylized sigil of a spider for its credentials.

INTERLUDE

The Schoolmaster of Roses

“No, this is my heart. Strike. Strike. Now here. Strike.”

Cold gray water poured down on the House of Glass Roses; Camorr’s winter rain, pooled an inch deep beneath the feet of Jean Tannen and Don Maranzalla. Water ran in rivulets and threads down the face of every rose in the garden; it ran in small rivers into Jean Tannen’s eyes as he struck out with his rapier again and again at the stuffed leather target the Don held on the end of a stick, little larger than a big man’s fist.

“Strike, here. And here. No, too low. That’s the liver. Kill me now, not a minute from now. I might have another thrust left in me. Up! Up at the heart, under the ribs. Better.”

Gray-white light exploded within the swirling clouds overhead, rippling like fire glimpsed through smoke. The thunder came a moment later, booming and reverberating, the sound of the gods throwing a tantrum. Jean could barely imagine what it must be like atop the Five Towers, now just a series of hazy gray columns lost in the sky behind Don Maranzalla’s right shoulder.

“Enough, Jean, enough. You’re passing fair with a pigsticker; I want you to be familiar with it at need. But it’s time to see what else you have a flair for.” Don Maranzalla, who was wrapped up inside a much-abused brown oilcloak, splashed through the water to a large wooden box. “You won’t be able to haul a long blade around, in your circles. Fetch me the woundman.”

Jean hurried through the twisting glass maze, toward the small room that led back down into the tower. He respected the roses still—only a fool would not—but he was quite used to their presence now. They no longer seemed to loom and flash at him like hungry things; they were just an obstacle to keep one’s fingers away from.

The woundman, stashed in the little dry room at the top of the staircase, was a padded leather dummy in the shape of a man’s head, torso, and arms, standing upon an iron pole. Bearing this awkwardly over his right shoulder, Jean stepped back out in the driving rain and returned to the center of the Garden Without Fragrance. The woundman scraped the glass walls several times, but the roses had no taste for empty leather flesh.

Don Maranzalla had opened the wooden chest and was rummaging around in it; Jean set the woundman up in the center of the courtyard. The metal rod slid into a hole bored down through the stone and locked there with a twist, briefly pushing up a little fountain of water.

“Here’s something ugly,” said the don, swinging a four-foot length of chain wrapped in very fine leather—likely kid. “It’s called a bailiff’s lash; wrapped up so it doesn’t rattle. If you look close, it’s got little hooks at either end, so you can hitch it around your waist like a belt. Easy to conceal under heavier clothes … though you might eventually need one a bit longer, to fit around yourself.” The don stepped forward confidently and let one end of the padded chain whip toward the woundman’s head; it rebounded off the leather with a loud, wet whack.

Jean amused himself for a few minutes by laying into the woundman while Don Maranzalla watched. Mumbling to himself, the don then took the padded chain away and offered Jean a pair of matched blades. They were about a foot long, one-sided, with broad and curving cutting edges. The hilts were attached to heavy handguards, which were studded with small brass spikes.

“Nasty little bitches, these things. Generally known as thieves’ teeth. No subtlety to them; you can stab, hack, or just plain punch. Those little brass nubs can scrape a man’s face off, and those guards’ll stop most anything short of a charging bull. Have at it.”

Jean’s showing with the blades was even better than his outing with the lash; Maranzalla clapped approvingly. “That’s right, up through the stomach, under the ribs. Put a foot of steel there and tickle a man’s heart with it, and you’ve just won the argument, son.”

As he took the matched blades back from Jean, he chuckled. “How’s that for teeth lessons, eh, boy? Eh?”

Jean stared at him, puzzled.

“Haven’t you ever heard that one before? Your Capa Barsavi, he’s not from Camorr, originally. Taught at the Therin Collegium. So, when he drags someone in for a talking-to, that’s ‘etiquette lessons.’ And when he ties them up and makes them talk, that’s ‘singing lessons.’ And when he cuts their throats and throws them in the bay for the sharks …”

“Oh,” said Jean, “I guess that’d be teeth lessons. I get it.”

“Right. I didn’t make that one up, mind you. That’s your kind. I’d lay odds the big man knows about it, but nobody says anything like that to his face. That’s how it always is, be it cutthroats or soldiers. So … next lovely toy …”

Maranzalla handed Jean a pair of wooden-handled hatchets; these had curved metal blades on one side and round counterweights on the other.

“No fancy name for these skull-crackers. I wager you’ve seen a hatchet before. Your choice to use the blade or the ball; it’s possible to avoid killing a man with the ball, but if you hit hard enough it’s just as bad as the blade, so judge carefully when you’re not attacking a woundman.”

Almost immediately, Jean realized that he liked the feel of the hatchets in his hands. They were long enough to be more than a pocket weapon, like the gimp steel or the blackjacks most Right People carried as a matter of habit, yet they were small enough to move swiftly and use in tight spaces, and it seemed to him they could hide themselves rather neatly under a coat or vest.

He crouched; the knife-fighter’s crouch seemed natural with these things in his hands. Springing forward, he chopped at the woundman from both sides at once, embedding the hatchet blades in the dummy’s ribs. With an overhand slash to the woundman’s right arm, he made the whole thing shudder. He followed that cut with a backhanded stroke against the head, using a ball rather than a blade. For several minutes, he chopped and slashed at the woundman, his arms pistoning, a smile growing on his face.

“Hmmm. Not bad,” said Don Maranzalla. “Not bad at all for a total novice, I’ll grant you that. You seem very comfortable with them.”

On a whim, Jean turned and ran to one side of the courtyard, putting fifteen feet between himself and the woundman. The driving rain thrust fingers of gray down between him and the target, so he concentrated very hard—and then he lined up and threw, whipping one hatchet through the air with the full twisting force of his arm, hips, and upper body. The hatchet sank home, blade flat-on, in the woundman’s head, where it held fast in the layers of leather without so much as a quiver.

“Oh, my,” said Don Maranzalla. Lightning roiled the heavens yet again, and thunder echoed across the rooftop. “My, yes. Now there’s a foundation we can build upon.”

CHAPTER TEN

TEETH LESSONS

1

IN THE DARKNESS beneath the Echo Hole, Jean Tannen was moving even before the cask came crashing down into the black water, lit faintly from above by the red glow of Barsavi’s torches.

Beneath the ancient stone cube, there was a network of hanging rafters, built from black witchwood and lashed with Elderglass cords. The rafters were slimy with age and unmentionable growths, but they had surely held as long as the stones above had, and they retained their strength.

The waterfall that cascaded in from the roof terminated here in one of the swirling channels beneath the rafters. There was a veritable maze of the things; some were as smooth as glass, while others were as turbulent as whitewater rapids. A few wheels and even stranger devices turned slowly in the corners of the under-rafters. Jean had briefly appraised them by the light of a tiny alchemical ball when he’d settled himself in for a long wait. Bug, understandably unwilling to move too far from Jean’s company, had crouched on a rafter of his own about twenty feet to Jean’s left.

There were little shafts in the stone floor of the Echo Hole, square cuts about two inches wide, irregularly spaced and serving some unguessable function. Jean had positioned himself between one of these, knowing that it would be impossible to hear any of the activities above with the noise of the waterfall right in his ear.

His understanding of the situation above was imperfect—but as the long minutes rolled by, and the red light grew, and Capa Barsavi and Locke began speaking to one another, Jean’s uneasiness deepened into dread. There was shouting, cursing, the trample of booted feet on stone—cheers. Locke was taken. Where was the gods-damned Bondsmage?

Jean scuttled along his rafter, looking for the best way to cross to the waterfall. It would be a good five or six feet up from the rafters to the lip of the stone gash through which the waterfall poured, but if he stayed out of the falling water he could make it. Besides, it was the quickest way up—the only way up from within here. In the thin red light pouring down through the little holes in the floor, Jean signaled for Bug to stay put.

There was another outburst of cheering above, and then the capa’s voice, loud and clear through one of the peepholes: “Take this bastard and send him out to sea.”

Send him out to sea? Jean’s heart pounded. Had they already cut Locke’s throat? His eyes stung at the thought that the next thing he’d see was a limp body falling in the white stream of gushing water, a limp body dressed all in gray.

Then came the cask, a heavy dark object that plunged into the black canal at the base of the waterfall with a loud splash and a geyser of water. Jean blinked twice before he realized what he’d just seen. “Oh, gods,” he muttered. “Like for like! Barsavi had to be fucking poetic!”

Overhead there was more cheering, more stomping of feet. Barsavi was yelling something; his men were yelling in response. Then the faint lines of red light began to flicker; shadows passed before them, and they began to recede in the direction of the street door. Barsavi was moving, so Jean decided to take a risk.

There was another splash, audible even over the hiss and rumble of the waterfall. What the hell was that? Jean reached beneath his vest, drew out his light-globe, and shook it. A faint white star blossomed in the darkness. Clinging tightly to the wet rafter with his other hand, Jean tossed the globe down toward the channel in which the cask would have fallen, about forty feet to his right. It hit the water and settled, giving Jean enough light to discern the situation.

The little channel was about eight feet wide, stone-bordered, and the cask was bobbing heavily in it, three-quarters submerged.

Bug was thrashing about in that canal, visible only from the arms up. Jean’s light-globe had struck the water about three feet to the right of his head; Bug had jumped down into the water on his own.

Damn, but the boy seemed to be constitutionally incapable of remaining in high places for any length of time.

Jean looked around frantically; it would take him a few moments to work his way over to a point where he could splash down into the right channel without cracking his legs against one of the stone dividers.

“Bug,” Jean cried, judging that the ruckus above would cover his own voice. “Your light! Slip it out, now! Locke’s in that cask!”

Bug fumbled within his tunic, drew out a globe, and shook it. By the sudden flare of added white light Jean could clearly see the outline of the bobbing black cask. He judged the distance between himself and it, came to a decision, and reached for one of his hatchets with his free hand.

“Bug,” he yelled, “don’t try to get through the sides. Attack the flat top of the cask!”

“How?”

“Stay right where you are.” Jean leaned to his right, clinging to the rafter with his left arm. He raised the hatchet in his right hand, whispered a single “please” to whatever gods were listening, and let fly. The hatchet struck, quivering, in the dark wood of the cask; Bug flinched back, then splashed through the water to pry at the weapon.

Jean began sliding his bulk along the rafter, but more dark motion in the corner of his eye brought him up short. He peered down into the shadows on his left. Something was moving across the surface of one of the other waterways in the damned maze. Several somethings—black scuttling shapes the size of dogs. Their bristling legs spread wide when they slipped just beneath the surface of the dark water, then drew in to propel them up and over stone just as easily.…

“Fuck me,” he muttered. “Fuck me, that’s not possible.”

Salt devils, despite their horrific size and aspect, were timid creatures. The huge spiders crouched in crevices on the rocky coasts to the southwest of Camorr, preying on fish and gulls, occasionally falling prey to sharks or devilfish if they ventured too far from shore. Sailors flung stones and arrows at them with superstitious dread.

Only a fool would approach one, with their fangs the length of a grown man’s fingers and their venom, which might not always bring death but could make a man fervently pray for it. Yet salt devils were quite content to flee from humans; they were ambush hunters, solitary, incapable of tolerating one another at close quarters. Jean had scared himself witless in his early years reading the observations of scholars and naturalists concerning the creatures.

Yet here was an entire pack of the damn things, leg to leg like hounds, scrabbling across stone and water alike toward Bug and the cask.

“Bug,” Jean screamed. “Bug!”

2

BUG HAD heard even less of the goings-on upstairs than Jean, yet when the cask had splashed down into darkness, he’d realized immediately that it hadn’t been dropped down idly. Having placed himself directly over the canal that flowed from the waterfall, he’d simply let himself drop the fifteen feet down into the rushing water.

He’d tucked his legs and hit like a catapult stone, ass-first. Although his head had plunged under with the momentum of his drop, he quickly found that he could plant his feet; the canal was only about four feet deep.

Now, with Jean’s hatchet gripped in one hand, he chopped frantically at the flat barrel-top before him. He’d set his own light-glass on the stone walkway beside the canal, as there was enough working light coming from Jean’s beneath the surface of the water.

“Bug,” the big man yelled, his voice suddenly loud with real alarm. “Bug!”

The boy turned to his right and caught a glimpse of what was moving out of the far shadows toward him. A shudder of pure revulsion passed up and down his spine, and he looked around frantically to make sure the threat was approaching from only one direction.

“Bug, get out of the water! Get up on the stones!”

“What about Locke?”

“He doesn’t want to come out of that cask right this fucking second,” Jean hollered. “Trust me!”

As Bug scrambled up out of the rippling, alchemically lit water, the cask began once again bobbing toward the south end of the building, where the canal exited to gods knew where. Too desperate to think clearly about his own safety, Jean scrambled out along the crossbeam, feet sliding in the muck of the ages, and ran in the direction of the waterfall with his arms windmilling crazily for balance. A few seconds later he arrested his forward momentum by wrapping his arms around a vertical beam; his feet slipped briefly out from beneath him, but he clung tightly to his perch. His mad dash had brought him to a point beside the waterfall; now he flung himself forward into the air, carefully drawing his legs into his chest. He hit the water with a splash as great as that caused by the cask and bumped the canal bottom.

He came up sputtering, second hatchet already in hand. Bug was crouched on the stone lip beside the canal, waving his alchemical globe at the spiders. Jean saw that the salt devils were about fifteen feet away from the boy, across the water and moving more warily, but still approaching. Their carapaces were mottled black and gray; their multiple eyes the color of deepest night, starred with eerie reflections of Bug’s light. Their hairy pedipalps waved in the air before their faces, and their hard black fangs twitched.

Four of the damn things. Jean heaved his bulk up out of the canal on Bug’s side, spitting water. He fancied that he saw some of those inhuman black eyes turn to regard him.

“Jean,” Bug moaned. “Jean, those things look pissed off.”

“It’s not natural,” said Jean as he ran to Bug’s side; the boy tossed him his other hatchet and he caught it in the air. The spiders had closed to ten feet, just across the water; he and Bug seemed hemmed in by thirty-two unblinking black eyes, thirty-two twitching legs with jagged dark hairs. “Not natural at all; salt devils don’t act like this.”

“Oh, good.” Bug held the alchemical globe out at arm’s length as though he could conceal himself entirely behind it. “You discuss it with them.”

“I’m sure we can communicate. I speak fluent hatchet.”

No sooner were these words out of Jean’s mouth than the spiders moved in eerie unison, forward into the water with four splashes. The cask had now drifted a few feet to Jean and Bug’s right; one black shape actually passed beneath it. Multiple black legs speared upward out of the water, flailing for purchase; Bug cried out in mingled disgust and horror. Jean lunged forward, striking out with each hatchet in rapid downward strokes. Two spider limbs opened with stomach-turning cracking noises, spurting dark blue blood. Jean leapt backward.

The two uninjured spiders pulled themselves up out of the water a few seconds ahead of their wounded brethren and rushed Jean, their barbed feet rasping against the wet stone blocks beneath them. Realizing he would be dangerously overbalanced if he attempted to swing on both at once, Jean opted for a more disgusting plan of action.

The Wicked Sister in his right hand arced downward viciously, splitting the rightmost salt devil’s head between its symmetrical rows of black eyes. Its legs spasmed in its death reflex, and Bug actually dropped his alchemical globe, so quickly did he leap backward. Jean used the momentum of his right-hand swing to raise his left leg up off the ground; the left-hand spider reared up with its fangs spread just as he brought his boot heel down on what he supposed was its face. Its eyes cracked like jellied fruit, and Jean shoved downward with all his might, feeling as though he was stomping on a sack of wet leathers.

Warm blood soaked his boot as he pulled it free, and now the wounded spiders were scuttling up right behind their fallen counterparts, hissing and clicking in anger.

One shoved its way in front of the other and lunged at Jean, legs wide, head up to bare its curving fangs. Jean brought both the Sisters down in a hammer blow, blade sides reversed, smashing the spider’s head down into the wet stones and stopping it in its tracks. Ichor spurted; Jean felt it spattering his neck and forehead, and did his best to ignore it.

One damn monster left. Incensed at the delay they’d caused him, Jean bellowed and leapt into the air. Arms spread, he landed with both of his feet in the middle of the last creature’s carapace. It exploded wetly beneath him, folding the flailing legs up at an unnatural angle. They beat their last few pulses of life against his legs as he ground in his heels, growling.

“Gah!” cried Bug, who’d gotten a good soaking from something blue and previously circulating through a salt devil; Jean didn’t waste a second in tossing the boy one of his gore-soaked Sisters before jumping down into the water once again. The cask had floated about ten feet farther south; Jean splashed frantically toward it and secured it with his left hand. Then he began to piston his right arm up and down, hacking at the wood of the barrel’s cover with his hatchet.

“Bug,” he cried, “kindly make sure there aren’t any more of those damn things creeping up on us!”

There was a splash behind Jean as Bug hopped back into the waterway. A few seconds later the boy came up beside the cask and steadied it with his own thin arms. “None that I can see, Jean. Hurry.”

“I am”—crack, crack, crack—“fucking hurrying.” His hatchet blade bit through the wood at last; horse urine poured out into the water and Bug gagged. Working furiously, Jean widened the hole, then managed to pry off the end of the cask entirely. A wave of the foul yellow-slick stuff swept out across his chest. Tossing his hatchet away without a further thought, he reached inside and tugged out the motionless body of Locke Lamora.

Jean checked him frantically for cuts, slashes, or raised purple welts; his neck seemed to be quite intact.

Jean heaved Locke rather ungently up onto the stone walkway beside the dead spiders, some parts of which were still twitching, then pushed himself up out of the water to crouch beside Locke. He wrenched off Locke’s mantle and cloak; Bug appeared at his side just in time to yank them away and toss them in the water. Jean tore open Locke’s gray vest and began thumping on his chest.

“Bug,” he gasped. “Bug! Get up here and push his legs in for me. His warm humors are all snuffed out. Let’s get a rhythm going and maybe we can rekindle them. Gods, if he lives I swear I’ll get ten books on physik and memorize every single one.”

Bug clambered out of the water and began pumping Locke’s legs, moving them in and out one at a time, while Jean alternately pressed on Locke’s stomach, pounded on his chest, and slapped him on the cheeks. “Come on, gods damn it,” Jean muttered. “Be stubborn, you skinny little—”

Locke’s back arched convulsively, and harsh wet coughing noises exploded out of his throat; his hands scrabbled weakly at the stone, and he rolled over onto his left side. Jean sat back and sighed with relief, oblivious to the puddle of spider blood he’d settled into.

Locke vomited into the water, retched and shuddered, then vomited again. Bug knelt beside him, steadying him by the shoulders. For several minutes, Locke lay there shaking, breathing heavily and coughing.

“Oh, gods,” he said at last in a small hoarse voice. “Oh, gods. My eyes. I can barely see. Is that water?”

“Yes, running water.” Jean reached over and took one of Locke’s arms.

“Then get me in there. Thirteen gods, get this foulness off me.”

Locke rolled into the canal with a splash before Jean or Bug could even move to assist him; he dunked his head beneath the dark stream several times, then began tearing off his remaining clothes, until he was wearing nothing but a white undertunic and his gray breeches.

“Better?” asked Jean.

“I suppose I must be.” Locke retched again. “My eyes sting, my nose and throat burn, my chest hurts, I’ve got a pounding black headache the size of Therim Pel, I got slapped around by the entire Barsavi family, I’m covered in horse piss, and it looks like the Gray King just did something pretty clever at our expense.” He set his head against the edge of the stone pathway and coughed a few more times. When he raised his head again, he noticed the spider carcasses for the first time and jerked backward. “Ugh. Gods. Looks like there’s things I’ve missed, too.”

“Salt devils,” said Jean. “A whole pack of them, working together. They came on looking for a fight. Suicidal, like.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Locke.

“One thing could explain it,” Jean replied.

“A conspiracy of the gods,” Locke muttered. “Oh. Sorcery.”

“Yes, that bloody Bondsmage. If he can tame a scorpion hawk, he could—”

“But what if it’s just this place?” interrupted Bug. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“No need to fret about stories,” said Locke, “when there’s a live mage known to have it in for us. Jean’s right. I didn’t get stuffed in that barrel as a criticism of my playacting, and those biting bitches weren’t here for a rest holiday. You were both meant to be dead as well, or if not dead—”

“Scared off,” said Jean. “Distracted. The better for you to drown.”

“Seems plausible.” Locke rubbed at his stinging eyes once again. “Amazing how every time I think my tolerance for this affair has reached a final low, I find something new to hate. Calo and Galdo … we need to get to them.”

“They could be in a world of shit,” agreed Jean.

“They already are, but we’ll face it better once we’re back together.”

Locke attempted to heave himself up out of the water and failed. Jean reached down and pulled him up by the collar of his tunic. Locke nodded his thanks and slowly stood up, shaking. “I’m afraid my strength seems to have fled. I’m sorry, Jean.”

“Don’t be. You’ve taken a hell of a lot of abuse tonight. I’m just pleased we broke you out of that thing before it was too late.”

“I’m indebted to the pair of you, believe me. That was … It would have been …” Locke shuddered and coughed again. “It was pretty gods-damned awful.”

“I can only suppose,” said Jean. “Shall we go?”

“With all haste. Back out the way you two came in, quietly. Barsavi’s crowd may still be in the area. And keep your eyes open for, ah, birds.”

“Too right. We came in through a sort of crawlway, western canal-side.” Jean slapped his forehead and looked around. “Damn me, I’ve mislaid the Sisters.”

“Never fear,” said Bug, holding them up. “I figured you’d want them back, so I kept a watch on them.”

“Much obliged, Bug,” said Jean. “I’m of a mind to use them on some people before this night is done.”

3

RUSTWATER WAS as dead as ever when they snuck out the crawlway and scrabbled up onto the canal bank just to the west of the Echo Hole. Barsavi’s procession had vanished. And although the three Gentlemen Bastards crouched low and scanned the occulted sky for any hint of a swooping hawk, they caught not a glimpse.

“Let’s make for Coalsmoke,” said Locke. “Past Beggar’s Barrow. We can steal a boat and slip home through the culvert.” The drainage culvert on the south side of the Temple District, just beneath the House of Perelandro, had a concealed slide mechanism within the cage that covered it from the outside. The Gentlemen Bastards could open it at will to come and go quietly.

“Good idea,” said Jean. “I’m not comfortable being about on the streets and bridges.”

They crept south, grateful for the low, warm mists that swirled around them. Jean had his hatchets out and was moving his head from side to side, watchful as a cat on a swaying clothesline. He led them over a bridge, with Locke constantly stumbling and falling behind, then down the southeastern shore of the Quiet. Here the lightless black heap of Beggar’s Barrow loomed in the mists to their left, and the wet stink of pauper’s graves filled the air.

“Not a watchman,” whispered Locke. “Not a Shades’ Hill boy or girl. Not a soul. Even for this neighborhood, that’s damn peculiar.”

“Has anything about tonight been right yet?” Jean set as rapid a pace as he could, and they soon crossed another bridge, south into Coalsmoke. Locke labored to keep up, clutching his aching stomach and ribs. Bug brought up their rear, constantly peering over his shoulder.

On the northeastern edge of Coalsmoke there was a line of weathered docks, sagging stairs, and crumbling stone quays. All the larger, nicer boats and barges were locked and chained, but a few small cockleshells bobbed here and there, secured by nothing more than rope. In a city full of such little boats, no sane thief would bother stealing one—most of the time.

They clambered into the first one that chanced to have an oar; Locke collapsed at the stern, while Bug took up the oar and Jean cast off the rope.

“Thank you, Bug.” Jean squeezed himself down into the wet bottom of the little wooden craft; all three of them made for a tight fit. “I’ll trade off with you in just a bit.”

“What, no crack about my moral education?”

“Your moral education’s over.” Jean stared up into the sky as the dockside receded and Bug took them out into the canal’s heart. “Now you’re going to learn a thing or two about war.”

4

UNSEEN AND undisturbed, Jean quietly paddled them up against the north bank of the canal just south of their temple. The House of Perelandro was nothing more than a dark impression of mass, lightless in the silver fog above their heads.

“Smartly, smartly,” the big man muttered to himself as he brought them abreast with the drainage culvert; it was about a yard up from the water, with an opening five feet in diameter. It led more or less directly to a concealed passage just behind the ladder that led down from the temple itself. Bug slipped a hand past the iron bars at the end of the culvert and tripped the hidden locking mechanism. He then prepared to climb in.

“I’ll go first,” he said, just before Jean grabbed him by the collar.

“I think not. The Wicked Sisters will go first. You sit down and keep the boat steady.”

Bug did so, pouting, and Locke smiled. Jean pulled himself up into the culvert and began crawling into the darkness.

“You can have the honor of going second, Bug,” said Locke. “I might need a hand pulling me up.”

When all three of them were wedged safely into the pipe, Locke turned and nudged the little boat back out into midcanal with his feet. The current would carry it to the Via Camorrazza, lost in the mists, until someone ran into it with a larger boat or claimed it as a windfall. Locke then slid the pipe cover closed and locked it once again. The Gentlemen Bastards actually oiled the hinges on the grate to keep their comings and goings quiet.

They crawled forward into blackness, surrounded by the gentle echoes of their own breathing and the soft noise of scuffing cloth. There was a quiet click as Jean operated the hidden entrance into the burrow; then a line of pale silver light spilled in.

Jean stepped out onto the wooden floor of the dim passage; just to his right, the rungs ran up into the hidden entrance beneath what had once been Father Chains’ sleeping pallet. Despite Jean’s best effort to move quietly, the floor creaked slightly as he moved forward. Locke slipped out into the passage behind him, his heart pounding.

The illumination was too dim. The walls had been golden for as long as he’d known the place.

Jean crept forward, hatchets bobbing in his fists. At the far end of the passage, he whirled around the corner, crouched low—and then stood straight up, growling, “Shit!”

The kitchen had been thoroughly trashed.

The spice cabinets were overturned; broken glass and shattered crockery littered the floor. The storage cupboards hung open, empty; the water barrel had been dumped on the tiles. The gilded chairs were torn apart, thrown into a heap in one corner. The beautiful chandelier that had swung above their heads for as long as any of them had lived within the glass burrow was a total ruin. It dangled now by a few wires, its planets and constellations smashed, its armillary paths bent beyond all possible repair. The sun that had burned at the heart of it all was cracked like an egg; the alchemical oils that had lit it from within had seeped onto the table.

Locke and Jean stood at the edge of the entrance passage, staring in shock. Bug rounded the corner, hot for action against unseen foes, and came up short between them. “I … gods. Gods.”

“Calo?” Locke abandoned all thoughts of sneaking about. “Galdo! Calo! Are you here?”

Jean swept aside the heavy curtain to the door that led to the Wardrobe. He didn’t say anything or make any noise, but the Wicked Sisters fell out of his hands and clattered against the floor tiles.

The Wardrobe, too, had been ransacked. All the rows of fine clothing and costume garments, all the hats and cravats and breeches and hose, all the waistcoats and vests and thousands of crowns worth of accessories—all of it was gone. The mirrors were smashed; the Masque Box was overturned, its contents strewn and broken across the floor.

Calo and Galdo lay beside it, on their backs, staring upward in the semidarkness. Their throats were slashed from ear to ear, a pair of smooth gashes—identical twin wounds.

5

JEAN FELL forward onto his knees.

Bug tried to squeeze past Locke, and Locke shoved him back into the kitchen with all the feeble strength he could muster, saying, “No, Bug, don’t …” But it was already too late. The boy sat down hard against the edge of the witchwood table and broke into sobs.

Gods, Locke thought as he stumbled past Jean into the Wardrobe. Gods, I have been a fool. We should have packed up and run.

“Locke …,” Jean whispered, and then he sprawled forward onto the ground, shaking and shuddering as though he were having some sort of fit.

“Jean! Gods, what now?” Locke crouched beside the bigger man and placed a hand beneath his round, heavy chin. Jean’s pulse was pounding wildly. He looked up at Locke with wide eyes, his mouth opening and closing, failing to spit out words. Locke’s mind raced.

Poison? A trap of some sort? An alchemical trick left behind in the room? Why wasn’t he affected? Did he feel so miserable already that the symptoms hadn’t caught his attention yet? He glanced frantically around the room, and his eyes seized on a dark object that lay between the sprawled Sanza twins.

A hand—a severed human hand, gray and dried and leathery. It lay with its palm toward the ceiling and its fingers curled tightly inward. A black thread had been used to sew a name into the dead skin of the palm; the script was crude but nonetheless clear, for it was outlined with the faintest hint of pale blue fire:

JEAN TANNEN

The things I could do to you if I were to stitch your true name. The words of the Falconer returned unbidden to Locke’s memory; Jean groaned again, his back arched in pain, and Locke reached down toward the severed hand. A dozen plans whirled in his head—chop it to bits with a hatchet, scald it on the alchemical hearthslab, throw it in the river … He had little knowledge of practical sorcery, but surely something was better than nothing.

New footsteps crunched on the broken glass in the kitchen.

“Don’t move, boy. I don’t think your fat friend can help you at the moment. That’s it, just sit right there.”

Locke slid one of Jean’s hatchets off the ground, placed it in his left hand, and stepped to the Wardrobe door.

A man was standing at the lip of the entrance hall—a complete stranger to Locke’s eyes. He wore a long brownish red oilcloak with the hood thrown back, revealing long stringy black hair and drooping black moustaches. He held a crossbow in his right hand, almost casually, pointed at Bug. His eyes widened when Locke appeared in the Wardrobe doorway.

“This ain’t right,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’re the Gray King’s man,” said Locke. His left hand was up against the back of the wall beside the door, as though he were holding himself up, concealing the hatchet.

“A Gray King’s man. He’s got a few.”

“I will give you any price you name,” said Locke. “Tell me where he is, what he’s doing, and how I can avoid the Bondsmage.”

“You can’t. I’ll give you that one for free. And any price I name? You got no such pull.”

“I have forty-five thousand full crowns.”

“You did,” said the crossbowman, amiably enough. “You don’t anymore.”

“One bolt,” said Locke. “Two of us.” Jean groaned from the floor behind him. “The situation bears thinking on.”

“You don’t look so well, and the boy don’t look like much. I said don’t move, boy.”

“One bolt won’t be enough,” said Bug, his eyes cold with an anger Locke had never before seen in him. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

“One bolt,” repeated Locke. “It was for Bug, wasn’t it? If I weren’t here, you’d have shot him first thing. Then done for Jean. A commendable arrangement. But now there’s two of us, and you’re still armed for one.”

“Easy, gents,” said the Gray King’s man. “I don’t see either of you eager for a hole in the face.”

“You don’t know what you’re up against. What we’ve done.” Bug flicked his wrist, slightly, and something fell into it from his sleeve. Locke only barely caught the motion—what was that thing? An Orphan’s Twist? Oh, gods … that wouldn’t do any good against a crossbow quarrel.…

“Bug …,” he muttered.

“Tell him, Locke. Tell him he doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. Tell him he doesn’t know what he’s going to get! We can take him.”

“First one of you moves an inch, I let fly.” The crossbowman backed off a stride, braced his weapon with his left arm, and swung his aim back and forth between Locke and Bug.

“Bug, don’t.…”

“We can take him, Locke. You and I. He can’t stop both of us. Hell, I bet he can’t stop either of us.”

“Bug, listen.…”

“Listen to your friend, boy.” The intruder was sweating nervously behind his weapon.

“I’m a Gentleman Bastard,” said Bug, slowly and angrily. “Nobody messes with us. Nobody gets the best of us. You’re going to pay!”

Bug sprang upward from the floor, raising the hand that held the Orphan’s Twist, a look of absolute burning determination on his face. The crossbow snapped, and the whip-crack of its unleashed cord echoed sharply from the enclosed glass walls of the kitchen.

The bolt that was meant to catch Bug between the eyes took him in the neck instead.

He jerked back as though stung by an insect; his knees buckled only halfway into his leap, and he spun backward, his useless little Orphan’s Twist arcing out of his hands as he fell.

The Gray King’s man threw down his crossbow and reached for a blade at his belt, but Locke was preceded out the doorway by the hatchet he’d concealed, flung with all of his rage. Jean could have split the man’s head with the blade; Locke barely managed to crack him hard with the ball side of the weapon. But it was enough. The ball caught him just beneath his right eye and he flinched backward, crying out in pain.

Locke scooped up the crossbow and fell upon the intruder, howling. He swung the butt-stock of the weapon into the man’s face, and the man’s nose broke with a spray of blood. He fell backward, his head cracking against the Elderglass of the passage wall. As he slid down, he raised his hands before him in an attempt to ward off Locke’s next blow. Locke smashed his fingers with the crossbow; the screams of the two men mingled and echoed in the enclosed space.

Locke ended the affair by slamming one curved end of the bow into the man’s temple. The assassin’s head spun, blood spattered against the glass, and he sagged into the passage corner, motionless.

Locke threw down the crossbow, turned on his heel, and ran to Bug.

The bolt had pierced the boy’s neck to the right of his windpipe, toward the outer edge of his neck, where it was buried up to its rounded feathers in a spreading pool of dark blood. Locke knelt and cradled Bug’s head in his hands, feeling the tip of the crossbow quarrel on the back of Bug’s neck. Slick warmth poured out over Locke’s hands; he could feel it coursing out with every ragged breath the boy took. Bug’s eyes were wide, and they fixed on him.

“Forgive me,” Locke mumbled through his tears. “Gods damn me, Bug, this is my fault. We could have run. We should have. My pride … you and Calo and Galdo. That bolt should have been me.”

“Your pride,” the boy whispered. “Justified. Gentleman … Bastard.”

Locke pressed his fingers against Bug’s wound, imagining he could somehow dam the flow of blood, but the boy cried out, and Locke withdrew his shaking fingers.

“Justified,” Bug spat. Blood ran out of the corner of his mouth. “Am I … not a second. Not … apprentice. Real Gentleman Bastard.”

“You were never a second, Bug. You were never an apprentice.” Locke sobbed, tried to brush the boy’s hair back, and was aghast at the bloody handprint he left on Bug’s pale forehead. “You brave little idiot. You brave, stupid little bastard. This is my fault, Bug, please … please say this is all my fault.”

“No,” whispered Bug. “Oh gods … hurts … hurts so much …”

The boy said nothing more. His breathing came to one last ragged halt while Locke held him.

Locke stared upward. It seemed to him that the alien glass ceiling that had shed warm light on his life for so many long years now took a knowing pleasure in showing him nothing but dark red: the reflection of the floor on which he sat with the motionless body of Bug, still bleeding in his arms.

He might have stayed there, locked in a reverie of grief for the gods only knew how long—but Jean groaned loudly in the next room.

Locke remembered himself, shuddered, and set Bug’s head down as gently as he could. He stumbled to his feet and lifted Jean’s hatchet up off the ground once more. His motions were slow and unsteady as he walked back into the Wardrobe, raised the hatchet above his head, and brought it down with all the force he could muster on the sorcerous hand that lay between the bodies of Calo and Galdo.

The faint blue fire dimmed as the hatchet blade bit down into the desiccated flesh; Jean gasped loudly behind him, which Locke took as an encouraging sign. Methodically, maliciously, he hacked the hand into smaller pieces. He chopped at leathery skin and brittle bones until the black threads that had spelled Jean’s name were separated and the blue glow faded entirely.

He stood staring down at the Sanzas until he heard Jean moving behind him.

“Oh, Bug. Oh, gods damn it.” The big man stumbled to his feet and groaned. “Forgive me, Locke. I just couldn’t … I couldn’t move!”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Locke spoke as though the sound of his own voice pained him. “It was a trap. It had your name on it, that thing the mage left for us. They guessed you’d be coming back.”

“A … a severed hand? A human hand, with my name stitched into it?”

“Yes.”

“A Hanged Man’s Grasp,” said Jean, staring at the fragments of flesh, and at the bodies of the Sanzas. “I … read about them, when I was younger. Seems they work.”

“Neatly removing you from the situation,” said Locke, coldly. “So one assassin hiding up above could come down, kill Bug, and finish you.”

“Just one?”

“Just one.” Locke sighed. “Jean. In the temple rooms up above. Our lamp oil … please fetch it down.”

“Lamp oil?”

“All of it,” said Locke. “Hurry.”

Jean paused in the kitchen, knelt, and slid Bug’s eyes closed with his left hand. He buried his face in his hands and shook, making no noise. Then he stumbled back to his feet, wiping away tears, and ran off to carry out Locke’s request.

Locke walked slowly back into the kitchen, dragging the body of Calo Sanza with him. He placed the corpse beside the table, folded its arms across its chest, knelt, and kissed its forehead.

The man in the corner moaned and moved his head. Locke kicked him once in the face, then returned to the Wardrobe for Galdo’s body. In short order, he had the Sanzas laid out neatly in the middle of the ransacked kitchen, with Bug beside them. Unable to bear the glassy stare of his dead friends’ eyes, Locke covered them with silk tablecloths from a smashed cabinet.

“I promise you a death-offering, brothers,” Locke whispered when he’d finished. “I promise you an offering that will make the gods themselves take notice. An offering that will make the shades of all the dukes and capas of Camorr feel like paupers. An offering in blood and gold and fire. This I swear by Aza Guilla who gathers us, and by Perelandro who sheltered us, and by the Crooked Warden who places his finger on the scale when our souls are weighed. This I swear to Chains, who kept us safe. I beg your forgiveness that I failed to do the same.”

Locke forced himself to stand up and return to work.

A few old garments had been thrown into the Wardrobe corners; Locke gathered them up, along with a few components from the spilled Masque Box: a handful of false moustaches, a bit of false beard, and some stage adhesive. These he threw into the entrance corridor to the burrow; then he peeked into the vault. As he’d suspected, it was utterly empty. Not a single coin remained in any well or on any shelf. No doubt the sacks loaded onto the wagon earlier had vanished as well.

From the sleeping quarters at the back of the burrow, he gathered sheets and blankets, then parchment, books, and scrolls. He threw these into a heap atop the dining room table. At last, he stood over the Gray King’s assassin, his hands and clothes covered in blood, and waited for Jean to return.

6

“WAKE UP,” said Locke. “I know you can hear me.”

The Gray King’s assassin blinked, spat blood, and tried to push himself even farther back into the corner with his feet.

Locke stared down at him. It was a curious reversal of the natural way of things. The assassin was well muscled, a head taller than Locke, and Locke was particularly unimposing after the events of this night. But everything frightening about him was concentrated in his eyes, and they bore down on the assassin with a bright, hard hatred.

Jean stood a few paces behind him, a bag over his shoulder, his hatchets tucked into his belt.

“Do you want to live?” asked Locke.

The assassin said nothing.

“It was a simple question, and I won’t repeat it again. Do you want to live?”

“I … yes,” the man said softly.

“Then it pleases me to deny you your preference.” Locke knelt beside him, reached beneath his own undertunic, and drew forth a little leather pouch that hung by a cord around his neck.

“Once,” said Locke, “when I was old enough to understand what I’d done, I was ashamed to be a murderer. Even after I’d paid the debt, I still wore this. All these years, to remind me.”

He pulled the pouch forward, snapping the cord. He opened it and removed a single small white shark’s tooth. He grabbed the assassin’s right hand, placed the pouch and the tooth on his palm, and then squeezed the man’s broken fingers together around them. The assassin writhed and screamed. Locke punched him.

“But now,” he said, “now, I’ll be a murderer once again. I will set myself to slay until every last Gray King’s man is gone. You hear me, cocksucker? I will have the Bondsmage and I will have the Gray King, and if all the powers of Camorr and Karthain and Hell itself oppose me, it will be nothing—nothing but a longer trail of corpses between me and your master.”

“You’re mad,” the assassin whispered. “You’ll never beat the Gray King.”

“I’ll do more than that. Whatever he’s planning, I will unmake it. Whatever he desires, I will destroy it. Every reason you came down here to murder my friends will evaporate. Every Gray King’s man will die for nothing, starting with you.”

Jean Tannen stepped forward and grabbed the assassin with one hand, hauling him to his knees. Jean dragged him into the kitchen, oblivious to the man’s pleas for mercy. The assassin was flung against the table, beside the three covered bodies and the pile of cloth and paper, and he became aware of the cloying smell of lamp oil.

Without a word, Jean brought the ball of one of his hatchets down on the assassin’s right knee; the man howled. Another swift crack shattered his left kneecap, and the assassin rolled over to shield himself from further blows—but none fell.

“When you see the Crooked Warden,” said Locke, twisting something in his hands, “tell him that Locke Lamora learns slowly, but he learns well. And when you see my friends, you tell them that there are more of you on the way.”

He opened his hands and let an object fall to the ground. It was a piece of knotted cord, charcoal gray, with white filaments jutting out from one end. Alchemical twist-match. When the white threads were exposed to air for several moments, they would spark, igniting the heavier, longer-burning gray cord they were wrapped in. It splashed into the edge of a pool of lamp oil.

Locke and Jean went up through the concealed hatch into the old stone temple, letting the ladder cover fall shut with a bang behind them.

In the glass burrow beneath their feet, the flames began to rise.

First the flames, and then the screams.

INTERLUDE

The Tale of the Old Handball Players

Handball is a Therin pastime, as cherished by the people of the southern city-states as it is scorned by the Vadrans in their kingdom to the north (although Vadrans in the south seem to love it well enough). Scholars belittle the idea that the game had its origin in the era of the Therin Throne, when the mad emperor Sartirana would amuse himself by bowling with the severed heads of executed prisoners. They do not, however, deny it out of hand, for it is rarely wise to underestimate the Therin Throne’s excesses without the very firmest sort of proof.

Handball is a rough sport for the rough classes, played between two teams on any reasonably flat surface that can be found. The ball itself is a rubbery mass of tree latex and leather about six inches wide. The field is somewhere between twenty and thirty yards long, with straight lines marked (usually with chalk) at either end. Each team tries to move the ball across the other side’s goal line. The ball must be held in both hands of a player as he runs, steps, or dives across the end of the field.

The ball may be passed freely from player to player, but it must not be touched with any part of the body below the waist, and it must not be allowed to touch the ground, or possession will revert to the other team. A neutral adjudicator, referred to as the “Justice,” attempts to enforce the rules at any given match, with varying degrees of success.

Matches are sometimes played between teams representing entire neighborhoods or islands in Camorr; and the drinking, wagering, and brawling surrounding these affairs always starts several days beforehand and ends when the match is but a memory. Indeed, the match is frequently an island of relative calm and goodwill in a sea of chaos.

It is said that once, in the reign of the first Duke Andrakana, a match was arranged between the Cauldron and Catchfire. One young fisherman, Markos, was reckoned the finest handballer in the Cauldron, while his closest friend Gervain was thought of as the best and fairest handball Justice in the entire city. Naturally, the adjudication of the match was given over to Gervain.

The match was held in one of the dusty, abandoned public squares of the Ashfall district with a thousand screaming, barely sober spectators from each side crowding the wrecked houses and alleys that surrounded the square. It was a bitter contest, close-fought all the way. At the very end, the Cauldron was behind by one point, with the final sands trickling out of the hourglass that kept the game’s time.

Markos, bellowing madly, took the ball in his hands and bashed his way through an entire line of Catchfire defenders. With one eye blackened, his hands bruised purple, blood streaming on his elbows and knees, he flung himself desperately for the goal line as the very last second of the game fell away.

Markos lay upon the stones, his arms at full extension, with the ball touching but not quite crossing the chalked line. Gervain pushed aside the crowding players, stared down at Markos for a few seconds, and then said, “Not across the line. No point.”

The riot and the celebration that broke out afterward were indistinguishable from one another. Some say the yellowjackets killed a dozen men while battling it back; others say it was closer to a hundred. At least three of the city’s capas died in a little war that broke out over reneged bets, and Markos vowed never to speak to Gervain again. The two had fished together on the same boat since boyhood; now the Cauldron as a whole warned Gervain’s entire family that their lives wouldn’t be worth sausage casings if any one of them set foot in that district, ever again.

Twenty years passed, thirty, thirty-five. The first Duke Nicovante rose to eminence in the city. Markos and Gervain saw nothing of one another during this time. Gervain traveled to Jeresh for many years, where he rowed galleys and hunted devilfish for pay. Eventually, homesick, he took passage for Camorr. At the dockside, he was astounded to see a man stepping off a little fishing boat—a man weathered and gray and bearded just like himself, but certainly none other than his old friend Markos.

“Markos,” he cried. “Markos, from the Cauldron! Markos! The gods are kind! Surely you remember me?”

Markos turned to regard the traveler who stood before him; he stared for a few seconds. Then, without warning, he drew a long-bladed fisherman’s knife from his belt and buried it, up to the hilt, in Gervain’s stomach. As Gervain stared downward in shock, Markos gave him a shove sideways, and the former handball Justice fell into the water of Camorr Bay, never to surface again.

“Not across the line, my ass,” Markos spat.

Verrari, Karthani, and Lashani nod knowingly when they hear this story. They assume it to be apocryphal, but it confirms something they claim to know in their hearts—that Camorri are all gods-damned crazy.

Camorri, on the other hand, regard it as a valuable reminder against procrastinating in matters of revenge—or, if one cannot take satisfaction immediately, on the virtue of having a long memory.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AT THE COURT OF CAPA RAZA

1

THEY HAD TO steal another little boat, Locke having so profligately disposed of their first. On any other night, he would have had a good laugh.

And so would Bug, and Calo, and Galdo, he told himself.

Locke and Jean drifted south between the Narrows and the Mara Camorrazza, hunched over in old cloaks from the floor of the Wardrobe, locked away from the rest of the city in the mist. The soft flickering lights and murmuring voices in the distance seemed to Locke as artifacts of an alien life he’d left long ago, not elements of the city he’d lived in for as long as he could remember.

“I am such a fool,” he muttered. He lay along a gunwale, aching, feeling the dry heaves rise up again from the battered pit of his stomach.

“If you say that one more time,” said Jean, “I will throw you into the water and row the boat over your head.”

“I should have let us run.”

“Perhaps,” said Jean. “But perhaps not everything miserable that happens to us stems directly from one of your choices, brother. Perhaps bad tidings come regardless of what we do. Perhaps if we’d run, that Bondsmage would have hunted us down upon the road, and scattered our bones somewhere between here and Talisham.”

“And yet …”

“We live,” said Jean forcefully. “We live and we may avenge them. You had the right idea when you did for that Gray King’s man back in the burrow. The questions now are why, and what next? Quit acting like you’ve been breathing Wraithstone smoke. I need your wits, Locke. I need the Thorn of Camorr.”

“Let me know when you find him. He’s a fucking fairy tale.”

“No, he’s sitting here in this boat with me. If you’re not him now, you must become him. The Thorn is the man who can beat the Gray King. I can’t do it alone; I know that much. Why would the Gray King do this to us? What does it bring him? Think, damn it!”

“Too much to guess at,” said Locke. His voice regained a bit of its vigor as he pondered. “But … narrow the question. Consider the means. We saw one of his men beneath the temple; I saw another man when I was taken for the first time. So we know he had at least two working for him, in addition to the Bondsmage.”

“Right. Does he strike you as a sloppy operator?”

“No.” Locke rubbed his hands together. “No, everything he did seemed to me to be as intricate as Verrari clockwork.”

“Yet he sent only one man down into the burrow.”

“Yes—the Sanzas were already dead, I was thought to be dead, you walked into another trap set by the Bondsmage, and it would have been a crossbow quarrel for Bug. Deftly done. Quick and cruel.”

“But why not send two men? Why not three? To bury us so viciously, why not be absolutely sure of the issue?” Jean gave the water a few gentle strokes to hold their position against the current. “I cannot believe he suddenly became lazy, at the very culmination of his scheme.”

“Perhaps,” said Locke, “perhaps … he needed what other men he had elsewhere, very badly. Perhaps one was all he could spare.” Locke gasped and slammed his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. “Perhaps we weren’t the culmination of his scheme after all.”

“What, then?”

“Not what, who.” Locke sat up and groaned, his head swimming. “Who has he been attacking all these months? Jean, Barsavi believes the Gray King to be dead. So now what will he do tonight?”

“He … he’ll throw a revel. Just like he used to do on the Day of Changes. He’ll celebrate.”

“At the Floating Grave,” said Locke. “He’ll throw the doors open, haul in casks—gods, real ones this time. He’ll summon his whole court. All the Right People, drunk three deep along the causeway and the wharfs of the Wooden Waste. Just like the good old days.”

“So the Gray King faked his own death to lure Barsavi into throwing a revel?”

“It’s not the revel,” said Locke. “It’s … it’s the people. All the Right People. That’s it; gods, that’s it! Barsavi will appear before his people tonight for the first time in months. Do you understand? All the gangs, all the garristas will witness anything that happens there.”

“Which does what for the Gray King?”

“The fucker has a flair for the dramatic. I’d say Barsavi’s in a heap of shit. Row, Jean. Get me down to the Cauldron right now. I can cross to the Waste myself. I need to be at the Floating Grave, with haste.”

“Have you lost your mind? If the Gray King and his men are still prowling, they’ll kill you for sure. And if Barsavi sees you, you’re supposed to be nearly dead of a stomach flux! You are nearly dead of more than that!”

“They won’t see Locke Lamora,” said Locke, fumbling with some of the items he’d managed to salvage from the Masque Box. He held a false beard up to his chin and grinned. “My hair’s going to be gray for a few days, since the removal salve is burning up as we speak. I’ll throw on some soot and put up the hood, and I’ll be just another skinny nobody with bruises all over his face, come looking for some free wine from the Capa.”

“You should rest; you’ve had your life damn near pounded out of you. You’re a complete mess.”

“I ache in places I didn’t previously realize I owned,” said Locke, gingerly applying adhesive paste to his chin with his fingers. “But it can’t be helped. This is all the disguise gear we have left; we’ve got no money, no wardrobe, no more temple, no more friends. And you only have a few hours, at best, to go to ground and find us a place to stay before the Gray King’s men realize one of their number is missing.”

“But still—”

“I’m half your size, Jean. You can’t pamper me now. I can go unseen; you’ll be obvious as the rising sun. My suggestion is that you find a hovel in Ashfall, clear out the rats, and leave some of our signs in the area. Just scrawl soot on the walls. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

“But—”

“Jean, you wanted the Thorn of Camorr. Well, you’ve got him.” Locke jammed the false beard onto his chin and pressed until the adhesive ceased tingling, letting him know that it was dry. “Take me to the Cauldron and let me off. For Calo, Galdo, and Bug, if not for me! Something’s about to happen at the Floating Grave, and I need to see what it is. Everything that bastard has done to us comes down to the next few hours—if it isn’t happening already.”

2

IT COULD be said, with several levels of truthful meaning, that Vencarlo Barsavi outdid himself with the celebration for his victory over the murderer of his daughter.

The Floating Grave was thrown open. The guards remained at their posts, but discipline slackened agreeably. Huge alchemical lanterns were hauled up under the silk awnings on the topmost decks of the harbor-locked galleon; they lit up the Wooden Waste beneath the dark sky and shone like beacons through the fog.

Runners were sent out to the Last Mistake for food and wine. The tavern was rapidly emptied of all its edibles, most of its casks, and every single one of its patrons. They streamed toward the Wooden Waste, drunk or sober, united in curious expectation.

The guards on the quay eyed the guests pouring in but did little else. Men and women without obvious weapons concealed beneath their clothes were passed through without so much as a cursory search. Flush with victory, the capa had decided to be magnanimous in more ways than one. This was to Locke’s benefit; hooded and bearded and thoroughly begrimed, he slipped in with a huge crowd of Cauldron cutthroats making their rowdy way across the walkway to Barsavi’s galleon, lit like a pleasure galley from some romantic tale of the pashas of the Bronze Sea.

The Floating Grave was packed with men and women. Capa Barsavi sat on his raised chair, surrounded by all of his inner circle: his red-faced, shouting sons; his most powerful surviving garristas; his quiet, watchful Berangias twins. Locke had to push and shove and utter curses to make his way into the heart of the fortress. He nudged himself into a corner near the main doors to the ballroom and watched the affair from this position, aching and uncomfortable but grateful just to be able to claim a vantage point.

The balconies were spilling over with toughs from all the gangs in Camorr—the rowdiness was growing by the minute. The heat was incredible, and the smell; Locke felt pressed against the wall by the weight of odors. Wet wool and sweated-through cotton, wine and wine breath, hair oils and leather.

It was just past the first hour of the morning when Barsavi suddenly rose from his chair and held up a single hand.

Attentiveness spread outward like a wave. Right People nudged one another into silence and pointed to the capa. It took less than a minute for the echoing chaos of the celebration to peter down to a soft murmur. Barsavi nodded appreciatively.

“I trust we’re enjoying ourselves?”

There was a general outburst of cheers, applause, and foot-stomping. Locke privately wondered how wise that really was in a ship of any sort. He was careful to applaud along with the crowd.

“Feels marvelous to be out from under a cloud, doesn’t it?”

Another cheer; Locke scratched at his temporary beard, now damp with sweat. There was a sudden sharp pain in his stomach, right where one of the younger Barsavis had given him particular consideration with a fist. The heat and the smell were triggering strange tickly feelings of nausea in the back of his throat, and he’d had enough of that particular sensation to last the rest of his life. Sourly, he coughed into his hands and prayed for just a few more hours of strength.

One of the Berangias sisters stepped over beside the capa, her shark’s-teeth bangles shining in the light of the hall’s chandeliers, and whispered into his ear. He listened for a few seconds, and then he smiled.

“Cheryn,” he shouted, “proposes that I allow her and her sister to entertain us. Shall I?”

The answering cheer was twice as forceful (and twice as genuine, to Locke’s ears) as anything yet heard. The wooden walls reverberated with it, and Locke flinched.

“Let’s have a teeth show, then!”

All was chaos for the next few minutes. Dozens of Barsavi’s people pushed revelers back, clearing an area at the center of the floor about ten yards on a side. Revelers were pressed up the stairs until the balconies creaked beneath their weight; observation holes were cranked open so those on the top deck could peer down at the proceedings. Locke was pushed back into his corner more firmly than ever.

Men with hooked poles drew up the wooden panels of the floor, revealing the dark water of Camorr Bay. A thrill of anticipation and alarm passed through the crowd at the thought of what might be swimming down there. The unquiet spirits of eight Full Crowns, for one thing, thought Locke.

As the final panels in the center of the opening square were removed, almost everyone present could see the little support platforms on which they’d rested, not one wider than a man’s hand-spread. They were spaced about five feet apart. Barsavi’s arena for his own private teeth shows—a challenge for any contrarequialla, even a pair as experienced as the Berangias sisters.

Cheryn and Raiza, old hands at teasing a crowd, were stripping out of their leather doublets, bracers, and collars. They took their graceful time while the capa’s subjects hooted approval, hoisted cups and glasses, and in some cases even shouted unlikely propositions.

Anjais hurried forward with a little packet of alchemical powders in his hands. He dumped this into the water, then took a prudent step back. This was the “summons”—a potent mix of substances that would rouse the shark’s ire and maintain it for the duration of the contest. Blood in the water could attract and enrage a shark, but the summons would make it utterly drunk with the urge to attack—to leap, thrash, and roll at the women jumping back and forth across their little platforms.

The Berangias sisters stepped forward to nearly the edge of the artificial pool, holding their traditional weapons: the pick-head axes and the short javelins. Anjais and Pachero stood behind them and just to their left; the Capa remained standing by his chair, clapping his hands and grinning broadly.

A black fin broke the surface of the pool; a tail thrashed. There was a brief splash of water, and the electric atmosphere of the crowd intensified. Locke could feel it washing over him—lust and fear entwined, a powerful, animalistic sensation. The crowd had backed off about two yards from any edge of the pool, but still some in the front ranks were shaking nervously, and a few were trying to push their way farther back through the crowd, to the delight and derision of those around them.

In truth, the shark couldn’t have been longer than five or six feet; some of those used at the Shifting Revel reached twice that length. Still, a fish like that could easily maim on the leap, and if it dragged a person down into the water with it, well, raw size would mean little in such an uneven contest.

The Berangias sisters threw up their arms, then turned as one to the capa. The sister on the right—Raiza? Cheryn? Locke had never learned the trick of telling them apart.… And at the thought his heart ached for the Sanzas. Playing deftly to the crowd, Barsavi put up his hands and looked around at his court. When they cheered him on, he stepped down between the ladies and received a kiss on the cheek from each of them.

The water stirred just before the three of them; a sleek black shadow swept past the edge of the pool, then dove down into the lightless depths. Locke could feel five hundred hearts skip a beat, and the breath in five hundred throats catch. His own concentration seemed to peak, and he caught every detail of that moment as though it were frozen before him, from the eager smile on Barsavi’s round red face to the rippling reflection of chandelier light on the water.

“Camorr!” cried the Berangias sister to the capa’s right. Again, the noise of the crowd died, this time as though one gigantic windpipe had been slit. Five hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on the capa and his bodyguards.

“We dedicate this death,” she continued, “to Capa Vencarlo Barsavi, our lord and patron!”

“Well does he deserve it,” said the other.

The shark exploded out of the pool immediately before them—a sleek dark devilish thing, with black lidless eyes and white teeth gaping. A ten-foot fountain of water rose up with it, and it half somersaulted in midair, falling forward, falling …

Directly atop Capa Barsavi.

Barsavi put up his arms to shield himself; the shark came down with its mouth wide open around one of them. The fish’s muscle-heavy body slammed hard against the wood floor, yanking Barsavi down with it. Those implacable jaws squeezed tight, and the capa screamed as blood gushed from just beneath his right shoulder, running out across the floor and down the shark’s blunt snout.

His sons dashed forward to his aid. The Berangias sister to the right looked down at the shark, shifted her weight fluidly to a fighting stance, raised her gleaming axe, and whirled with all the strength of her upper body behind the blow.

Her blade smashed Pachero Barsavi’s head just above his left ear; the tall man’s optics flew off and he staggered forward, his skull caved in, dead before his knees hit the deck.

The crowd screamed and surged, and Locke prayed to the Benefactor to preserve him long enough to make sense of whatever happened next.

Anjais gaped at his struggling father and his falling brother. Before he could utter a single word the other Berangias stepped up behind him, reached around to press her javelin shaft up beneath his chin, and buried the spike of her axe in the back of his head. He spat blood and toppled forward, unmoving.

The shark writhed and tore at the capa’s right arm, while he screamed and beat at its snout until his left hand was scraped bloody by the creature’s abrasive skin. With a final sickening wrench, the shark tore his right arm completely off and slid backward into the water, leaving a broad red streak on the wooden deck behind it. Barsavi rolled away, spraying blood from the stump of his arm, staring at the bodies of his sons in uncomprehending terror. He tried to stumble up.

One of the Berangias sisters kicked him back to the deck.

There was a tumult behind the fallen Capa; several Red Hands rushed forward, weapons drawn, hollering incoherently. What happened next was a blurry, violent mystery to Locke’s untrained eyes, but the two half-clothed Berangias dealt with half a dozen armored men with a brutality the shark would have envied. Javelins flew, axes whirled, throats opened, and blood spurted. The last Red Hand was slumping to the deck, his face a jagged scarlet ruin, perhaps five seconds after the first had charged forward.

There was brawling on the balconies, now—Locke could see men pushing their way through the crowds, men in heavy gray oilcloaks, armed with crossbows and long knives. Some of Barsavi’s guards stood back and did nothing; some attempted to flee; others were taken from behind by their cloaked assailants and killed out of hand. Crossbow strings sang; bolts whirred through the air. There was a resounding bang to Locke’s left. The great doors to the ballroom had slammed shut, seemingly of their own accord, and the clockwork mechanisms within were whirring and clicking. People battered at them uselessly.

One of Barsavi’s men pushed his way out of a crowd of panicking, shoving Right People and raised a crossbow at the Berangias sisters, who stood over the wounded capa like lionesses guarding a kill. A dark streak fell on him from out of the shadowy corners of the ceiling; there was an inhuman screech, and the shot went far awry, hissing above the sisters’ heads to strike the far wall. The guard batted furiously at the brown shape that flapped back into the air on long curving wings—then he put a hand to his neck, staggered, and fell flat on his face.

“Remain where you are,” boomed a voice with an air of assured command. “Remain where you are and attend.”

The command had a greater effect than Locke would have expected. He even felt his own fear dimming down, his own urge to flee vanishing. The wailing and screaming of the crowd quieted; the pounding on the great doors ceased; an eerie calm rapidly fell on what had been the exultant court of Capa Barsavi, not two minutes earlier.

The hairs on the back of Locke’s neck stood up; the change in the crowd was not natural. He might have missed it, but that he’d been under its influence before. There was sorcery in the air. He shivered despite himself. Gods, I hope coming here was as wise an idea as it seemed.

The Gray King was suddenly there with them.

It was as though he’d stepped out of a door that opened from thin air, just beside the capa’s chair. He wore his cloak and mantle, and he stepped with a hunter’s easy assurance across the bodies of the Red Hands. At his side strode the Falconer, with a gauntleted fist held up to the air. Vestris settled upon it, pulled in her wings, and screeched triumphantly. There were gasps and murmurs in the crowd.

“No harm will come to you,” said the Gray King. “I’ve done what harm I came to do tonight.” He stepped up between the Berangias sisters and looked down at Capa Barsavi, who was writhing and moaning on the deck at his feet.

“Hello, Vencarlo. Gods, but you’ve looked better.”

Then the Gray King swept back his hood, and once again Locke saw those intense eyes, the hard lines of the face, the dark hair with streaks of gray, the lean rugged countenance. And he gasped, because he finally realized what had nagged him during his first meeting with the Gray King, that odd familiarity.

All the pieces of that particular puzzle were before him. The Gray King stood between the Berangias sisters, and it was now plain to Locke’s eye that they were siblings—very nearly triplets.

3

“CAMORR,” SHOUTED the Gray King, “the reign of the Barsavi family is at an end!”

His people had taken firm control of the crowd; there were perhaps two dozen of them, in addition to the Berangias sisters and the Falconer. The fingers of the mage’s left hand curled and twisted and flexed, and he muttered under his breath as he gazed around the room. Whatever spell he was weaving did its part to calm the crowd, but no doubt the three black rings visible on his exposed wrist arrested the attention of the revelers as well.

“In fact,” said the Gray King, “the Barsavi family is at an end. No more sons or daughters, Vencarlo. I wanted you to know, before you died, that I had wiped the disease of your loins from the face of the world.

“In the past,” he shouted, “you have known me as the Gray King. Well, now I am out of the shadows. That name is not to be spoken again. Henceforth, you may call me … Capa Raza.”

Raza, thought Locke. Throne Therin for “vengeance.” Not subtle.

Very little about the Gray King, he was learning to his sorrow, actually was.

Capa Raza, as he now styled himself, bent over Barsavi, who was weak with blood loss, whimpering in pain. Raza reached down and pried the capa’s signature ring from his remaining hand. He held this up for all the crowd to behold, then slid it onto the fourth finger of his own left hand.

“Vencarlo,” said Capa Raza, “I have waited so many years to see you like this. Now your children are dead, and your office is passed to me, along with your fortress and your treasure. Every legacy you thought to leave to someone of your name is in my hands. I have erased you from history itself. Does that suit your fancy, scholar? Like an errant chalk mark upon a slate. I have wiped you clean away.

“Do you remember the slow death of your wife? How she trusted your Berangias sisters to the very end? How they would bring her meals to her? She didn’t die of stomach tumors. It was black alchemy. I wanted to do something to whet my appetite, during the long years I spent building this death for you.” Capa Raza grinned with demonic mirth. “Lingered in pain, didn’t she? Well, it wasn’t an act of the gods, Vencarlo. Like everyone else you loved, she died because of you.”

“Why?” Barsavi’s voice was weak and small.

Capa Raza knelt beside him, cradled his head almost tenderly, and whispered in his ear for several long moments. Barsavi stared up at him when he was finished, jaw slack, eyes wide with disbelief, and Raza nodded slowly.

He yanked Barsavi’s head up and backward by his beards. A stiletto fell into his other hand from within his sleeve, and he rammed it into the underside of Vencarlo Barsavi’s exposed chins, all the way to the hilt. Barsavi kicked weakly, just once.

Capa Raza stood up, withdrawing the blade. The Berangias sisters grabbed their former master by his lapels and slid him into the dark water of the bay, which received his body as readily as it had taken his victims and his enemies, over all the long years of his rule.

“One capa rules Camorr,” said Raza, “and now it is me. Now it is me!” He raised the bloody stiletto over his head and gazed around the room, as though inviting disagreement. When none came forth, he continued.

“It is not my intention merely to remove Barsavi, but to replace him. My reasons are my own. So now there is business between myself and all the rest of you, all the Right People.” He gazed slowly around the room, his arms folded before him, his chin thrust out like a conquering general in an old bronze sculpture.

“You must hear my words, and then come to a decision.”

4

“NOTHING THAT you have achieved shall be taken from you,” he continued. “Nothing that you have worked or suffered for will be revoked. I admire the arrangements Barsavi built, as much as I hated the man who built them. So this is my word.

“All remains as it was. All garristas and their gangs will control the same territories; they will pay the same tribute, on the same day, once a week. The Secret Peace remains. As it was death to breach under Barsavi’s rule, so shall it be death under mine.

“I claim all of Barsavi’s offices and powers. I claim all of his dues. In justice, I must therefore claim his debts and his responsibilities. If any man can show that he was owed by Barsavi, he will now be owed the same by Capa Raza. First among them is Eymon Danzier.… Step forward, Eymon.”

There was a murmur and a ripple in the crowd to Capa Raza’s right; after a few moments, the skinny man Locke remembered very well from the Echo Hole was pushed forward, obviously terrified. His bony knees all but knocked together.

“Eymon, be at ease.” Raza held out his left hand, palm down, fingers splayed, as Barsavi had once done for every single person watching. “Kneel to me and name me your capa.”

Shaking, Eymon dropped to one knee, took Raza’s hand, and kissed the ring. His lips came away wet with Barsavi’s blood. “Capa Raza,” he said, in an almost pleading tone.

“You did a very brave thing at the Echo Hole, Eymon. A thing few men would have done in your place. Barsavi was right to promise you much for it, and I will make good on that promise. You will have a thousand crowns, and a suite of rooms, and such comforts that men with many long years of life ahead of them will pray to the gods to put them in your place.”

“I … I …” Tears were actually pouring out of the man’s eyes. “I wasn’t sure what you would … thank you, Capa Raza. Thank you.”

“I wish you much pleasure, for the service you have given me.”

“Then … it wasn’t … it wasn’t you, at the Echo Hole, if I may ask, Capa Raza.”

“Oh, no, Eymon.” Raza laughed, a deep and pleasant sound. “No, that was but an illusion.”

In the far corner of the Floating Grave’s ballroom, that particular illusion fumed silently to himself, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Tonight you have seen me with blood on my hands,” Raza shouted, “and you have seen them open in what I hope will be seen as true generosity. I am not a difficult man to get along with; I want us to prosper together. Serve me as you served Barsavi, and I know it will be so. I ask you, garristas, who will bend the knee and kiss my ring as your capa?”

“The Rum Hounds,” shouted a short, slender woman at the front of the crowd on the ballroom floor.

“The Falselight Cutters,” cried another man. “The Falselight Cutters say aye!”

That doesn’t make any gods-damned sense, thought Locke. The Gray King murdered their old garristas. Are they playing some sort of game with him?

“The Wise Mongrels!”

“The Catchfire Barons.”

“The Black Eyes.”

“The Full Crowns,” came another voice, and an echoing chorus of affirmations. “The Full Crowns stand with Capa Raza!”

Suddenly Locke wanted to laugh out loud. He put a fist to his mouth and turned the noise into a stifled cough. It was suddenly obvious. The Gray King hadn’t just been knocking off Barsavi’s most loyal garristas. He must have been cutting deals with their subordinates, beforehand.

Gods, there had been more Gray King’s men in the room out of costume than in … waiting for the evening’s real show to commence.

A half dozen men and women stepped forward and knelt before Raza at the edge of the pool, wherein the shark hadn’t shown so much as a fin since forcibly relieving Barsavi of his arm.

The damned Bondsmage certainly has a way with animals, Locke thought, with mixed anger and jealousy. He found himself feeling very small indeed before each display of the Falconer’s arts.

One by one the garristas knelt and made their obeisance to the Capa, kissing his ring and saying “Capa Raza” with real enthusiasm. Five more stepped forward to kneel directly afterward, apparently giving in to the direction they felt events to be slipping. Locke calculated rapidly. With just the pledges he’d already received, Raza could now call three or four hundred Right People his own. His overt powers of enforcement had increased substantially.

“Then we are introduced,” said Raza to the entire crowd. “We are met, and you know my intentions. You are free to return to your business.”

The Falconer made a few gestures with his free hand. The clockwork mechanisms within the doors to the hall clattered in reverse, and the doors clicked open.

“I give the undecided three nights,” Capa Raza shouted. “Three nights to come to me here and bend the knee, and swear to me as they did to Barsavi. I devoutly wish to be lenient—but I warn you, now is not the time to anger me. You have seen my work; you know I have resources Barsavi lacked. You know I can be merciless when I am moved to displeasure. If you are not content serving beneath me, if you think it might be wiser or more exciting to oppose me, I will make one suggestion: pack what fortune you have and leave the city by the landward gates. If you wish to part ways, no harm will come to you from my people. For three nights, I give you my leave and my parole.

“After that,” he said, lowering his voice, “I will make what examples I must. Go now, and speak to your pezon. Speak to your friends, and to other garristas. Tell them what I have said; tell them I wait to receive their pledges.”

Some of the crowd began to disperse out the doors; others, wiser perhaps, began to line up before Capa Raza. The former Gray King took each pledge at the bloody heart of a circle of corpses.

Locke waited for several minutes until the press had lessened, until the solid torrent of hot, smelly humanity had decreased to a few thick streams, and then he moved toward the entrance. His feet felt as heavy as his head; fatigue seemed to be catching up with him.

There were corpses here and there on the floor—Barsavi’s guards, the loyal ones. Locke could see them now as the crowds continued to thin. Just beside the tall doors to the hall lay Bernell, who’d grown old in Capa Barsavi’s service. His throat was slashed; he lay in a pool of his own blood, and his fighting knives remained in their sheaths. He’d not had time to pull them.

Locke sighed. He paused for a moment in the doorway and stared back at Capa Raza and the Falconer. The Bondsmage seemed to stare right back at him, and for the tiniest instant Locke’s heart raced, but the sorcerer said nothing and did nothing. He merely continued to stand watch over the ritual as Capa Raza’s new subjects kissed his ring. Vestris yawned, snapping her beak briefly open, as though the affairs of the unwinged bored her terribly. Locke hurried out.

All the guards who watched the revelers as they left the galleon and filed up the walkway toward the quay were Raza’s men; they hadn’t bothered to move the bodies that lay on the ground at their feet. Some merely stared coldly; others nodded companionably. Locke recognized more than a few of them.

“Three nights, ladies and gents, three nights,” said one. “Tell your friends. You’re Capa Raza’s now. No need to be alarmed; just do as you’ve always done.”

So now we have some answers, thought Locke. Forgive me again, Nazca. I couldn’t have done anything even if I’d had the courage to try.

He clutched his aching stomach as he shambled along, head down. No guard spared a second glance for the skinny, bearded, dirty old beggar; there were a thousand in Camorr just like him, a thousand interchangeable losers, hopeless and penniless at the very bottom of the many levels of misery the underworld had to offer.

Now to hide. And to plan.

“Please yourself with what you’ve stolen tonight, you son of a bitch,” Locke whispered to himself when he’d made his way past the last of Raza’s guards. “Please yourself very well. I want to see the loss in your eyes when I put the fucking dagger in your heart.”

5

BUT ONE can only get so far on thoughts of vengeance alone. The sharp pains in his stomach started up again about halfway through his slow, lonely walk to the Ashfall district.

His stomach ached and churned and growled. The night seemed to turn darker around him, and the narrow, fog-softened city horizons tilted strangely, as though he were drunk. Locke staggered and clutched at his chest, sweating and mumbling.

“Damned Gazer,” said a voice from the darkness. “Probably chasing dragons and rainbows and the lost treasure of Camorr.” Laughter followed this, and Locke stumbled on, anxious to avoid becoming a target for mischief. He’d never felt such weariness. It was as though his vigor had burned down to a pile of embers within him, fading and cooling and graying with every passing second.

Ashfall, never hospitable, was a hellish conglomeration of shadow-shapes to Locke’s decreasing concentration. He was breathing heavily, and sweating rivers. It felt as though someone were steadily packing more and more dry cotton in behind his eyeballs. His feet grew heavier and heavier; he urged them forward, one scraping step after another, on into the darkness and the jagged looming shadows of collapsed buildings. Unseen things skittered in the night; unseen watchers murmured at his passing.

“What the … gods, I … must … Jean,” he mumbled as he tripped against a man-sized chunk of fallen masonry and sprawled in the dusty shadows behind it. The place smelled of limestone and cookfires and urine. He lacked the strength to push himself back up.

“Jean,” he gasped, one last time; then he fell forward onto his face, unconscious even before his head struck the ground.

6

THE LIGHTS became visible in the third hour of the morning, perhaps a mile out to sea due south of the Dregs, where a nucleus of greater darkness slid low against the water, tacking slowly and gracelessly. The ship’s ghostly white sails flapped in the breezes as it made its way toward the Old Harbor; the bored watch in the three-story tower at the tip of the South Needle were the first to spot it.

“Right sloppy sailor, that one,” said the younger watchman, looking-glass in hand.

“Probably Verrari,” muttered the senior, who was methodically torturing a piece of ivory with a slender carving knife. He wanted it to come out like a sculpted terrace he’d seen at the Temple of Iono, alive with lovely relief and fantastical representations of drowned men taken by the Lord of the Grasping Waters. What he seemed to be producing more closely resembled a lump of white dogshit, life-size. “Sooner trust a sailing ship to a blind drunkard with no hands than a Verrari.”

Nothing else the vessel did warranted much attention until the lights suddenly appeared, and their deep yellow glow could be seen rippling on the dark surface of the water.

“Yellow lights, sergeant,” said the younger watchman. “Yellow lights.”

“What?” The older man set down his piece of ivory, plucked the spyglass from the younger man’s hands, and gave the incoming ship a good long stare. “Shit. Yellow it is.”

“A plague ship,” whispered the other watchman. “I’ve never seen one.”

“Either it’s a plague ship, or some bum-fancier from Jerem who don’t know proper colors for harbor lights.” He slid the spyglass casing shut and stepped over to a brass cylinder, mounted sideways on the rim of the watch station’s western wall, pointed toward the softly lit towers on the shore of the Arsenal District. “Ring the bell, boy. Ring the damn bell.”

The younger watchman reached over the other side of the little tower’s parapet to grasp a rope that dangled there. He began ringing the station’s heavy brass bell, a steady repetition of two pulls: ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding.

Flickering blue light flashed out from one of the Arsenal towers. The watch-sergeant worked the knob on the brass cylinder, turning the shutters that concealed the light of the unusually powerful alchemical globe within the cylinder. There was a list of simple messages he could flash to the Arsenal stations; they would flash it in turn to other ready sets of eyes. With luck, it might reach the Palace of Patience, or even Raven’s Reach, within two minutes.

Some time did pass; the plague ship grew larger and more distinct.

“Come on, half-wits,” muttered the watch-sergeant. “Rouse yourselves. Quit pulling that damn bell, boy. I think we’ve been heard.”

Echoing across the mist-shrouded city came the high whistles of the Quarantine Guard. This noise was joined in short order by the rattle of drums: a night-muster of yellowjackets. Bright white lights flared to life in the towers of the Arsenal, and the watch-sergeant could see the tiny black shapes of men running along the waterfront.

“Oh, now we’ll see something,” he muttered. More lights appeared to the northeast; little towers dotted the South Needle and the Dregs, overlooking the Old Harbor, where Camorr set its plague anchorage by law and custom. Each little tower held a stone-throwing engine that could reach out across the water with fifty-pound loads of rock or fire-oil. The plague anchorage was one hundred and fifty yards south of the Dregs, directly over sixty fathoms of water, well within the throwing arcs of a dozen engines that could sink or burn anything afloat in minutes.

A galley was sliding out of the Arsenal gate, between the brightly lit towers—one of the swift little patrol vessels called “gulls,” for the winglike sweep of their oars. A gull carried twenty oars on a side, rowed by eighty paid men; on its deck it carried forty swordsmen, forty archers, and a pair of the heavy bolt-throwers called scorpia. It had no provisions for cargo and only one mast with a simple, furled sail. It was meant to do just one thing—close with any ship that threatened the city of Camorr and kill every man aboard, if its warnings were not heeded.

Smaller boats were putting out from the northern edge of the South Needle; harbor pilots and crews of yellowjackets, with red and white lanterns blazing at their prows.

On the opposite side of the long breakwater, the gull was just getting up to speed; the rows of graceful oars dipped and cut white froth in the black sea. A trail of rippling wake grew behind the galley; a drumbeat could be heard echoing across the water, along with the shouts of orders.

“Close, close,” muttered the watch-sergeant. “Going to be close. That poor bastard don’t sail well; might have to get a stone across the bows before she slows up.”

A few small dark shapes could be seen moving against the pale billow of the plague ship’s sails; too few, it seemed, to work them properly. Yet as the vessel slid into Old Harbor, it began to show signs of slowing down. Its topsails were drawn up, albeit in a laggardly and lubberly fashion. The remaining sails were braced so as to spill the ship’s wind. They slackened, and with the creak of rope pulleys and the muted shouts of orders, they too began to draw up toward the yards.

“Oh, she’s got fine lines,” mused the watch-sergeant. “Fine lines.”

“That’s not a galleon,” said the younger watchman.

“Looks like one of those flush-deckers they were supposed to be building up in Emberlain; frigate-fashion, I think they call it.”

The plague ship wasn’t black from the darkness alone; it was lacquered black, and ornamented from bow to stern with witchwood filigree. There were no weapons to be seen.

“Crazy northerners. Even their ships have to be black. But she does look damn fine; fast, I’ll bet. What a heap of shit to fall into; now she’ll be stuck at quarantine for weeks. Poor bastards’ll be lucky to live.”

The gull rounded the point of the South Needle, oars biting hard into the water. By the galley’s running lamps, the two watchmen could see that the scorpia were loaded and fully manned; that the archers stood on their raised platforms with longbows in hand, fidgeting nervously.

A few minutes later the gull pulled abreast with the black ship, which had drifted in to a point about four hundred yards offshore. An officer strode out onto the gull’s long bow spar, and put a speaking trumpet to his mouth.

“What vessel?”

“Satisfaction; Emberlain,” came a return shout.

“Last port of call?”

“Jerem!”

“Ain’t that pretty,” muttered the watch-sergeant. “Poor bastards might have anything.”

“What is your cargo?” asked the officer on the gull.

“Ship’s provisions only; we were to take cargo in Ashmere.”

“Complement?”

“Sixty-eight; twenty now dead.”

“You fly the plague lights in real need, then?”

“Yes, for the love of the gods. We don’t know what it is.… The men are burning with fever. The captain is dead and the physiker died yesterday! We beg assistance.”

“You may have a plague anchorage,” shouted the Camorri officer. “You must not approach our shore closer than one hundred and fifty yards, or you will be sunk. Any boats put out will be sunk or burned. Any man who attempts to swim to shore will be shot down—assuming he makes it past the sharks.”

“Please, send us a physiker. Send us alchemists, for the love of the gods!”

“You may not throw corpses overboard,” continued the officer. “You must keep them on board. Any packages or objects somehow conveyed to shore from your vessel will be burnt without examination. Any attempt to make such conveyance will be grounds for burning or sinking. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but please, is there nothing else you can do?”

“You may have priests on shore, and you may have freshwater and charitable provisions sent forth by rope from the dockside—these ropes to be sent out by boat from shore, and to be cut after use if necessary.”

“And nothing else?”

“You may not approach our shore, on pain of attack, but you may turn and leave at will. May Aza Guilla and Iono aid you in your time of need; I pray mercy for you, and wish you a swift deliverance in the name of Duke Nicovante of Camorr.”

A few minutes later the sleek black ship settled into its plague anchorage with furled sails, yellow lights gleaming above the black water of the Old Harbor, and there it rocked, gently, as the city slept in silver mists.

INTERLUDE

The Lady of the Long Silence

1

Jean Tannen entered the service of the Death Goddess about half a year after Locke returned from his sojourn in the priesthood of Nara, with the usual instructions to learn what he could and then return home in five or six months. He used the assumed name Tavrin Callas, and he traveled south from Camorr for more than a week to reach the great temple of Aza Guilla known as Revelation House.

Unlike the other eleven (or twelve) orders of Therin clergy, the servants of Aza Guilla began their initiation in only one place. The coastal highlands that rose south of Talisham ended at vast, straight white cliffs that fell three or four hundred feet to the crashing waves of the Iron Sea. Revelation House was carved from one of these cliffs, facing out to sea, on a scale that recalled the work of the Eldren but was accomplished—gradually and painstakingly, in an ongoing process—solely with human arts.

Picture a number of deep rectangular galleries, dug straight back into the cliff, connected solely by exterior means. To get anywhere in Revelation House, one had to venture outside, onto the walkways, stairs, and carved stone ladders, regardless of the weather or the time of day. Safety rails were unknown to Revelation House; initiates and teachers alike scuttled along in light or darkness, in rain or bright clear skies, with no barrier between themselves and a plunge to the sea save their own confidence and good fortune.

Twelve tall excised columns to the west of Revelation House held brass bells at the top; these open-faced rock tubes, about six feet deep and seventy feet high, had slender hand- and footholds carved into their rear walls. At dawn and dusk, initiates were expected to climb them and ensure that each bell was rung twelve times, once for each god in the pantheon. The carillon was always somewhat ragged; when Jean thought he could get away with it, he rang his own bell thirteen times.

Three initiates plunged to their deaths attempting to perform this ritual before Jean had passed his first month at the temple. This number struck him as surprisingly low, given how many of the devotional duties of Aza Guilla’s new servants (not to mention the architecture of their home) were clearly designed to encourage premature meetings with the Death Goddess.

“We are concerned here with death considered in two aspects: Death the Transition and Death Everlasting,” said one of their lecturers, an elderly priestess with three braided silver collars at the neck of her black robe. “Death Everlasting is the realm of the Lady Most Kind; it is a mystery not intended for penetration or comprehension from our side of the Lady’s shroud. Death the Transition, therefore, is the sole means by which we may achieve a greater understanding of her dark majesty.

“Your time here in Revelation House will bring you close to Death the Transition on many occasions, and it is a certainty that some of you will pass beyond before you finish your initiation. This may be achieved through inattentiveness, lassitude, ill fortune, or the inscrutable will of the Lady Most Kind herself. As initiates of the Lady, you will be exposed to Death the Transition and its consequences for the rest of your lives. You must grow accustomed to it. It is natural for living flesh to recoil from the presence of death, and from thoughts of death. Your discipline must overcome what is natural.”

2

AS WITH most Therin temples, initiates of the First Inner Mystery were mostly expected to train their scribing, sums, and rhetoric to the point that they could enter higher levels of study without distracting more advanced initiates. Jean, with his advantages in age and training, was inducted into the Second Inner Mystery a bare month and a half after arrival.

“Henceforth,” said the priest conducting the ceremony, “you will conceal your faces. You will have no features of boy or girl, man or woman. The priesthood of the Lady Most Kind has only one face, and that face is inscrutable. We must not be seen as individuals, as fellow men and women. The office of the Death Goddess’ servants must disquiet if those we minister to are to compose their thoughts to her properly.”

The Sorrowful Visage was the silver mask of the order of Aza Guilla; for initiates, it bore a crude resemblance to a human face, with a rough indentation for the nose and holes for the eyes and mouth. For full priests, it was a slightly ovoid hemisphere of fine silver mesh. Jean donned his Sorrowful Visage, eager to get to work cataloguing more secrets of the order, only to discover that his duties were little changed from his month as an initiate of the First Inner Mystery. He still carried messages and scribed scrolls, swept floors and scoured the kitchens, still scurried up and down the precarious rock ladders beneath the Bells of the Twelve, with the unfriendly sea crashing far below and the wind tugging at his robes.

Only now he had the honor of doing all these things in his silver mask, with his peripheral vision partly blocked. Two more initiates of the Second Inner Mystery fell to a firsthand acquaintance with Death the Transition shortly after Jean’s elevation.

About a month after that, Jean was poisoned for the first time.

3

“CLOSER AND closer,” said the priestess, whose voice seemed muffled and distant. “Closer and closer to Death the Transition, to the very edge of the mystery—feel your limbs growing cold. Feel your thoughts slowing. Feel the beating of your heart growing sluggish. The warm humors are banking down; the fire of life is fading.”

She had given them some sort of green wine, a poison that Jean could not identify; each of the dozen initiates of the Second Inner Mystery in his morning class lay prostrated and twitching feebly, their silver masks staring fixedly upward, as they could no longer move their necks.

Their instructor hadn’t quite managed to explain what the wine would do before she ordered them to drink it; Jean suspected that the willingness of the initiates around him to dance gaily on the edge of Death the Transition was still more theory than actuality.

Of course, look who knows so much better, he thought to himself as he marveled at how tingly and distant his legs had become. Crooked Warden … this priesthood is crazy. Give me strength to live, and I’ll return to the Gentlemen Bastards … where life makes sense.

Yes, where he lived in a secret Elderglass cellar beneath a rotting temple, pretending to be a priest of Perelandro while taking weapons lessons from the duke’s personal swordmaster. Perhaps a bit drunk on whatever drug was having its way with him, Jean giggled.

The sound seemed to echo and reverberate in the low-ceilinged study hall; the priestess turned slowly. The Sorrowful Visage concealed her true expression, but in his drug-hazed mind Jean was certain he could feel her burning stare.

“An insight, Tavrin?”

He couldn’t help himself; he giggled again. The poison seemed to be making merry with the tight-lipped inhibition he’d feigned since arriving at the temple. “I saw my parents burn to death,” he said. “I saw my cats burn to death. Do you know the noise a cat makes, when it burns?” Another damn giggle; he almost choked on his own spit in surprise. “I watched and could do nothing. Do you know where to stab a man, to bring death now, or death in a minute, or death in an hour? I do.” He would have been rolling with laughter, if he could move his limbs; as it was, he shuddered and twitched his fingers. “Lingering death? Two or three days of pain? I can give that, too. Ha! Death the Transition? We’re old friends!”

The priestess’ mask fixed directly on him; she stared for several drug-lengthened moments while Jean thought, Oh, gods damn this stuff, I’ve really done it now.

“Tavrin,” said the priestess, “when the effects of the emerald wine have passed, remain here. The High Proctor will speak to you then.”

Jean lay in mingled bemusement and dread for the rest of the morning. The giggles still came, interspersed with bouts of drunken self-loathing. So much for a full season of work. Some false-facer I turned out to be.

That night, much to his surprise, he was confirmed as having passed into the Third Inner Mystery of Aza Guilla.

“I knew we could expect exceptional things from you, Callas,” said the High Proctor, a bent old man whose voice wheezed behind his Sorrowful Visage. “First the extraordinary diligence you showed in your mundane studies, and your rapid mastery of the exterior rituals. Now, a vision … a vision during your very first Anguishment. You are marked, marked! An orphan who witnessed the death of his mother and father … You were fated to serve the Lady Most Kind.”

“What, ah, are the additional duties of an initiate of the Third Inner Mystery?”

“Why, Anguishment,” said the High Proctor. “A month of Anguishment; a month of exploration into Death the Transition. You shall take the emerald wine once again, and then you shall experience other means of closeness to the precipitous moment of the Lady’s embrace. You shall hang from silk until nearly dead; you shall be exsanguinated. You shall take up serpents, and you shall swim in the night ocean, wherein dwell many servants of the Lady. I envy you, little brother. I envy you, newly born to our mysteries.”

Jean fled Revelation House that very night.

He packed his meager bag of belongings and raided the kitchens for food. Before entering Revelation House, he’d buried a small bag of coins beneath a certain landmark about a mile inland from the cliffs, near the village of Sorrow’s Ease, which supplied the cliffside temple’s material wants. That money should suffice to get him back to Camorr.

He scrawled a note and left it on his sleeping pallet, in the fresh new solitary chamber accorded to him for his advanced rank:

GRATEFUL FOR OPPORTUNITIES, BUT COULD NOT WAIT. HAVE ELECTED TO SEEK THE STATE OF DEATH EVERLASTING; CANNOT BE CONTENT WITH THE LESSER MYSTERIES OF DEATH THE TRANSITION. THE LADY CALLS.

—TAVRIN CALLAS

He climbed the stone stairs for the last time, as the waves crashed in the darkness below; the soft red glow of alchemical storm-lamps guided him to the top of Revelation House, and thence to the top of the cliffs, where he vanished unseen into the night.

4

“DAMN,” SAID Galdo, when Jean had finished his tale. “I’m glad I got sent to the Order of Sendovani.”

The night of Jean’s return, after Father Chains had grilled Jean in depth on his experiences at Revelation House, he’d let the four boys head up to the roof with clay mugs of warm Camorri ale. They sat out beneath the stars and the scattered silver clouds, sipping their ale with much-exaggerated casualness. They savored the illusion that they were men, gathered of their own accord, with the hours of the night theirs to spend entirely at their own whim.

“No shit,” said Calo. “In the Order of Gandolo, we got pastries and ale every second week, and a copper piece every Idler’s Day, to spend as we wished. You know, for the Lord of Coin and Commerce.”

“I’m particularly fond of our priesthood of the Benefactor,” said Locke, “since our main duties seem to be sitting around and pretending that the Benefactor doesn’t exist. When we’re not stealing things, that is.”

“Too right,” said Galdo. “Death-priesting is for morons.”

“But still,” asked Calo, “didn’t you wonder if they might not be right?” He sipped his ale before continuing. “That you might really be fated to serve the Lady Most Kind?”

“I had a long time to think about it, on the way back to Camorr,” said Jean. “And I think they were right. Just maybe not the way they thought.”

“How do you mean?” The Sanzas spoke in unison, as they often did when true curiosity seized the pair of them at once.

In reply, Jean reached behind his back, and from out of his tunic he drew a single hatchet, a gift from Don Maranzalla. It was plain and unadorned, but well maintained and ideally balanced for someone who’d not yet come into his full growth. Jean set it on the stones of the temple roof and smiled.

“Oh,” said Calo and Galdo.

IV

DESPERATE IMPROVISATION

“I pitch like my hair’s on fire.”

Mitch Williams

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE FAT PRIEST FROM TAL VERRAR

1

WHEN LOCKE AWOKE, he was lying on his back and looking up at a fading, grime-covered mural painted on a plaster ceiling. The mural depicted carefree men and women in the robes of the Therin Throne era, gathered around a cask of wine, with cups in their hands and smiles on their rosy faces. Locke groaned and closed his eyes again.

“And here he is,” said an unfamiliar voice, “just as I said. It was the poultice that answered for him; most uncommonly good physik for the enervation of the bodily channels.”

“Who the hell might you be?” Locke found himself in a profoundly undiplomatic temper. “And where am I?”

“You’re safe, though I wouldn’t go so far as to say comfortable.” Jean Tannen rested a hand on Locke’s left shoulder and smiled down at him. Usually rather fastidious, he was now several days unshaven, and his face was streaked with dirt. “And some former patients of the renowned Master Ibelius might also take issue with my pronouncement of safety.”

Jean made a quick pair of hand gestures to Locke: We’re safe; speak freely.

“Tut, Jean, your little cuts are fine repayment for the work of the past few days.” The unfamiliar voice, it seemed, came from a wrinkled, birdlike man with skin like a weathered brown tabletop. His nervous dark eyes peeped out from behind thick optics, thicker than any Locke had ever seen. He wore a disreputable cotton tunic, spattered with what might have been dried sauces or dried blood, under a mustard-yellow waistjacket in a style twenty years out of date. His spring-coils of curly gray hair seemed to sprout straight out from the back of his head, where they were pulled into a queue. “I have navigated your friend back to the shores of consciousness.”

“Oh, for Perelandro’s sake, Ibelius, he didn’t have a crossbow quarrel in his brain. He just needed to rest.”

“His warm humors were at a singularly low ebb; the channels of his frame were entirely evacuated of vim. He was pale, unresponsive, bruised, desiccated, and malnourished.”

“Ibelius?” Locke attempted to sit up and was partially successful; Jean caught him by the back of his shoulders and helped him the rest of the way. The room spun. “Ibelius the dog-leech from the Redwater district?”

Dog-leeches were the medical counterparts of the black alchemists; without credentials or a place in the formal guilds of physikers, they treated the injuries and maladies of the Right People of Camorr. A genuine physiker might look askance at treating a patient for an axe wound at half past the second hour of the morning, and summon the city watch. A dog-leech would ask no questions, provided his fee was paid in advance.

The trouble with dog-leeches, of course, was that one took one’s chances with their abilities and credentials. Some really were trained healers, fallen on hard times or banished from the profession for crimes such as grave-robbing. Others were merely improvisers, applying years’ worth of practical knowledge acquired tending to the results of bar fights and muggings. A few were entirely mad, or homicidal, or—charmingly—both.

“My colleagues are dog-leeches,” sniffed Ibelius. “I am a physiker, Collegium-trained. Your own recovery is a testament to that.”

Locke glanced around the room. He was lying (wearing nothing but a breechclout) on a pallet in a corner of what must have been an abandoned Ashfall villa. A canvas curtain hung over the room’s only door; two orange-white alchemical lanterns filled the space with light. Locke’s throat was dry, his body still ached, and he smelled rather unpleasant—not all of it was the natural odor of an unwashed man. A strange translucent residue flaked off his stomach and sternum. He poked at it with his fingers.

“What,” said Locke, “is this crap on my chest?”

“The poultice, sir. Varagnelli’s Poultice, to be precise, though I hardly presume your familiarity with the subject. I employed it to concentrate the waning energy of your bodily channels; to confine the motion of your warm humors in the region where it would do you the most good. To wit, your abdomen. We did not want your energy to dissipate.”

“What was in it?”

“The poultice is a proprietary conglomeration, but the essence of its function is provided by the admixture of the gardener’s assistant and turpentine.”

“Gardener’s assistant?”

“Earthworms,” said Jean. “He means earthworms ground in turpentine.”

“And you let him smear it all over me?” Locke groaned and sank back down onto the pallet.

“Only your abdomen, sir—your much-abused abdomen.”

“He’s the physiker,” said Jean. “I’m only good at breaking people; I don’t put them back together.”

“What happened to me, anyway?”

“Enervation—absolute enervation, as thorough as I’ve ever seen it.” Ibelius lifted Locke’s left wrist while he spoke and felt for a pulse. “Jean told me that you took an emetic, the evening of Duke’s Day.”

“Did I ever!”

“And that you ate and drank nothing afterward. That you were then seized, and severely beaten, and nearly slain by immersion in a cask of horse urine—how fantastically vile, sir, you have my sympathies. And that you had received a deep wound to your left forearm; a wound that is now scabbing over nicely, no thanks to your ordeals. And that you remained active all evening despite your injuries and your exhaustion. And that you pursued your course with the utmost dispatch, taking no rest.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“You simply collapsed, sir. In layman’s terms, your body revoked its permission for you to continue heaping abuse upon it.” Ibelius chuckled.

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days and two nights,” said Jean.

“What? Gods damn me. Out cold the whole time?”

“Quite,” said Jean. “I watched you fall over; I wasn’t thirty yards away, crouched in hiding. Took me a few minutes to realize why the bearded old beggar looked familiar.”

“I have kept you somewhat sedated,” said Ibelius. “For your own good.”

“Gods damn it!”

“Clearly, my judgment was sound, as you would have had no will to rest otherwise. And it made it easier to use a series of fairly unpleasant poultices to greatly reduce the swelling and bruising of your face. Had you been awake, you surely would have complained of the smell.”

“Argh,” said Locke. “Tell me you have something at hand I can drink, at least.”

Jean passed him a skin of red wine; it was warm and sour and watered to the point that it was more pink than red, but Locke drank half of it down in a rapid series of undignified gulps.

“Have a care, Master Lamora, have a care,” said Ibelius. “I fear you have little conception of your own natural limitations. Make him take the soup, Jean. He needs to regain his animal strength, or his humors will fade again. He is far too thin for his own good; he is fast approaching anemia.”

Locke devoured the proffered soup (boiled shark in a milk-and-potato stew; bland, congealed, many hours past freshness, and positively the most splendid thing he could recall ever having tasted), and then stretched. “Two days, gods. I don’t suppose we’ve been lucky enough to have Capa Raza fall down some stairs and break his neck?”

“Hardly,” said Jean. “He’s still with us. Him and his Bondsmage. They’ve been very busy, those two. It might interest you to know that the Gentlemen Bastards are formally outcast, and I’m presumed alive, worth five hundred crowns to the man that brings me in. Preferably after I stop breathing.”

“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Dare I ask, Master Ibelius, what keeps you here smearing earthworms on my behalf when either of us is your key to Capa Raza’s monetary favor?”

“I can explain that,” said Jean. “Seems there was another Ibelius, who worked for Barsavi as one of his Floating Grave guards. A loyal Barsavi man, I should say.”

“Oh,” said Locke. “My condolences, Master Ibelius. A brother?”

“My younger brother. The poor idiot; I kept telling him to find another line of work. It seems we have a great deal of common sorrow, courtesy of Capa Raza.”

“Yes,” said Locke. “Yes, Master Ibelius. I’m going to put that fucker in the dirt as deeply as any man who’s ever been murdered, ever since the world began.”

“Ahhh,” said Ibelius. “So Jean says. And that’s why I’m not even charging for my services. I cannot say I think highly of your chances, but any enemy of Capa Raza is most welcome to my care, and to my discretion.”

“Too kind,” said Locke. “I suppose if I must have earthworms and turpentine smeared on my chest, I’m very happy to have you … ah, overseeing the affair.”

“Your servant, sir,” said Ibelius.

“Well, Jean,” said Locke, “we seem to have a hiding place, a physiker, and the two of us. What are our other assets?”

“Ten crowns, fifteen solons, five coppers,” said Jean. “That cot you’re lying on. You ate the wine and drank the soup. I’ve got the Wicked Sisters, of course. A few cloaks, some boots, your clothes. And all the rotting plaster and broken masonry a man could dream of.”

“And that’s it?”

“Yes, except for one small thing.” Jean held up the silver mesh mask of a priest of Aza Guilla. “The aid and comfort of the Lady of the Long Silence.”

“How the hell did you arrange that?”

“Right after I dropped you off at the edge of the Cauldron,” said Jean, “I decided to row back to the Temple District and make myself useful.”

2

THE FIRE within the House of Perelandro had yet to finish burning when Jean Tannen threw himself down, half-dressed, at the service entrance to the House of Aza Guilla, two squares northeast of the temple the Gentlemen Bastards had called their home.

Elderglass and stone could not burn, of course, but the contents of the House of Perelandro were another matter. With the Elderglass reflecting and concentrating the heat of the flames, everything within the burrow would be scorched to white ash, and the rising heat would certainly do for the contents of the actual temple. A bucket brigade of yellowjackets milled around the upper temple, with little to do but wait for the heat and the hideous death-scented smoke to cease boiling out from the doors.

Jean banged a fist on the latched wooden door behind the Death Goddess’ temple and prayed for the Crooked Warden’s aid in maintaining the Verrari accent he had too rarely practiced in recent months. He knelt down, to make himself seem more pathetic.

After a few minutes, there was a click, and the door slid open a fraction of an inch. An initiate, in unadorned black robes and a simple silver mask, so familiar to Jean, stared down at him.

“My name is Tavrin Callas,” said Jean. “I require your aid.”

“Are you dying?” asked the initiate. “We can do little for those still in good health. If you require food and succor, I would suggest the House of Perelandro, although there seem to be … difficulties, this evening.”

“I’m not dying, and I do require food and succor. I am a bound servant of the Lady Most Kind, an initiate of the Fifth Inner Mystery.”

Jean had judged this lie carefully; the fourth rank of the order of Aza Guilla was full priesthood. The fifth would be a realistic level for someone assigned to courier important business from city to city. Any higher rank, and he would be forced to deal with senior priests and priestesses who should have heard of him.

“I was dispatched from Tal Verrar to Jeresh on the business of our order, but along the way my ship was taken by Jeremite raiders. They took my robes, my seals of office, my papers, and my Sorrowful Visage.”

“What?” The initiate, a girl, bent down to help Jean up. She was a quarter of his weight, and the effort was slightly comical. “They dared interfere with an envoy of the Lady?”

“The Jeremites do not keep the faith of the Twelve, little sister,” said Jean, who allowed himself to be dragged up to his knees. “They delight in tormenting the pious. I was chained to an oar for many long days. Last night, the galley that captured me weighed anchor in Camorr Bay; I was assigned to dumping chamber pots over the side while the officers went ashore to debauch themselves. I saw the fins of our Dark Brothers in the water; I prayed to the Lady and seized my opportunity.”

One thing the brothers and sisters of Aza Guilla rarely advertised to outsiders (especially in Camorr) was their belief that sharks were beloved of the Goddess of Death, and that their mysterious comings and goings and their sudden brutal attacks were a perfect encapsulation of the nature of the Lady Most Kind. Sharks were powerful omens to the silver-masked priesthood. The High Proctor of Revelation House had not been joking with his suggestion that Jean feel free to swim in the ocean after dark. Only the faithless, it was said, would be attacked in the waters beneath Revelation House.

“The Dark Brothers,” said the initiate with rising excitement. “And did they aid you in your escape?”

“You mustn’t think of it as aid,” said Jean, “for the Lady does not aid, she allows. And so it is with the Dark Brothers. I dove into the water and felt their presence around me; I felt them swimming beneath my feet, and I saw their fins cutting the surface of the water. My captors screamed that I was mad; when they saw the Brothers, they assumed that I was soon to be devoured, and they laughed. I laughed, too—when I crawled up onto the shore, unharmed.”

“Praise the Lady, Brother.”

“I do, I have, and I shall,” said Jean. “She has delivered me from our enemies; she has given me a second chance to fulfill my mission. I pray, take me to the steward of your temple. Let me meet with your Father or Mother Divine. I need only a Visage, and robes, and a room for several nights while I put my affairs in order.”

3

“WASN’T THAT the name you apprenticed under,” said Locke, “all those years ago?”

“It was indeed.”

“Well, won’t they send messages? Won’t they make inquiries and find out that Tavrin Callas was moved by divine curiosity to fling himself off a cliff?”

“Of course they will,” said Jean. “But it’ll take weeks to send one and get a reply … and I don’t mean to keep the disguise for quite that long. Besides, it’ll be a bit of fun for them. When they eventually discover Callas is supposed to be dead, they can proclaim all sorts of visions and miracles. A manifestation from beyond the shadelands, as it were.”

“A manifestation straight from the ass of a magnificent liar,” said Locke. “Well done, Jean.”

“I suppose I just know how to talk to death priests. We all have our little gifts.”

“I say,” interrupted Ibelius, “is this wise? This … flaunting of the robes of office of the priests of the Death Goddess herself? Tweaking the nose of … of the Lady Most Kind?” Ibelius touched his eyes with both hands, then his lips, and then entwined his fingers over his heart.

“If the Lady Most Kind wished to take offense,” said Jean, “she has had ample opportunity to crush me flatter than gold leaf for my presumptions.”

“Furthermore,” said Locke, “Jean and I are sworn into the divine service of the Benefactor, Father of Necessary Pretexts. Do you hold with the Crooked Warden, Master Ibelius?”

“It never hurts to have a care, in my experience. Perhaps I do not light hearth candles or give coin, but … I do not speak unkindly of the Benefactor.”

“Well,” said Locke, “our mentor once told us that the initiates of the Benefactor are strangely immune to consequences when they find they must pass as members of other priesthoods.”

“Made to feel strangely welcome, I’d say,” added Jean. “And, in the present circumstances, there are precious few practical disguises for a man of my size.”

“Ah. I do see your point, Jean.”

“It seems that the Death Goddess has been very busy of late,” said Locke, “with a great many people other than ourselves. I’m quite awake now, Jean, and very comfortable, Master Ibelius. No need to get up—I’m quite positive my pulse is right where I left it, safe inside my wrist. What else can you tell me, Jean?”

“The situation is tense and bloody, but I’d say Capa Raza’s carried it. Word’s out that all of us are dead, except myself, with that pretty price on my head. Supposedly, we refused to swear allegiance to Raza and tried to fight back on Barsavi’s behalf, and were justly slain in the process. All the other garristas are sworn; Raza didn’t wait three days before he hit. The most recalcitrant got their throats slit tonight; five or six of them. Happened a few hours ago.”

“Gods. Where do you hear this from?”

“Some from Ibelius, who can get around a bit provided he keeps his head down. Some from ministering. I happened to be in the Wooden Waste when a lot of people suddenly turned up needing death prayers.”

“The Right People are in Raza’s pockets, then.”

“I’d say so. They’re getting used to the situation. Everyone’s like to pull knives at the drop of a pin or the bite of a mosquito, but he’s got them coming round. He’s operating out of the Floating Grave, same as Barsavi did. He’s keeping most of his promises. It’s hard to argue with stability.”

“And what about our … other concern?” Locke made the hand gesture for Thorn of Camorr. “Heard anything about that? Any, ah, cracks in the facade?”

“No,” whispered Jean. “Seems like Raza was content to kill us off as sneak thieves and leave us that way.”

Locke sighed in relief.

“But there’s other strangeness afoot,” said Jean. “Raza hauled in about half a dozen men and women last night, from different gangs and different districts. Publicly named them as agents of the Spider.”

“Really? You think they were, or is it another damn scheme of some sort?”

“I think it’s likely they were,” said Jean. “I got the names from Ibelius, and I had a good long ponder, and there’s just nothing linking them all. Nothing that signifies to me, anyway. So, Raza spared their lives, but exiled them. Said they had a day to put their affairs in order and leave Camorr for good.”

“Interesting. I wish I knew what it meant.”

“Maybe nothing, for once.”

“That would certainly be pleasant.”

“And the plague ship, Master Lamora!” Ibelius spoke up eagerly. “A singular vessel. Jean has neglected to speak of it so far.”

“Plague ship?”

“A black-hulled vessel from Emberlain; a sleek little piece of business. Beautiful as all hell, and you know I barely know which part of a ship goes in the water.” Jean scratched his stubble-shadowed chin before continuing. “It pulled into plague anchorage the very night that Capa Raza gave Capa Barsavi his own teeth lessons.”

“That’s a very interesting coincidence.”

“Isn’t it? The gods do love their omens. Supposedly, there’s twenty or thirty dead already. But here’s the very odd part. Capa Raza has assumed responsibility for the charitable provisioning.”

“What?”

“Yes. His men escort the proceedings down to the docks; he’s giving coin to the Order of Sendovani for bread and meat. They’re filling in for the Order of Perelandro since, well, you know.”

“Why the hell would his men escort food and water down to the docks?”

“I was curious about that myself,” said Jean. “So last night I tried to poke around a bit, in my official priestly capacity, you see. It’s not just food and water they’re sending out.”

4

THE SOFTEST rain was falling, little more than a warm wet kiss from the sky, on the night of Throne’s Day—the night following the ascension of Capa Raza. An unusually stocky priest of Aza Guilla, with his wet robes fluttering in the breeze, stood staring out at the plague ship moored in Camorr Bay. By the yellow glow of the ship’s lamps, it seemed that the priest’s mask glowed golden bronze.

A decrepit little boat was bobbing in the gentle water beside the very longest dock that jutted out from the Dregs; the boat, in turn, had a rope leading out to the plague ship. The Satisfaction, anchored out at the edge of bow-shot, was looking strangely skeletal with its sails tightly furled. A few shadowy men could be seen here and there on the ship’s deck.

On the dock, a small team of burly stevedores was unloading the contents of a donkey-cart into the little boat, under the watch of half a dozen cloaked men and women, obviously armed. No doubt the entire operation could be seen by looking-glass from any of the guard stations surrounding Old Harbor. While most of those stations were still manned (and would stay that way, as long as the plague ship remained), not one of them would much care what was sent out to the ship, provided nothing at all was sent back.

Jean, on the other hand, was very curious about Capa Raza’s sudden interest in the welfare of the poor seafarers from Emberlain.

“Look, best just turn right around and get your ass back … oh. Ah, beg pardon, Your Holiness.”

Jean took a moment to savor the obvious disquiet on the faces of the men and women who turned at his approach; they seemed like tough lads and lasses, proper bruisers, seasoned in giving and taking pain. Yet the sight of his Sorrowful Visage made them look as guilty as children caught hovering too close to the honey crock.

He didn’t recognize any of them; that meant they were almost certainly part of Raza’s private gang. He tried to size them up with a glance, looking for anything incongruous or unusual that might shed light on their point of origin, but there was very little. They wore a great deal of jewelry; earrings, mostly—seven or eight of them per ear in one young woman’s case. That was a fashion more nautical than criminal, but it still might not mean anything.

“I merely came to pray,” said Jean, “for the intercession of the Lady Most Kind with those unfortunates out there on the water. Pay me no heed, and do continue with your labors.”

Jean encouraged them by putting his back mostly to the gang of laborers; he stood staring out at the ship, listening very carefully to the sounds of the work going on beside him. There were grunts of lifting and the tread of footfalls; the creaking of weathered, water-eaten boards. The donkey-cart had looked to be full of little sacks, each about the size of a one-gallon wineskin. For the most part, the crew handled them gingerly, but after a few minutes—

“Gods damn it, Mazzik!” There was a strange clattering, clinking noise as one of the sacks hit the dock. The overseer of the labor gang immediately wrung his hands and looked over at Jean. “I, uh, begging your pardon, Your Holiness. We, uh, we swore … we promised we would, uh, see these supplies safely to the plague ship.”

Jean turned slowly and let the man have the full, drawn-out effect of his faceless regard. Then he nodded, ever so slightly. “It is a penitent thing you do. Your master is most charitable to undertake the work that would ordinarily fall to the Order of Perelandro.”

“Yeah, uh … that really was too bad. Quite the, uh, tragedy.”

“The Lady Most Kind tends the mortal garden as she will,” said Jean, “and plucks what blossoms she will. Don’t be angry with your man. It’s only natural, to be discomfited in the presence of something … so unusual.”

“Oh, the plague ship,” said the man. “Yeah, it, uh, gives us all the creeps.”

“I shall leave you to your work,” said Jean. “Call for us at the House of Aza Guilla if the men aboard that ship should chance to need us.”

“Uh … sure. Th-thank you, Your Holiness.”

As Jean walked slowly along the dock, back toward shore, the crew finished loading the small boat, which was then unlashed from its mooring.

“Haul away,” bellowed one of the men at the end of the dock.

Slowly, the rope tautened, and then as the little black silhouettes aboard the Satisfaction picked up the rhythm of their work, the boat began to draw across Old Harbor toward the frigate at good speed, leaving a wavering silver wake on the dark water.

Jean strolled north into the Dregs, using the dignified pace of a priest to give himself time to roll one question over and over in his mind.

What could a ship full of dead and dying men reasonably do with bags of coins?

5

“BAGS OF coins? You’re absolutely sure?”

“It was cold spending metal, Locke. You may recall we had a whole vault full of it, until recently. I’d say we both have a pretty keen ear for the sound of coins on coins.”

“Hmmm. So unless the duke’s started minting full crowns in bread since I fell ill, those provisions are as charitable as my gods-damned mood.”

“I’ll keep nosing about and see if I can turn anything else up.”

“Good, good. Now we need to haul me out of this bed and get me working on something.”

“Master Lamora,” cried Ibelius, “you are in no shape to be out of bed, and moving around under your own volition! It is your own volition that has brought you to this enervated state.”

“Master Ibelius, with all due respect, now that I am conscious, if I have to crawl about the city on my hands and my knees to do something useful against Capa Raza, I will. I start my war from here.”

He heaved himself up off the sleeping pallet and tried to stand; once again, his head swam, his knees buckled, and he toppled to the ground.

“From there?” said Jean. “Looks damned uncomfortable.”

“Ibelius,” said Locke, “this is intolerable. I must be able to move about. I require my strength back.”

“My dear Master Lamora,” said Ibelius, reaching down to help pick Locke up. Jean took Locke’s other side, and the two of them soon had him back atop the sleeping pallet. “You are learning that what you require and what your frame may endure can be two very different things. If only I could have a solon for every patient who came to me speaking as you do! ‘Ibelius, I have smoked Jeremite powders for twenty years and now my throat bleeds, make me well!’ ‘Ibelius, I have been drunk and brawling all night, and now my eye has been cut out! Restore my vision, damn you.’ Why, let us not speak of solons, let us instead say a copper baron per such outburst … I could still retire to Lashain a gentleman!”

“I can do precious little harm to Capa Raza with my face planted in the dust of this hovel,” said Locke, his temper flaring once again.

“Then rest, sir; rest,” snapped Ibelius, his own color rising. “Have the grace not to lash your tongue at me for failing to carry the power of the gods about in my fingertips! Rest, and regain your strength. Tomorrow, when it is safe to move about, I shall bring you more food; a restored appetite will be a welcome sign. With food and rest, you may achieve an acceptable level of vigor in but a day or two. You cannot expect to skip lightly away from what you’ve endured. Have patience.”

Locke sighed. “Very well. I just … I ache to be about the business of keeping Capa Raza’s reign short.”

“And I yearn to have you about it as well, Master Lamora.” Ibelius removed his optics and polished them against his tunic. “If I thought you could slay him now, with little more strength in you than a half-drowned kitten, why, I’d put you in a basket and carry you to him myself. But that is not the case, and no poultice in my books of physik could make it so.”

“Listen to Master Ibelius, Locke, and quit sulking.” Jean gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Look on this as a chance to exercise your mind. I’ll gather what further information I can, and I’ll be your strong arm. You give me a plan to trip that fucker up and send him to hell. For Calo, Galdo, and Bug.”

6

BY THE next night, Locke had recovered enough of his strength to pace about the room under his own power. His muscles felt like jelly, and his limbs moved as though they were being controlled from a very great distance—the messages transmitted by heliograph, perhaps, before being translated into movements of joint and sinew. But he no longer fell on his face when he stood up, and he’d eaten an entire pound of roast sausages, along with half a loaf of bread slathered in honey, since Ibelius had brought the food in the late afternoon.

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke as the physiker counted off Locke’s pulse for what Locke suspected must be the thirteen thousandth time. “We are of a like size, you and I. Do you by chance have any coats in good care? With suitably matching breeches, vests, and gentleman’s trifles?”

“Ah,” said Ibelius, “I did have such things, after a fashion, but I fear … I fear Jean did not tell you …”

“Ibelius is living with us here for the time being,” said Jean. “Around the corner, in one of the villa’s other rooms.”

“My chambers, from which I conducted my business, well …” Ibelius scowled, and it seemed to Locke that a very fine fog actually formed behind his optics. “They were burned, the morning after Raza’s ascension. Those of us with blood ties to Barsavi’s slain men … we have not been encouraged to remain in Camorr! There have already been several murders. I can still come and go, if I’m careful, but … I have lost most of my finer things, such as they were. And my patients. And my books! Yet another reason for me to earnestly desire that some harm should befall Raza.”

“Damnation,” said Locke. “Master Ibelius, might I beg just a few minutes alone with Jean? What we have to discuss is … well, it is of the utmost privacy, and for very good reason. You have my apologies.”

“Hardly necessary, sir, hardly necessary.” Ibelius rose from his seat and brushed plaster dust from his waistjacket. “I shall conceal myself outside, until required. The night air will be invigorating for the actions of the capillaries; it will quite restore the full flush of my balanced humors.”

When he had gone, Locke ran his fingers through his greasy hair and groaned. “Gods, I could do with a bath, but right now I’d take standing in the rain for half an hour. Jean, we need resources to take on Raza. The fucker took forty-five thousand crowns from us; here we sit with ten. I need to kick the Don Salvara game back into life, but I’m deathly afraid it’s in tatters, what with me being out of it for these past few days.”

“I doubt it,” said Jean. “I spent some coin the day before you woke up for a bit of stationery and some ink. I sent a note to the Salvaras by courier, from Graumann, stating that you’d be handling some very delicate business for a few days and might not be around.”

“You did?” Locke stared at him like a man who’d gone to the gallows only to have a pardon and a sack of gold coins handed to him at the last minute. “You did? Gods bless your heart, Jean. I could kiss you, but you’re as covered in muck as I am.”

Locke circled around the room furiously, or as close to furiously as he could manage, still jerking and stumbling as he was. Hiding in this damned hovel, suddenly torn away from the advantages he’d taken for granted for many years—no cellar, no vault full of coins, no Wardrobe, no Masque Box … no gang. Raza had taken everything.

Packed up with the coins from the vault had been a packet of papers and keys, wrapped in oilcloth. Those papers were documents of accounts at Meraggio’s countinghouse for Lukas Fehrwight, Evante Eccari, and all the other false identities the Gentlemen Bastards had planted over the years. There were hundreds of crowns in those accounts, but without the documents, they were beyond mortal reach. In that packet, as well, were the keys to the Bowsprit Suite at the Tumblehome Inn, where extra clothing suitable to Lukas Fehrwight was neatly set out in a cedar-lined closet … locked away behind a clockwork box that no lock-charmer with ten times the skill Locke had ever possessed could tease open.

“Damn,” said Locke. “We can’t get to anything. We need money, and we can get that from the Salvaras, but I can’t go to them like this. I need gentleman’s clothes, rose oil, trifles. Fehrwight has to look like Fehrwight, and I can’t conjure him for ten crowns.”

Indeed, the clothes and accessories he’d worn when dressed as the Vadran merchant had easily come to forty full crowns—not the sort of sum he could simply tease out of pockets on the street. Also, the few tailors that catered to appropriately rarefied tastes had shops like fortresses, in the better parts of the city, where the yellowjackets prowled not in squads but in battalions.

“Son of a bitch,” said Locke, “but I am displeased. It all comes down to clothes. Clothes, clothes, clothes. What a ridiculous thing to be restrained by.”

“You can have the ten crowns, for what it’s worth. We can eat off the silver for a long time.”

“Well,” said Locke, “that’s something.” He heaved himself back down on the sleeping pallet and sat with his chin resting on both of his hands. His eyebrows and his mouth were turned down, in the same expression of aggrieved concentration Jean remembered from their years as boys. After a few minutes, Locke sighed and looked up at Jean.

“If I’m fit to move, I suppose I’ll take seven or eight crowns and go out on the town tomorrow, then.”

“Out on the town? You have a plan?”

“No,” said Locke. “Not even a speck of one. Not the damnedest idea.” He grinned weakly. “But don’t all of my better schemes start like this? I’ll find an opening, somehow … and then I suppose I’ll be rash.”

INTERLUDE

The White Iron Conjurers

It is said in Camorr that the difference between honest and dishonest commerce is that when an honest man or woman of business ruins someone, they don’t have the courtesy to cut their throat to finish the affair.

This is, in some respects, a disservice to the traders, speculators, and money-lenders of Coin-Kisser’s Row, whose exertions over the centuries have helped to draw the Therin city-states (all of them, not merely Camorr) up out of the ashes of the collapse of the Therin Throne and into something resembling energetic prosperity … for certain fortunate segments of the Therin population.

The scale of operations on Coin-Kisser’s Row would set the minds of most small shopkeepers spinning. A merchant might move two stones on a counting-board in Camorr; sealed documents are then dispatched to Lashain, where four galleons crewed by three hundred souls take sail for the far northern port of Emberlain, their holds laden with goods that beggar description. Hundreds of merchant caravans are embarking and arriving across the continent on any given morning, on any given day, all of them underwritten and itemized by well-dressed men and women who weave webs of commerce across thousands of miles while sipping tea in the back rooms of countinghouses.

But there are also bandits, warned to be in places at certain times, to ensure that a caravan flying a certain merchant’s colors will vanish between destinations. There are whispered conversations, recorded in no formal minutes, and money that changes hands with no formal entry in any ledger. There are assassins, and black alchemy, and quiet arrangements made with gangs. There is usury and fraud and insider speculation; there are hundreds of financial practices so clever and so arcane that they do not yet have common names—manipulations of coin and paper that would have Bondsmagi bowing at the waist in recognition of their devious subtlety.

Trade is all of these things, and in Camorr, when one speaks of business practices fair or foul, when one speaks of commerce on the grandest scale, one name leaps to mind above and before all others—the Meraggio.

Giancana Meraggio is the seventh in his line; his family has owned and operated its countinghouse for nearly two and a half centuries. But in a sense the first name isn’t important; it is always simply the Meraggio at Meraggio’s. “The Meraggio” has become an office.

The Meraggio family made its original fortune from the sudden death of the popular Duke Stravoli of Camorr, who died of an ague while on a state visit to Tal Verrar. Nicola Meraggio, trader-captain of a relatively fast brig, outraced all other news of the duke’s death back to Camorr, where she expended every last half-copper at her command to purchase and control the city’s full stock of black mourning crepe. When this was resold at extortionate prices so the state funeral could take place in proper dignity, she sank some of the profits into a small coffeehouse on the canal-side avenue that would eventually be called (thanks largely to her family) Coin-Kisser’s Row.

As though it were an outward manifestation of the family’s ambitions, the building has never remained one size for very long. It expands suddenly at irregular intervals, consuming nearby structures, adding lodges and stories and galleries, spreading its walls like a baby bird slowly pushing its unhatched rivals from the nest.

The early Meraggios made their names as active traders and speculators; they were men and women who loudly proclaimed their ability to squeeze more profit from investors’ funds than any of their rivals could. The third Meraggio of note, Ostavo Meraggio, famously sent out a gaily decorated boat each morning to throw fifty gold tyrins into the deepest part of Camorr Bay; he did this every day without fail for a complete year. “I can do this and still have more fresh profit at the end of any given day than any one of my peers,” he boasted.

The later Meraggios shifted the family’s emphasis from investing coin to hoarding, counting, guarding, and loaning it. They were among the first to recognize the stable fortunes that could be had by becoming facilitators of commerce rather than direct participants. And so the Meraggio now sits at the heart of a centuries-old financial network that has effectively become the blood and sinews of the Therin city-states; his signature on a piece of parchment can carry as much weight as an army in the field or a squadron of warships on the seas.

Not without reason is it sometimes said that in Camorr there are two dukes—Nicovante, the Duke of Glass, and Meraggio, the Duke of White Iron.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ORCHIDS AND ASSASSINS

1

LOCKE LAMORA STOOD before the steps of Meraggio’s Countinghouse the next day, just as the huge Verrari water-clock inside the building’s foyer chimed out the tenth hour of the morning. A sun shower was falling; gentle hot rain blown in beneath a sky that was mostly blue-white and clear. Traffic on the Via Camorrazza was at a high ebb, with cargo barges and passenger boats dueling for water space with the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for battlefield maneuvers.

One of Jean’s crowns had been broken up to furnish Locke (who still wore his gray hair and a false beard, trimmed down now to a modest goatee) with acceptably clean clothing in the fashion of a courier or scribe. While he certainly didn’t look like a man of funds, he was the very picture of a respectable employee.

Meraggio’s Countinghouse was a four-story hybrid of two hundred years’ worth of architectural fads; it had columns, arched windows, facades of stone and lacquered wood alike, and external sitting galleries both decorative and functional. All these galleries were covered with silk awnings in the colors of Camorr’s coins—brownish copper, yellowish gold, silver-gray, and milky white. There were a hundred Lukas Fehrwights in sight even outside the place; a hundred men of business in lavishly tailored coats. Any one of their ensembles was worth five years of pay to a common artisan or laborer.

And if Locke set an unkind finger on so much as a coat sleeve, Meraggio’s house guards would boil out the doors like bees from a shaken hive. It would be a race between them and the several squads of city watchmen pacing this side of the canal—the winner would get the honor of knocking his brains out through his ears with their truncheons.

Seven white iron crowns, twenty silver solons, and a few coppers jingled in Locke’s coin purse. He was completely unarmed. He had only the vaguest idea of what he would do or say if his very tentative plan went awry.

“Crooked Warden,” he whispered, “I’m going into this countinghouse, and I’m going to come out with what I need. I’d like your aid. And if I don’t get it, well, to hell with you. I’ll come out with what I need anyway.”

Head high, chin out, he began to mount the steps.

2

“PRIVATE MESSAGE for Koreander Previn,” he told the guards on duty just inside the foyer as he ran a hand through his hair to sweep some of the water out of it. There were three of them, dressed in maroon velvet coats, black breeches, and black silk shirts; their gold-gilded buttons gleamed, but the grips on the long fighting knives and clubs sheathed at their belts were worn from practice.

“Previn, Previn …,” muttered one of the guards as he consulted a leather-bound directory. “Hmmm. Public gallery, fifty-five. I don’t see anything about him not receiving walk-ins. You know where you’re going?”

“Been here before,” said Locke.

“Right.” The guard set down the directory and picked up a slate, which served as a writing board for the parchment atop it; the guard then plucked a quill from an inkwell on a little table. “Name and district?”

“Tavrin Callas,” said Locke. “North Corner.”

“You write?”

“No, sir.”

“Just make your mark there, then.”

The guard held out the slate while Locke scratched a big black X next to TEVRIN KALLUS. The guard’s handwriting was better than his spelling.

“In with you, then,” said the guard.

The main floor of Meraggio’s Countinghouse—the public gallery—was a field of desks and counters, eight across and eight deep. Each heavy desk had a merchant, a money-changer, a lawscribe, a clerk, or some other functionary seated behind it; the vast majority also had clients sitting before them, talking earnestly or waiting patiently or arguing heatedly. The men and women behind those desks rented them from Meraggio’s; some took them every working day of the week, while others could only afford to alternate days with partners. Sunlight poured down on the room through long clear skylights; the gentle patter of rain could be heard mingled with the furious babble of business.

On either side, four levels of brass-railed galleries rose up to the ceiling. Within the pleasantly darkened confines of these galleries, the more powerful, wealthy, and established business-folk lounged. They were referred to as members of Meraggio’s, though the Meraggio shared no actual power with them, but merely granted them a long list of privileges that set them above (both literally and figuratively) the men and women at work on the public floor.

There were guards in every corner of the building, relaxed but vigilant. Dashing about here and there were waiters in black jackets, black breeches, and long maroon waist-aprons. There was a large kitchen at the rear of Meraggio’s, and a wine cellar that would have done any tavern proud. The affairs of the men and women at the countinghouse were often too pressing to waste time going out or sending out for food. Some of the private members lived at the place, for all intents and purposes, returning to their homes only to sleep and change clothes, and then only because Meraggio’s closed its doors shortly after Falselight.

Moving with calm self-assurance, Locke found his way to the public gallery desk marked “55.” Koreander Previn was a lawscribe who’d helped the Sanzas set up the perfectly legitimate accounts of Evante Eccari several years previously. Locke remembered him as having been a near match for his own size; he prayed to himself that the man hadn’t developed a taste for rich food in the time since.

“Yes,” said Previn, who thankfully remained as trim as ever, “how can I help you?”

Locke considered the man’s loosely tailored, open-front coat; it was pine green with yellow-gold trimmings on the flaring purple cuffs. The man had a good eye for fashionable cuts and was apparently as blind as a brass statue when it came to colors.

“Master Previn,” said Locke, “my name is Tavrin Callas, and I find myself possessed of a very singular problem, one that you may well be able to lay to rest—though I must warn you it is somewhat outside the purview of your ordinary duties.”

“I’m a lawscribe,” said Previn, “and my time is usually measured, when I am sitting with a client. Do you propose to become one?”

“What I propose,” said Locke, “would put no fewer than five full crowns in your pocket, perhaps as early as this afternoon.” He passed a hand over the edge of Previn’s desk and caused a white iron crown to appear there by legerdemain; his technique might have been a little bit shaky, but Previn was apparently unacquainted with the skill, for his eyebrows rose.

“I see. You do have my attention, Master Callas,” said Previn.

“Good, good. I hope that I shall shortly have your earnest cooperation, as well. Master Previn, I am a representative of a trade combine that I would, in all honor, prefer not to name. Although I am Camorri-born, I live and work out of Talisham. I am scheduled tonight to dine with several very important contacts, one of them a don, to discuss the business matter I have been sent to Camorr to see through. I, ah … this is most embarrassing, but I fear I have been the victim of a rather substantial theft.”

“A theft, Master Callas? What do you mean?”

“My wardrobe,” said Locke. “All of my clothing, and all of my belongings, were stolen while I slept. The tavern-master, why, confound the bastard, he claims that he can bear no responsibility for the crime, and he insists I must have left my door unlocked!”

“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.…

3

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.”

“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.…”

4

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.”

Locke led the way back to the countinghouse, with Benjavier sobbing but quiescent. Locke strolled into the receiving room, right past the startled service-door guard, and bellowed, “Clear this room. Now.”

A few of the lounging waiters looked as though they might offer argument, but the sight of Benjavier, half-dressed and firmly held by the two guards, seemed to convince them that something was deeply amiss. They scuttled from the room, and Locke turned to the guards.

“Hold him here,” said Locke. “I’m going to fetch Master Meraggio; we’ll return in a few moments. This room is to stay clear until we return. Let the waiters take their ease somewhere else.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” The service-door guard poked his head into the receiving room.

“If you value your job,” said Locke, “keep your eyes out there in that alley, and don’t let anyone else in. Meraggio’s going to be down here soon, and he’s going to be in a mood, so it’d be best not to catch his attention.”

“I think he’s right, Laval,” said one of the guards holding Benjavier.

“Uh … sure, sure.” The service-door guard vanished.

“As for you,” said Locke, stepping close to Benjavier, “like I said, it’s nothing personal. Can I give you a bit of advice? Don’t play games. You can’t lie to Meraggio. None of us could, on our best day. Just confess, straight out. Be totally honest. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” sniffed Benjavier. “Yes, please, I’ll do anything.…”

“You don’t need to do anything. But if you hope for Master Meraggio to be at all lenient or sympathetic, then by the gods, you fucking confess and you do it in a hurry. No games, remember?”

“O-okay, yes, anything …”

“I shall return very shortly,” said Locke, and he spun on his heel and made for the door. As he left the receiving room, he allowed himself a brief smirk of pleasure; the guards pinning Benjavier now looked almost as frightened of him as the waiter did. It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery. He made his way through the service passages and kitchens, and back out onto the public floor.

“I say,” said Locke to the first guard he came across, “is Master Meraggio in the members’ galleries?” Locke waved his blank rolled parchment as though it were pressing business.

“Far as I know,” said the guard, “I think he’s up on the third level, taking reports.”

“Many thanks.”

Locke climbed the wide black iron stairs that led up to the first members’ gallery, nodding at the pair of guards at its base. His uniform seemed to be a sufficient guarantee of gallery privileges, but he kept the parchment clutched visibly in both hands, as an added assurance. He scanned the first-floor galleries, found no sign of his quarry, and continued upward.

He found Giancana Meraggio on the third floor, just as the guard had indicated. Meraggio stood staring out at the public gallery, abstractly, as he listened to a pair of finnickers behind him read from wax tablets figures that meant very little to Locke. Meraggio didn’t seem to keep a bodyguard near his person; apparently he felt safe enough within the bounds of his commercial kingdom. So much the better. Locke stepped right up beside him, relishing the arrogance of the gesture, and stood waiting to be noticed.

The finnickers and several nearby gallery members started muttering to themselves; after a few seconds Meraggio turned and let the full power of his storm-lantern glare rest on Locke. It took only a moment for that glare to shift from irritation to suspicion.

“You,” said Meraggio, “do not work for me.”

“I bring greetings from Capa Raza of Camorr,” said Locke, in a quiet and respectful voice. “I have a very serious matter to bring to your attention, Master Meraggio.”

The master of the countinghouse stared at him, then removed his optics and tucked them in a coat pocket. “So it’s true, then. I’d heard Barsavi had gone the way of all flesh.… And now your master sends a lackey. How kind of him. What’s his business?”

“His business is rather congruent with yours, Master Meraggio. I’m here to save your life.”

Meraggio snorted. “My life is hardly in danger, my improperly dressed friend. This is my house, and any guard here would cut your balls off with two words from me. If I were you, I’d start explaining where you got that uniform.”

“I purchased it,” said Locke, “from one of your waiters, a man by the name of Benjavier. I knew he was tractable, because he’s already in on the plot against your life.”

“Ben? Gods damn it—what proof have you?”

“I have several of your guards holding him down by your service entrance, rather half-dressed.”

“What do you mean you have several of my guards holding him? Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Capa Raza has given me the job of saving your life, Master Meraggio. I mean exactly what I said. And as for who I am, I happen to be your savior.”

“My guards and my waiters—”

“Are not reliable,” hissed Locke. “Are you blind? I didn’t purchase this at a secondhand clothier; I walked right in through your service entrance, offered a few crowns, and your man Benjavier was out of his uniform like that.” Locke snapped his fingers. “Your guard at the service door slipped me in for much less—just a solon. Your men are not made of stone, Master Meraggio; you presume much concerning their fidelity.”

Meraggio stared at him, color rising in his cheeks; he looked as though he was about to strike Locke. Instead, he coughed and held out his hands, palms up.

“Tell me what you came to tell me,” said Meraggio. “I’ll take my own counsel from there.”

“Your finnickers are crowding me. Dismiss them and give us a bit of privacy.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own—”

“I will tell you what to do, gods damn it,” Locke spat. “I am your fucking bodyguard, Master Meraggio. You are in deadly danger; minutes count. You already know of at least one compromised waiter and one lax guard; how much longer are you going to prevent me from keeping you alive?”

“Why is Capa Raza so concerned for my safety?”

“Your personal comfort likely means nothing to him,” said Locke. “The safety of the Meraggio, however, is of paramount importance. An assassination contract has been taken out against you, by Verrari commercial interests who wish to see Camorr’s fortunes diminished. Raza has been in power for four days; your assassination would shake the city to its foundations. The Spider and the city watch would tear Raza’s people apart looking for answers. He simply cannot allow harm to come to you. He must keep this city stable, as surely as the duke must.”

“And how does your master know all of this?”

“A gift from the gods,” said Locke. “Letters were intercepted while my master’s agents were pursuing an unrelated matter. Please dismiss your finnickers.”

Meraggio pondered for a few seconds, then grunted and waved his attendants away with an irritated wrist-flick. They backed off, wide-eyed.

“Someone very nasty is after you,” said Locke. “It’s a crossbow job; the assassin is Lashani. Supposedly, his weapons have been altered by a Karthani Bondsmage. He’s slippery as all hell, and he almost always hits the mark. Be flattered; we believe his fee is ten thousand crowns.”

“This is a great deal to swallow, Master …”

“My name isn’t important,” said Locke. “Come with me, down to the receiving room behind the kitchens. You can talk to Benjavier yourself.”

“The receiving room, behind the kitchens?” Meraggio frowned deeply. “As yet, I have no reason to believe that you yourself might not be trying to lure me there for mischief.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “you are wearing silk and cotton, not chain mail. I have had you at dagger-reach for several minutes now. If my master wished you dead, your entrails would be staining the carpet. You don’t have to thank me—you don’t even have to like me—but for the love of the gods, please accept that I have been ordered to guard you, and one does not refuse the orders of the Capa of Camorr.”

“Hmmm. A point. Is he as formidable a man as Barsavi was, this Capa Raza?”

“Barsavi died weeping at his feet,” said Locke. “Barsavi and all of his children. Draw your own conclusions.”

Meraggio slipped his optics back onto his nose, adjusted his orchid, and put his hands behind his back.

“We shall go to the receiving room,” he said. “You lead the way.”

5

BENJAVIER AND the guards alike looked terrified when Meraggio stormed into the receiving room behind Locke; Locke guessed they were more attuned to the man’s moods than he was, and what they saw on his face must have been something truly unpleasant.

“Benjavier,” said Meraggio, “Benjavier, I simply cannot believe it. After all I did for you—after I took you in and cleared up that mess with your old ship’s captain … I haven’t the words!”

“I’m sorry, Master Meraggio,” said the waiter, whose cheeks were wetter than the sloped roof of a house in a storm. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it.…”

“Didn’t mean anything by it? Is it true, what this man has been telling me?”

“Oh yes, gods forgive me, Master Meraggio, it’s true! It’s all true, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry … please believe me—”

“Be silent, gods damn your eyes!”

Meraggio stood, jaw agape, like a man who’d just been slapped. He looked around him as though seeing the receiving room for the first time, as though the liveried guards were alien beings. He seemed ready to stagger and fall backward; instead he whirled on Locke with his fists clenched.

“Tell me everything you know,” he growled. “By the gods, everyone involved in this affair is going to learn the length of my reach, I swear it.”

“First things first. You must live out the afternoon. You have private apartments above the fourth-floor gallery, right?”

“Of course.”

“Let us go there immediately,” said Locke. “Have this poor bastard thrown into a storeroom; surely you have one that would suffice. You can deal with him when this affair is over. For the now, time is not our friend.”

Benjavier burst into loud sobs once again, and Meraggio nodded, looking disgusted. “Put Benjavier in dry storage and bolt the door. You two, stand watch. And you—”

The service-door guard had been peeking his head around the corner again. He flushed red.

“Let another unauthorized person, so much as a small child, in through that door this afternoon, and I’ll have your balls cut out and hot coals put in their place. Is that clear?”

“P-perfectly clear, M-master Meraggio, sir.”

Meraggio turned and swept out of the room, and this time it was Locke at his heels, hurrying to keep up.

6

GIANCANA MERAGGIO’S fortified private apartments were of a kind with the man’s clothing: richly furnished in the most subtle fashion. The man clearly preferred to let materials and craftsmanship serve as his primary ornaments.

The steel-reinforced door clicked shut behind them, and the Verrari lockbox rattled as its teeth slid home within the wood. Meraggio and Locke were alone. The elegant miniature water-clock on Meraggio’s lacquered desk was just filling the bowl that marked the first hour of the afternoon.

“Now,” said Locke, “Master Meraggio, you cannot be out on the floor again until our assassin is sewn up. It is not safe; we expected the attack to come between the first and fourth hour of the afternoon.”

“That will cause problems,” said Meraggio. “I have business to look after; my absence on the floor will be noticed.”

“Not necessarily,” said Locke. “Has it not occurred to you that we are of a very similar build? And that one man, in the shadows of one of the upper-level galleries, might look very much like another?”

“You … you propose to masquerade as me?”

“In the letters we intercepted,” said Locke, “we received one piece of information that is very much to our advantage. The assassin did not receive a detailed description of your appearance. Rather, he was instructed to put his bolt into the only man in the countinghouse wearing a rather large orchid at the breast of his coat. If I were to be dressed as you, in your customary place in the gallery, with an orchid pinned to my coat—well, that bolt would be coming at me, rather than you.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’re saintly enough to be willing to put yourself in my place, if this assassin is as deadly as you say.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “begging your pardon, but I plainly haven’t made myself clear. If I don’t do this on your behalf, my master will kill me anyway. Furthermore, I am perhaps more adept at ducking the embrace of the Lady of the Long Silence than you might imagine. Lastly, the reward I have been promised for bringing this affair to a satisfactory close … Well, if you were in my shoes, you’d be willing to face a bolt as well.”

“What would you have me do, in the meantime?”

“Take your ease in these apartments,” said Locke. “Keep the doors tightly shut. Amuse yourself for a few hours; I suspect we won’t have long to wait.”

“And what happens when the assassin lets fly his bolt?”

“I am ashamed to have to admit,” said Locke, “that my master has at least a half dozen other men out on the floor of your countinghouse today—please don’t be upset. Some of your clients are not clients; they’re the sharpest, roughest lads Capa Raza has, old hands at fast, quiet work. When our assassin takes his shot, they’ll move on him. Between them and your own guards, he’ll never know what hit him.”

“And if you aren’t as fast as you think you are? And that bolt hits home?”

“Then I’ll be dead, and you’ll still be alive, and my master will be satisfied,” said Locke. “We swear oaths in my line of work as well, Master Meraggio. I serve Raza even unto death. So what’s it going to be?”

7

LOCKE LAMORA stepped out of Meraggio’s apartments at half past one dressed in the most excellent coat, vest, and breeches he had ever worn. They were the dark blue of the sky just before Falselight, and he thought the color suited him remarkably well. The white silk tunic was as cool as autumn river-water against his skin; it was fresh from Meraggio’s closet, as were the hose, shoes, cravats, and gloves. His hair was slicked back with rose oil; a little bottle of the stuff rested in his pocket, along with a purse of gold tyrins he’d lifted from Meraggio’s wardrobe drawers. Meraggio’s orchid was pinned at his right breast, still crisply fragrant; it smelled pleasantly like raspberries.

Meraggio’s finnickers had been appraised of the masquerade, along with a select few of his guards. They nodded at Locke as he strolled out into the fourth-floor members’ gallery, sliding Meraggio’s optics over his eyes. That was a mistake; the world went blurry. Locke cursed his own absentmindedness as he slipped them back into his coat—his old Fehrwight optics had been clear fakes, but of course Meraggio’s actually functioned for Meraggio’s eyes. A point to remember.

Casually, as though it were all part of his plan, Locke stepped onto the black iron stairs and headed downward. From a distance, he certainly resembled Meraggio well enough to cause no comment; when he reached the floor of the public gallery, he strolled through rapidly enough to gather only a few odd looks in his wake. He plucked the orchid from his breast and shoved it into a pocket as he entered the kitchen.

At the entrance to the dry-storage room, he waved to the two guards and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Master Meraggio wants you two watching the back door. Give Laval a hand. Nobody comes in, just as he said. On pain of, ah, hot coals. You heard the old man. I need a word with Benjavier.”

The guards looked at one another and nodded; Locke’s presumed authority over them now seemed to be so cemented that he supposed he could have strolled back here in ladies’ smallclothes and gotten the same response. Meraggio had probably used a few special agents in the past to whip his operations into shape; no doubt Locke was now riding on the coattails of their reputations.

Benjavier looked up as Locke entered the storage room and slid the door shut behind him. Sheer bewilderment registered on his face; he was so surprised when Locke threw a coin purse at him that the little leather bag struck him in the eye. Benjavier cried out and fell back against the wall, both hands over his face.

“Shit,” said Locke. “Beg pardon; you were meant to catch that.”

“What do you want now?”

“I came to apologize. I don’t have time to explain; I’m sorry I dragged you into this, but I have my reasons, and I have needs that must be met.”

“Sorry you dragged me into this?” Benjavier’s voice broke; he sniffed once and spat at Locke. “What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on? What does Master Meraggio think I did?”

“I don’t have time to sing you a tale. I put six crowns in that bag; some of it’s in tyrins, so you can break it down easier. Your life won’t be worth shit if you stay in Camorr; get out through the landward gates. Get my old clothes from the Welcoming Shade; here’s the key.”

This time Benjavier caught what was thrown at him.

“Now,” said Locke. “No more gods-damned questions. I’m going to grab you by the ear and haul you out into the alley; you make like you’re scared shitless. When we’re around the corner and out of sight, I’m going to let you go. If you have any love for life, you fucking run to the Welcoming Shade, get dressed, and get the hell out of the city. Make for Talisham or Ashmere; you’ve got more than a year’s pay there in that purse. You should be able to do something with it.”

“I don’t—”

“We go now,” said Locke, “or I leave you here to die. Understanding is a luxury; you don’t get to have it. Sorry.”

A moment later, Locke was hauling the waiter into the receiving room by the earlobe; this particular come-along was a painful hold well known to any guard or watchman in the city. Benjavier did a very acceptable job of wailing and sobbing and pleading for his life; the three guards at the service door looked on without sympathy as Locke hauled the waiter past them.

“Back in a few minutes,” said Locke. “Master Meraggio wants me to have a few more words with this poor bastard in private.”

“Oh, gods,” cried Benjavier, “don’t let him take me away! He’s going to hurt me … please!”

The guards chuckled at that, although the one who’d originally taken Locke’s solon didn’t seem quite as mirthful as the other two. Locke dragged Benjavier down the alley and around the corner; the moment they were cut off from the sight of the three guards, Locke pushed him away. “Go,” he said. “Run like hell. I give them maybe twenty minutes before they all figure out what a pack of asses they’ve been, and then you’ll have hard men after you in squads. Go!”

Benjavier stared at him, then shook his head and stumbled off toward the Welcoming Shade. Locke toyed with one of the ends of his false moustache as he watched the waiter go, and then he turned around and lost himself in the crowds. The sun was pouring down light and heat with its usual intensity, and Locke was sweating hard inside his fine new clothes, but for a few moments he let a satisfied smirk creep onto his face.

He strolled north toward Twosilver Green; there was a gentlemen’s trifles shop very near to the southern gate of the park, and there were other black alchemists in various districts who didn’t know him by sight. A bit of adhesive dissolver to get rid of the moustache, and something to restore his hair to its natural shade … With those things in hand, he’d be Lukas Fehrwight once again, fit to visit the Salvaras and relieve them of a few thousand more crowns.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THREE INVITATIONS

1

“OH, LUKAS!” DOÑA Sofia’s smile lit up her face when she met him at the door to the Salvara manor. Yellow light spilled out past him into the night; it was just past the eleventh hour of the evening. Locke had hidden himself away for most of the day following the affair at Meraggio’s, and had dispatched a note by courier to let the don and the doña know that Fehrwight would pay them a late visit. “It’s been days! We received Graumann’s note, but we were beginning to worry for our affairs—and for you, of course. Are you well?”

“My lady Salvara, it is a pleasure to see you once again. Yes, yes—I am very well, thank you for inquiring. I have met with some disreputable characters over the past week, but all will be for the best; one ship is secured, with cargo, and we may begin our voyage as early as next week in it. Another is very nearly in our grasp.”

“Well, don’t stand there like a courier on the stair; do come in. Conté! We would have refreshment. I know, fetch out some of my oranges, the new ones. We’ll be in the close chamber.”

“Of course, m’lady.” Conté stared at Locke with narrowed eyes and a grudging half-smile. “Master Fehrwight. I do hope the night finds you in good health.”

“Quite good, Conté.”

“How splendid. I shall return very shortly.”

Almost all Camorri manors had two sitting rooms near their entrance hall; one was referred to as the “duty chamber,” where meetings with strangers and other formal affairs would be held. It would be kept coldly, immaculately, and expensively furnished; even the carpets would be clean enough to eat off of. The “close chamber,” in contrast, was for intimate and trusted acquaintances and was traditionally furnished for sheer comfort, in a manner that reflected the personality of the lord and lady of the manor.

Doña Sofia led him to the Salvaras’ close chamber, which held four deeply padded leather armchairs with tall backs like caricatures of thrones. Where most sitting rooms would have had little tables beside each chair, this one had four potted trees, each just slightly taller than the chair it stood beside. The trees smelled of cardamon, a scent that suffused the room.

Locke looked closely at the trees; they were not saplings, as he had first thought. They were miniatures, somehow. They had leaves barely larger than his thumbnail; their trunks were no thicker than a man’s forearms, and their branches narrowed to the width of fingers. Within the twisting confines of its branches, each tree supported a small wooden shelf and a hanging alchemical lantern. Sofia tapped these to bring them to life, filling the room with amber light and green-tinted shadows. The patterns cast by the leaves onto the walls were at once fantastical and relaxing. Locke ran a finger through the soft, thin leaves of the nearest tree.

“Your handiwork is incredible, Doña Sofia,” he said. “Even for someone well acquainted with the work of our Planting Masters … We care mostly for function, for yields. You possess flair in abundance.”

“Thank you, Lukas. Do be seated. Alchemically reducing the frame of larger botanicals is an old art, but one I happen to particularly enjoy, as a sort of hobby. And, as you can see, these are functional pieces as well. But these are hardly the greatest wonders in the room—I see you’ve taken up our Camorri fashions!”

“This? Well, one of your clothiers seemed to believe he was taking pity on me; he offered such a bargain I could not in good conscience refuse. This is by far the longest I’ve ever been in Camorr; I decided I might as well attempt to blend in.”

“How splendid!”

“Yes, it is,” said Don Salvara, who strolled in fastening the buttons of his own coat cuffs. “Much better than your black Vadran prisoner’s outfits. Don’t get me wrong—they’re quite the thing for a northern clime, but down here they look like they’re trying to strangle the wearer. Now, Lukas, what’s the status of all the money we’ve been spending?”

“One galleon is definitely ours,” said Locke. “I have a crew and a suitable cargo; I’ll supervise the loading myself over the next few days. It will be ready to depart next week. And I have a promising lead on a second to accompany it, ready within the same time frame.”

“A promising lead,” said Doña Sofia, “is not quite the same as ‘definitely ours,’ unless I am very much mistaken.”

“You are not, Doña Sofia.” Locke sighed and attempted to look as though he were ashamed to bring up the issue once again. “There is some question … That is, the captain of the second vessel is being tempted by an offer to carry a special cargo to Balinel—a relatively long voyage but for a very decent price. He has, as yet, to commit to my offers.”

“And I suppose,” said Don Lorenzo as he took a seat beside his wife, “that a few thousand more crowns might need to be thrown at his feet to make him see reason?”

“I fear very much, my good Don Salvara, that shall be the case.”

“Hmmm. Well, we can speak of that in a moment. Here’s Conté; I should quite like to show off what my lady has newly accomplished.”

Conté carried three silver bowls on a brass platter; each bowl held half an orange, already sliced so the segments of flesh within the fruit could be drawn out with little two-pronged forks. Conté set a bowl, a fork, and a linen napkin down on the tree-shelf to Locke’s right. The Salvaras looked at him expectantly while their own orange halves were laid out.

Locke worked very hard to conceal any trepidation he might have felt; he took the bowl in one hand and fished out a wedge of orange flesh with the fork. When he set it on his tongue, he was surprised at the tingling warmth that spread throughout his mouth. The fruit was saturated with something alcoholic.

“Why, it’s been suffused with liquor,” he said, “something very pleasant. An orange brandy? A hint of lemon?”

“Not suffused, Lukas,” said Don Lorenzo with a boyish grin that had to be quite genuine. “These oranges have been served in their natural state. Sofia’s tree manufactures its own liquor and mingles it in the fruit.”

“Sacred Marrows,” said Locke. “What an intriguing hybrid! To the best of my knowledge, it has yet to be done with citrus.…”

“I only arrived at the correct formulation a few months ago,” said Sofia, “and some of the early growths were quite unfit for the table. But this one seems to have gone over well. Another few generations of tests, and I shall be very confident of its marketability.”

“I’d like to call it the Sofia,” said Don Lorenzo. “The Sofia orange of Camorr—an alchemical wonder that will make the vintners of Tal Verrar cry for their mothers.”

“I, for my part, should like to call it something else,” said Sofia, playfully slapping her husband on his wrist.

“The Planting Masters,” said Locke, “will find you quite as wondrous as your oranges, my lady. It is as I said: perhaps there is more opportunity in our partnership than any of us have foreseen. The way you seem to make every green thing around you malleable … I daresay that the character of the House of bel Auster for the next century could be shaped more by your touch than by our old Emberlain traditions.”

“You flatter me, Master Fehrwight,” said the doña. “But let us not count our ships before they’re in harbor.”

“Indeed,” said Don Lorenzo. “And on that note, I shall return us to business. Lukas, I fear I have unfortunate news for you. Unfortunate, and somewhat embarrassing. I have had … several setbacks in recent days. One of my upriver debtors has reneged on a large bill; several of my other projections have proven to be overly optimistic. We are, in short, not as fluid at the moment as any of us might hope. Our ability to throw a few thousand more crowns into our mutual project is very much in doubt.”

“Oh,” said Locke. “That is … that is, as you say, unfortunate.”

He slid another orange slice into his mouth and sucked at the sweet liquor, using it as an artificial stimulus to tilt the corners of his lips upward, quite against his natural inclination.

2

ON THE waterfront of the Dregs, a priest of Aza Guilla glided from shadow to shadow, moving with a slow and patient grace that belied his size.

The mist tonight was thin, the damp heat of the summer night especially oppressive. Streams of sweat ran down Jean’s face behind the silver mesh of his Sorrowful Visage. Camorri lore held that the weeks before the Midsummer-mark and the Day of Changes were always the hottest of the year. Out on the water, the now-familiar yellow lamps glimmered; shouts and splashes could be heard as the men aboard the Satisfaction hauled out another boat full of “charitable provisions.”

Jean doubted he could learn anything more about the items going out on those boats unless he did something more obvious, like attacking one of the loading crews—and that would hardly do. So tonight he’d decided to focus his attention on a certain warehouse about a block in from the docks.

The Dregs weren’t quite as far gone as Ashfall, but the place was well on its way. Buildings were falling down or falling sideways in every direction; the entire area seemed to be sinking down into a sort of swamp of rotted wood and fallen brick. Every year the damp ate a little more of the mortar between the district’s stones, and legitimate business fled elsewhere, and more bodies turned up loosely concealed under piles of debris—or not concealed at all.

While prowling in his black robes, Jean had noticed gangs of Raza’s men coming and going from the warehouse for several nights in a row. The structure was abandoned but not yet uninhabitable, as its collapsed neighbors were. Jean had observed lights burning behind its windows almost until dawn, and parties of laborers coming and going with heavy bags over their shoulders, and even a horse-cart or two.

But not tonight. The warehouse had previously been a hive of activity, and tonight it was dark and silent. Tonight it seemed to invite his curiosity, and while Locke was off sipping tea with the quality, Jean aimed to pry into Capa Raza’s business.

There were ways to do this sort of thing, and they involved patience, vigilance, and a great deal of slow walking. He went around the warehouse block several times, avoiding all contact with anyone on the street, throwing himself into whatever deep darkness was at hand and keeping his silver mask tucked under his arm to hide the glare. Given enough shadow, even a man Jean’s size could be stealthy, and he was certainly light enough on his feet.

Circling and sweeping, circling and sweeping; he established to his satisfaction that none of the roofs of nearby buildings held concealed watchers, and that there were no street-eyes either. Of course, he thought to himself as he pressed his back up against the southern wall of the warehouse, they could just be better than I am.

“Aza Guilla, have a care,” he mumbled as he edged toward one of the warehouse doors. “If you don’t favor me tonight, I’ll never be able to return this fine robe and mask to your servants. Just a consideration, humbly submitted.”

There was no lock on the door; in fact, it hung slightly ajar. Jean donned his silver mask again, then slipped his hatchets into his right hand and pushed them up the sleeve of his robe. He’d want them ready for use, but not quite visible, just in case he bumped into anyone who might still be awed by his vestments.

The door creaked slightly, and then he was into the warehouse, pressed up against the wall beside the door, watching and listening. The darkness was thick, crisscrossed by the overlying mesh of his mask. There was a strange smell in the air, above the expected smell of dirt and rotting wood—something like burnt metal.

He held his position, motionless, straining for several long minutes to catch any sound. There was nothing but the far-off creak and sigh of ships at anchor, and the sound of the Hangman’s Wind blowing out to sea. He reached beneath his robe with his left hand and drew out an alchemical light-globe, much like the one he’d carried beneath the Echo Hole. He gave it a series of rapid shakes, and it flared into incandescence.

By the pale white light of the globe he saw that the warehouse was one large open space. A pile of wrecked and rotted partitions against the far wall might have been an office at one time. The floor was hard-packed dirt, and here and there in corners or against walls were piles of debris, some under tarps.

Jean carefully adjusted the position of the globe, keeping it pressed close against his body so that it threw out light only in a forward arc. That would help to keep his activity unseen; he didn’t intend to spend more than a few minutes poking around in this place.

As he slowly paced toward the northern end of the warehouse, he became aware of another unusual odor, one that raised his hackles. Something had been dumped in this place and left to rot. Meat, perhaps … but the odor was sickly-sweet. Jean was afraid he knew what it was even before he found the bodies.

There were four of them, thrown under a heavy tarp in the northeastern corner of the building—three men and one woman. They were fairly muscular, dressed in undertunics and breeches, with heavy boots and leather gloves. This puzzled Jean until he peered at their arms and saw their tattoos. It was traditional, in Camorr, for journeymen artisans to mark their hands or arms with some symbol of their trade. Breathing through his mouth to avoid the stench, Jean shifted the bodies around until he could be sure of those symbols.

Someone had murdered a pair of glasswrights and a pair of goldsmiths. Three of the corpses had obvious stab wounds, and the fourth, the woman … she had a pair of raised purple welts on one cheek of her waxy, bloodless face.

Jean sighed and let the tarp settle back down on top of the bodies. As he did, his eye caught the glimmer of reflected light from the floor. He knelt down and picked up a speck of glass, a sort of flattened drop. It looked as though it had hit the ground in a molten state and cooled there. A brief flick of the light-globe showed him dozens of these little glass specks in the dirt around the tarp.

“Aza Guilla,” Jean whispered, “I stole these robes, but don’t hold it against these people. If I’m the only death-prayer they get, please judge them lightly, for the sorrow of their passing and the indignity of their resting place. Crooked Warden, if you could back that up somehow, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

There was a creak as the doors on the northern wall of the building were pushed open. Jean started to leap backward, but thought better of it; his light was no doubt already seen, and it would be best to play the dignified priest of Aza Guilla. His hatchets remained up his right sleeve.

The last people he expected to walk through the north door of the warehouse were the Berangias sisters.

Cheryn and Raiza wore oilcloaks, but the hoods were thrown back and their shark’s-teeth bangles gleamed by the light of Jean’s globe. Each of the sisters held a light-globe as well. They shook them, and a powerful red glare rose up within the warehouse, as though each woman were cupping fire in the palms of her hands.

“Inquisitive priest,” said one of the sisters. “A good evening to you.”

“Not the sort of place,” said the other, “where your order usually prowls without invitation.”

“My order is concerned with death in every form, and in every place.” Jean gestured toward the tarp with his light-globe. “There has been a foul act committed here; I was saying a death prayer, which is what every soul is due before it passes into the long silence.”

“Oh, a foul act. Shall we leave him to his business, Cheryn?”

“No,” said Raiza, “for his business has been curiously concerned with ours these past few nights, hasn’t it?”

“You’re right, Sister. Once or twice a-prowling, that we might excuse. But this priest has been persistent.”

“Unusually persistent.” The Berangias sisters were coming toward him, slowly, smiling like cats advancing on a crippled mouse. “On our docks and now in our warehouse …”

“Do you dare suggest,” said Jean, his heart racing, “that you intend to interfere with an envoy of the Lady of the Long Silence? Of Aza Guilla, the Goddess of Death itself?”

“Interfering’s what we do professionally, I’m afraid,” said the sister on his right. “We left the place open just in case you might want to stick your head in.”

“Hoped you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“And we know a thing or two about the Lady Most Kind ourselves.”

“Although our service to her is a bit more direct than yours.”

With that, red light gleamed on naked steel; each sister had drawn out a curved, arm-length blade—thieves’ teeth, just as Maranzalla had shown him so many years earlier. The Berangias twins continued their steady approach.

“Well,” said Jean, “if we’re already past the pleasantries, ladies, allow me to quit this masquerade.” Jean tossed his light-globe on the ground, reached up, pulled back his black hood, and slipped off his mask.

“Tannen!” said the sister on his right. “Well, holy shit. So you didn’t go out through the Viscount’s Gate after all.” The Berangias sisters halted, staring at him. Then they began circling to his left, moving in graceful unison, giving themselves more space to take action.

“You have some cheek,” said the other, “impersonating a priest of Aza Guilla.”

“Beg pardon? You were going to kill a priest of Aza Guilla.”

“Yes, well, you seem to have saved us from that particular blasphemy, haven’t you?”

“This is convenient!” said the other sister. “I never dreamed it’d be this easy.”

“Oh, whatever it is,” said Jean, “I guarantee it won’t be easy.”

“Did you like our work, in your little glass cellar?” The sister on the left spoke now. “Your two friends, the Sanza twins. Twins done in by twins, same wounds to the throat, same pose on the floor. Seemed appropriate.”

“Appropriate?” Jean felt new anger building like pressure at the back of his skull. He ground his teeth together. “Mark my words, bitch. I’ve been wondering how I’d feel when this moment finally came, and I have to say, I think I’m going to feel pretty fucking good.”

The Berangias sisters shrugged off their cloaks with nearly identical motions. As the oilcoth fluttered to the floor, they threw down their light-globes and drew out their other blades. Two sisters; four knives. They stared intently at Jean in the mingled red-and-white light and crouched, as they had a hundred times before crowds of screaming thousands at the Shifting Revel. As they had a hundred times before pleading victims in Capa Barsavi’s court.

“Wicked sisters,” said Jean, as he let the hatchets fall out of his right robe sleeve and into his hand, “I’d like you to meet the Wicked Sisters.”

3

“BUT DON’T take it too amiss, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia as she set her hollowed-out orange back down on her shelf. “We have a few possible remedies.”

“We might only be out of the necessary funds for a few days,” said Don Lorenzo. “I have other sources I can tap; I do have peers who would be good for the loan of a few thousand. I even have some old favors I can call in.”

“That … that is a relief, my lord and lady, quite a relief. I am pleased to hear that your … situation need not ruin our plan. And I wouldn’t call it embarrassing, not at all. If anyone knows about financial hardship, why, it would be the House of bel Auster.”

“I shall speak to several of my likely sources of a loan next Idler’s Day—which is, of course, the Day of Changes. Have you ever been to any formal celebration of the festival, Lukas?”

“I’m afraid not, Don Lorenzo. I have, previously, never been in Camorr at the Midsummer-mark.”

“Really?” Doña Sofia raised her eyebrows at her husband. “Why don’t we bring Lukas with us to the duke’s feast?”

“An excellent idea!” Don Lorenzo beamed at Locke. “Lukas, since we can’t leave until I’ve secured a few thousand more crowns anyway, why not be our guest? Every peer in Camorr will be there; every man and woman of importance from the lower city—”

“At least,” said Doña Sofia, “the ones that currently have the duke’s favor.”

“Of course,” said Lorenzo. “Do come with us. The feast will be held in Raven’s Reach; the duke opens his tower only on this one occasion every year.”

“My lord and lady Salvara, this is … quite an unexpected honor. But though I fear very much to refuse your hospitality, I also fear that it might possibly interfere with my ongoing work on our behalf.”

“Oh, come, Lukas,” said Lorenzo. “It’s four days hence; you said you’d be supervising loading the first galleon for the next few days. Take a rest from your labors and come enjoy a very singular opportunity. Sofia can show you around while I press some of my peers for the loans I need. With that money in hand, we should be able to set out just a few days after that, correct? Assuming you’ve told us of every possible complication?”

“Yes, my lord Salvara, the matter of the second galleon is the only complication we face other than your, ah, loss of fluidity. And, at any rate, even its cargo for Balinel will not be in the city until next week. Fortune and the Marrows may be favoring us once again.”

“It’s settled, then?” Doña Sofia linked hands with her husband and smiled. “You’ll be our guest at Raven’s Reach?”

“It’s accounted something of an honor,” confided the don, “to bring an unusual and interesting guest to the duke’s celebration. So we are eager to have you with us for several reasons.”

“If it would give you pleasure,” said Locke. “I fear that I am not much for celebrations, but I can set aside my work for a night to attend.”

“You won’t be sorry, Lukas,” said Doña Sofia. “I’m sure we’ll all think back very fondly on the feast when we begin our voyage.”

4

IN MANY ways, two was the worst possible number of multiple opponents in a close-quarters fight; it was nearly impossible to lead them into crowding and interfering with one another, especially if they were experienced at working together. And if anyone in Camorr was any good at fighting in tandem, it was the Berangias sisters.

Jean accounted his scant advantages as he twirled his hatchets and waited for one of the sisters to make the first move. He’d seen them in action at least a dozen times, at the Shifting Revel and in the Floating Grave. It might not do him much good, since he didn’t happen to be a shark, but it was something.

“We’ve heard that you’re supposed to be good,” said the sister on his left, and just as she spoke, the one on the right exploded forward, one knife out in a guard position and the other held low to stab. Jean sidestepped her lunge, blocked the thrusting knife with his left hatchet, and whipped the other one toward her eyes. Her second blade was already there; the hatchet rebounded off the studded handguard. She was as impossibly fast as he’d feared. So be it; he kicked out at her left knee, an easy trick he’d used to break a dozen kneecaps over the years.

Somehow, she sensed the blow coming and bent her leg to deflect it. It struck her calf, pushing her off balance but accomplishing little else. Jean disengaged his hatchets to swing at where she should be falling, but she turned her sideways fall into a whirlwind kick; she swiveled on her left hip faster than his eyes could follow, and her right leg whipped around in a blurred arc. That foot cracked against his forehead, right above his eyes, and the whole world shuddered.

Chasson. Of course. He could really learn to hate the art.

He stumbled backward; drilled instinct alone saved him from her follow-up—a straight thrust that should have punched through his solar plexus and buried her blade to the hilt. He swung his hatchets down and inward—a maneuver Don Maranzalla had jokingly referred to as the “crab’s claws”; he hooked her blade with his right-hand hatchet and yanked it sideways. That actually surprised her—Jean took advantage of her split-second hesitation to ram the tip of his other hatchet into the base of her neck. He didn’t have time for an actual swing, but he could give a pretty forceful poke. She stumbled back, coughing, and he suddenly had a few feet of space once again. He stepped back another yard. The wall of the warehouse was looming behind him, but at a range of scant inches those knives were greatly superior to his own weapons. He needed reach to swing.

The left-hand Berangias dashed forward as the one on the right faded back, and Jean swore under his breath. With his back to the wall they couldn’t try to take him from opposite sides, but he couldn’t run—and they could trade off attacks, one falling back to recover while the other sister continued to wear him down.

His temper rose again. Bellowing, he tossed both of his hatchets at his new opponent. That caught her by surprise. She sidestepped with speed that matched her sister, and the weapons whirled past on either side, one of them catching at her hair. But Jean hadn’t been in earnest with his gentle throw; he charged at her, hands outstretched—empty hands would do better against thieves’ teeth when opponents were close enough to kiss. The sister before him spread her blades again, confident of a quick kill, yet it was easy to underestimate Jean’s own speed if one hadn’t seen it up close before. His hands clamped down on her forearms. Putting his strength and mass to good use, he spread her arms forcefully; as expected, she raised one of her legs to give him a sharp kick.

Digging his fingers into the hard muscle of her forearms, keeping her blades firmly to the outside, he yanked as hard as he could. She flew forward, and with a smack that echoed in the warehouse, her nose met Jean’s forehead. Hot blood spattered; it was on his robes, but he hoped Aza Guilla might eventually forgive him that little indignity. Before his opponent could recover, Jean let her arms go, cupped her entire face in one of his hands, and pushed from the hip with all of his might, like a shot-putter at the Therin Throne games of old. She flew into her sister, who barely got her blades out of the way in time to avoid skewering her sibling, and the Berangias twins toppled against the tarp-covered pile of corpses.

Jean ran to the center of the warehouse floor, where his hatchets lay on the dirt. He picked them up, twirled them once, and quickly worked at the little clasp that held his robe together beneath the collar. While the sisters recovered themselves, Jean shrugged out of his robe and let it fall to the ground.

The Berangias twins advanced on him again, about ten feet apart, and now they looked distinctly upset. Gods, Jean thought, most men would take a broken nose as a sign to run like hell. But the sisters continued to bear down on him, malice gleaming in their dark eyes. The eerie red-and-white light was at their back, and it seemed to outline them in eldritch fire as they spread their blades for another pass at him.

At least he had room to maneuver now.

Without a word between them, the Berangias sisters took to their heels and rushed at him, four knives gleaming. It was their own professionalism that saved Jean this time. He knew before it happened that one would feint and one would strike home. The sister on his left, the one with the broken nose, attacked a split second before the one on his right. With his left-hand hatchet raised as a guard, he stepped directly into the path of the one on his left. The other sister, eyes wide in surprise, lunged at the space he’d just slipped out of, and Jean swung his right-hand hatchet in a backhand arc, ball first, that caught her directly atop her skull. There was a wet crack, and she hit the floor hard, knives falling from her nerveless fingers.

The remaining sister screamed, and Jean’s own mistake caught up with him at that moment; a feint can become a killing strike once more with very little effort. Her blades slashed out just as he was raising his right-hand hatchet once again; he caught and deflected one with his raised hatchet, but the other slid agonizingly across his ribs just beneath his right breast, laying open skin and fat and muscle. He gasped, and she kicked him in the stomach, staggering him. He toppled onto his back.

She was right on top of him, blood streaming down her face and neck, eyes full of white-hot hate. As she lunged down, he kicked out with both of his legs. The air exploded out of her lungs and she flew back, but there was a sharp pain in his right biceps, and a line of fire seemed to erupt on his left thigh. Damn, she’d had her blades in him when he pushed her back! She’d slashed open a ragged line along the top of his thigh, with his help. He groaned. This had to end quickly, or blood loss would do for him as surely as the blades of the surviving sister.

She was back on her feet already; gods, she was fast. Jean heaved himself up to his knees, feeling a tearing pain across his right ribs. He could feel warm wetness cascading down his stomach and his legs; that wetness was time, running out. She was charging at him again; red light gleamed on steel, and Jean made his last move.

His right arm didn’t feel strong enough for a proper throw, so he tossed his right-hand hatchet at her, underhand, directly into her face. It didn’t have the speed to injure, let alone kill, but she flinched for a second, and that was long enough. Jean whipped his left-hand hatchet sideways and into her right knee; it broke with the most satisfying noise Jean could recall hearing in his life. She staggered; a rapid yank and a backhand whirl, and his blade bit deep into the front of her other knee. Her blades came down at him then, and he threw himself sideways. Steel whistled just past his ears as its wielder toppled forward, unable to bear weight on her legs any longer. She screamed once again.

Jean rolled several times to his right—a wise decision. When he stumbled up to his feet, clutching at his right side, he saw the surviving sister dragging herself toward him, one blade still held tightly in her right hand.

“You’re bleeding hard, Tannen. You won’t live out the night, you fucking bastard.”

“That’s Gentleman Bastard,” he said. “And there’s a chance I won’t. But you know what? Calo and Galdo Sanza are laughing at you, bitch.”

He wound up with his left arm and let his remaining hatchet fly, a true throw this time, with all the strength and hatred he could put behind it. The blade struck home right between the Berangias sister’s eyes. With the most incredible expression of surprise on her face she fell forward and sprawled like a rag doll.

Jean wasted no time in reflection. He gathered his hatchets and threw on one of the sisters’ oilcloaks, putting up the hood. His head was swimming; he recognized all the signs of blood loss, which he’d had the misfortune to experience before. Leaving the bodies of the Berangias sisters in the light of the fallen glow-globes, he stumbled back out into the night. He would avoid the Cauldron, where some sort of trouble was sure to lurk, and make a straight run across the north of the Wooden Waste. If he could just make it to the Ashfall hovel, Ibelius would be there, and Ibelius would have some trick up his sleeves.

If the dog-leech attempted to use a poultice on him, however, Jean was likely to break his fingers.

5

IN HER solarium atop Amberglass tower, Doña Vorchenza spent the midnight hour in her favorite chair, peering at the evening’s notes. There were reports of the ongoing strife from the Gray King’s ascension to Barsavi’s seat; more thieves found lying in abandoned buildings with their throats slashed. Vorchenza shook her head; this mess was really the last thing she needed with the affair of the Thorn finally coming to a head. Raza had identified and exiled half a dozen of her spies among the gangs; that in itself was deeply troubling. None of them had been aware of one another, as agents. So either all of her agents were clumsier than she’d suspected, or Raza was fantastically observant. Or there was a breach in her trust at some level above the spies on the street.

Damnation. And why had the man exiled them, rather than slaying them outright? Was he trying to avoid antagonizing her? He’d certainly not succeeded. It was time to send him a very clear message of her own—to summon this Capa Raza to a meeting with Stephen, with forty or fifty blackjackets to emphasize her points.

The elaborate locks to her solarium door clicked, and the door slid open. She hadn’t been expecting Stephen to return this evening; what a fortunate coincidence. She could give him her thoughts on the Raza situation.…

The man that entered her solarium wasn’t Stephen Reynart.

He was a rugged man, lean-cheeked and dark-eyed; his black hair was slashed with gray at his temples, and he strolled into her most private chamber as though he belonged there. He wore a gray coat, gray breeches, gray hose, and gray shoes; his gloves and vest were gray, and only the silk neck-cloths tied casually above his chest had color; they were bloodred.

Doña Vorchenza’s heart hammered; she put a hand to her chest and stared in disbelief. Not only had the intruder managed to open the door, and done so without taking a crossbow bolt in the back, but there was another man behind him—a younger man, bright-eyed and balding, dressed in a similar gray fashion, with only the bright scarlet cuffs of his coat to set him apart.

“Who the hell are you?” she bellowed, and for a moment that age-weakened voice rose to something like its old power. She rose from her seat, fists clenched. “How did you get up here?”

“We are your servants, my lady Vorchenza; your servants come to pay you our proper respects at last. You must forgive us our previous discourtesy; things have been so busy of late in my little kingdom.”

“You speak as though I should know you, sir. I asked your name.”

“I have several,” said the older man, “but now I am called Capa Raza. This is my associate, who styles himself the Falconer. And as for how we came to your truly lovely solarium …”

He gestured to the Falconer, who held up his left hand, palm spread toward Doña Vorchenza. The coat sleeve fell away, revealing three thick black lines tattooed at his wrist.

“Gods,” Vorchenza whispered. “A Bondsmage.”

“Indeed,” said Capa Raza, “for which, forgive me, but his arts seemed the only way to ensure that your servants would haul us up here, and the only way to ensure we could enter your sanctum without disturbing you beforehand.”

“I am disturbed now,” she spat. “What is your meaning here?”

“It is past time,” said Raza, “for my associate and I to have a conversation with the duke’s Spider.”

“What are you speaking of? This is my tower; other than my servants, there is no one else here.”

“True,” said Capa Raza, “so there is no need to maintain your little fiction before us, my lady.”

“You,” said Doña Vorchenza coldly and levelly, “are greatly mistaken.”

“Those files behind you, what are they? Recipes? Those notes beside your chair—does Stephen Reynart give you regular reports on the cuts and colors of this year’s new dresses, fresh off the docks? Come, my lady. I have very unusual means of gathering information, and I am no dullard. I would construe any further dissembling on your part as a deliberate insult.”

“I regard your uninvited presence here,” said Doña Vorchenza after a moment of consideration, “as nothing less.”

“I have displeased you,” said Raza, “and for that I apologize. But have you any means to back that displeasure with force? Your servants sleep peacefully; your Reynart and all of your Midnighters are elsewhere, prying into my affairs. You are alone with us, Doña Vorchenza, so why not speak civilly? I have come to be civil, and to speak in earnest.”

She stared coldly at him for several moments, and then waved a hand at one of the solarium’s armchairs. “Have a seat, Master Revenge. I fear there’s no comfortable chair for your associate.”

“It will be well,” said the Falconer. “I’m very fond of writing desks.” He settled himself behind the little desk near the door, while Raza crossed the room and sat down opposite Doña Vorchenza.

“Hmmm. Revenge, indeed. And have you had it?”

“I have,” said Capa Raza cheerfully. “I find it’s everything it’s been made out to be.”

“You bore Capa Barsavi some grudge?”

“Ha! Some grudge, yes. It could be said that’s why I had his sons murdered while he watched, and then fed him to the sharks he so loved.”

“Old business between the two of you?”

“I have dreamed of Vencarlo Barsavi’s ruin for twenty years,” said Raza. “And now I’ve brought it about, and I’ve replaced him. I’m sorry if this affair has been … an inconvenience for you. But that is all that I am sorry for.”

“Barsavi was not a kind man,” said Vorchenza. “He was a ruthless criminal. But he was perceptive; he understood many things the lesser capas did not. The arrangement I made with him bore fruit on both sides.”

“And it would be a shame to lose it,” said Raza. “I admire the Secret Peace very much, Doña Vorchenza. My admiration for it is quite distinct from my loathing for Barsavi. I should like to see the arrangement continued in full. I gave orders to that effect, on the very night I took Barsavi’s place.”

“So my agents tell me,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But I must confess I had hoped to hear it in your own words before now.”

“My delay was unavoidable,” said Raza. “But there we are; I have terrible manners, to which I readily admit. Allow me to make it up to you.”

“How so?”

“I should greatly enjoy a chance to attend the duke’s Day of Changes feast; I am capable of dressing and acting rather well. I could be introduced as a gentleman of independent means—I assure you, no one in Raven’s Reach would recognize me. I gazed up at these towers as a boy in Camorr. I should like to pay my proper respects to the peers of Camorr just once. I would not come without gifts; I have something rather lavish in mind.”

“That,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “may be too much to ask. Our worlds, Capa Raza, are not meant to meet; I do not come to your thieves’ revels.”

“Yet your agents do,” he said cheerfully.

“No longer. Tell me, why did you order them exiled? The penalty for turncoating among your people is death. So why didn’t they merit a knife across the throat?”

“Would you really prefer them dead, Doña Vorchenza?”

“Hardly. But I am curious about your motives.”

“I, for my part, thought they were transparent. I need to have a measure of security; I simply cannot leave your agents lying about underfoot, as Barsavi did. Of course, I didn’t want to antagonize you more than necessary, so I presumed letting them live would be a friendly gesture.”

“Hmmm.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Raza, “I have every confidence that you will begin the work of inserting new agents into the ranks of my people almost immediately. I welcome it; may the most subtle planner win. But we have set aside the main point of this conversation.”

“Capa Raza,” said the doña, “you do not seem to be a man who needs sentiments wrapped in delicacy to salve his feelings, so let me be plain. It is one thing entirely for the two of us to have a working relationship, to preserve the Secret Peace for the good of all Camorr. I am even content to meet with you here, if I must, assuming you are properly invited and escorted. But I simply cannot bring a man of your station into the duke’s presence.”

“That is disappointing,” said Capa Raza. “Yet he can have Giancana Meraggio as a guest, can he not? A man who utilized my predecessor’s services on many occasions? And many other captains of shipping and finance who profited from arrangements with Barsavi’s gangs? The Secret Peace enriches every peer of Camorr; I am, in effect, their servant. My forbearance keeps money in their pockets. Am I truly so base a creature that I cannot stand by the refreshment tables a while and merely enjoy the sights of the affair? Wander the Sky Garden and satisfy my curiosity?”

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “you are plucking at strings of conscience that will yield no sound; I am not the duke’s Spider because I have a soft heart. I mean you no insult, truly, but let me frame it in these terms; you have been Capa now for barely one week. I have only begun to form my opinion of you. You remain a stranger, sir; if you rule a year from now, and you maintain stability among the Right People, and preserve the Secret Peace, well then—perhaps some consideration could be given to what you propose.”

“And that is how it must be?”

“That is how it must be—for now.”

“Alas,” said Capa Raza. “This refusal pains me more than you could know; I have gifts that I simply cannot wait until next year to reveal to all the peers of this fair city. I must, with all apologies, refuse your refusal.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Falconer …”

The Bondsmage stood up at Doña Vorchenza’s writing desk; he’d taken a quill in his hands and set one of her sheets of parchment out before him. “Doña Vorchenza,” he said as he wrote in a bold, looping script; “Angiavesta Vorchenza, is it not? What a lovely name … what a very lovely, very true name …”

In his left hand the silver thread wove back and forth; his fingers flew, and on the page a strange silver-blue glow began to arise; ANGIAVESTA VORCHENZA was outlined in that fire, and across the room the Doña moaned and clutched her head.

“I am sorry to press my case by less than amiable means, Doña Vorchenza,” said Capa Raza, “but can you not see that it would be to the duke’s very great advantage to have me as his guest? Surely you would not want to deny him those gifts which I would place at his feet, with all due respect.”

“I … I cannot say …”

“Yes,” said the Falconer. “Oh yes, you would be very pleased to accept this idea; to ensure that Capa Raza was invited to the Day of Changes feast, in the most cordial spirit of good fellowship.”

The words on the parchment in his hands glowed more brightly.

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza slowly, “you must … of course … accept the duke’s hospitality.”

“You will not be denied,” said the Falconer. “Capa Raza must agree to accept your invitation; you simply will not settle for a refusal.”

“I will not … take no … for an answer.”

“And I will not give it,” said Raza. “You are most kind, Doña Vorchenza. Most kind. And my gifts? I have four exquisite sculptures I should like to give to the duke. I have no need to intrude on his affairs; my men can simply leave them somewhere at the feast, with your cooperation. We can bring them to his attention when he is less pressed for time.”

“How lovely,” said the Falconer. “You are very fond of this suggestion.”

“Nothing … would please me more … Capa Raza. Very … proper of you.”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza, “it is very proper of me. It is only just.” He chuckled, then rose from his seat and waved to the Falconer.

“Doña Vorchenza,” said the Bondsmage, “this conversation has pleased you greatly. You will look forward to seeing Capa Raza at the Day of Changes, and to lending him every assistance in bringing his important gifts into Raven’s Reach.” He folded the parchment and slipped it into a waistcoat pocket, then made a few more gestures with his silver thread.

Doña Vorchenza blinked several times, and breathed deeply. “Capa Raza,” she said, “must you really go? It has made for a pleasant diversion, speaking to you this evening.”

“And I, for my part, have found you the most charming of hostesses, my lady Vorchenza.” He bowed from the waist, right foot forward in perfect courtly fashion. “But business is pressing everywhere; I must be about mine, and leave you to yours.”

“So be it, dear boy.” She began to rise, and he gestured for her to stay seated.

“No, no; don’t trouble yourself on our account. We can find our way back down your lovely tower on our own; pray return to whatever you were doing before I interrupted.”

“It was hardly an interruption,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I shall see you, then, on the Day of Changes? You will accept the invitation?”

“Yes,” said Capa Raza. He turned and favored her with a smile before he stepped out through the solarium door. “I gladly accept your invitation. And I shall see you on the Day of Changes, at Raven’s Reach.”

INTERLUDE

The Daughters of Camorr

The first true revolution in Camorr’s criminal affairs came long before Capa Barsavi. It predated his rise by nearly fifty years, in fact, and it came about entirely as the result of a certain lack of self-control on the part of a pimp called Rude Trevor Vargas.

Rude Trevor had a great many other nicknames, most of them used privately in his little stable of whores. To say that he was an intemperate, murderous lunatic would wound the feelings of most intemperate, murderous lunatics. As was often the case, he was a greater danger to his own whores than the marks they plied for coppers and silvers. The only protection he really offered them was protection from his own fists, which could be had by giving him all but a tiny fraction of the money they worked for.

One night, a particularly put-upon whore found herself unwilling to participate in his preferred evening diversion, which was to take his pleasure from her mouth while pulling on her hair until she screamed in pain. Her bodice dagger was out before she realized it; she planted it just to the left of Trevor’s manhood, in the joint of his thigh, and slashed to his right. There was an awful lot of blood, not to mention screaming, but Trevor’s attempts to first fight back and then to flee were greatly hampered by the speed with which his life was gushing out between his legs. His (former) whore pulled him to the ground and sat on his back to keep him from crawling out of the room. His strength ebbed, and he died in very short order, mourned by exactly no one.

The next night, Trevor’s capa sent another man around to take over Trevor’s duties. The women in Trevor’s old stable welcomed him with smiling faces, and offered him a chance to try out their services for free. Because he had a small pile of broken bricks where most people kept their brains, he accepted. When he was neatly undressed and separated from his weapons, he was stabbed to death from several directions at once. That really caught the attention of Trevor’s old capa. The next night, he sent five or six men to straighten the situation out.

But a curious thing had happened. Another two or three packs of whores had gotten rid of their pimps; a growing nucleus of women claimed a warehouse in the northern Snare as their headquarters. The capa’s men found not six or seven frightened whores, as they’d been told, but nearly two dozen angry women, who’d seen fit to arm themselves using all the coin they could muster.

Crossbows are quite an equalizer, especially at close range, with the advantage of surprise. Those five or six men were never seen again.

So the war began in earnest. Those capas who had lost pimps and whores attempted to correct the situation, while with every passing day the number of women joining the rebellion grew. They hired several other gangs to serve as their own protection; they established houses of pleasure to their own standards, and began to work out of them. The service they offered, in comfortable and well-appointed chambers, was greatly superior to that which could be had from the gangs of whores still run by men, and prospective customers began to weigh in with their coin on the side of the ladies.

There was a great deal of blood. Dozens of whores were brutally murdered, and several of their bordellos were burnt to the ground. But for every lady of the night that fell, some capa’s man would get the same. The ladies gave like for like as viciously as any capa in Camorr’s history. Less than a year after Rude Trevor’s death, the last few pimps clinging brutally to their livelihood were convinced (convinced to death, in most cases) to give up their fight. An uneasy truce fell into place between the capas and the city’s whores.

Eventually, this truce grew into a stable and mutually beneficial arrangement.

The whores of the city split amiably into two groups, defined by territory. The Docksies took the west side of Camorr, while the Guilded Lilies ruled in the east; and both organizations mingled comfortably in the Snare, where business was most plentiful. They continued to prosper; they hired loyal muscle of their own and ceased renting cutthroats from other gangs. While their lives could not be deemed pleasant, in light of their trade, at least they were now firmly in control of their own affairs, and free to enforce certain rules of decorum on their customers.

They built and preserved a monopoly, and in exchange for promising not to become involved in any other forms of crime, they secured the right to mercilessly crush any attempt to pimp women outside the purview of their two gangs. Naturally, some men didn’t pay close attention to the rules the women set; they attempted to slap their whores around, or renege on their payments for services, or ignore the standards the ladies set concerning cleanliness and drunkenness.

Hard lessons were handed out. As many men learned to their sorrow, it’s impossible to be intimidating when one angry woman has your cock between her teeth and another is holding a stiletto to your kidneys.

When Vencarlo Barsavi slew his opponents and rose to prominence as the sole Capa of Camorr, even he dared not disturb the equilibrium that had grown between the traditional gangs and the two guilds of whores. He met with representatives from the Docksies and the Lilies; he agreed to let them preserve their quasi-autonomous status, and they agreed to regular payments for his assistance—payments, as a percentage of profits, significantly lower than any other dues paid to the capa by the Right People of Camorr.

Barsavi realized something that too many men in the city were slow to grasp; an idea that he reinforced years later when he took the Berangias sisters to be his primary enforcers. He was wise enough to understand that the women of Camorr could be underestimated only at great peril to one’s health.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SPIDERBITE

1

“CAN YOU ASSURE me,” said Ibelius, “that you will take better care for yourself than you did previously, or that your friend Jean has taken for himself, this past week?”

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, “you are our physiker, not our mother. And as I have already told you a dozen times this afternoon, I am entirely prepared—body and mind—for this affair at Raven’s Reach. I am the soul of caution.”

“La, sir, if that is the case, I should hope never to meet the soul of recklessness.”

“Ibelius,” groaned Jean, “let him alone; you are henpecking him without having the decency to marry him first.”

Jean sat upon the sleeping pallet, haggard and rather scruffy; the darkness of the hairs thickening on his face only emphasized his own unnatural pallor. His injuries had been a close thing. A great wad of cloth was tied around his naked chest, and similar bandages wrapped his leg beneath his breeches and his upper right arm.

“These physikers are handy things,” said Locke, adjusting his (formerly Meraggio’s) coat cuffs, “but I think next time we should pay a bit extra for the silent version, Jean.”

“And then you may dress your own wounds, sir, and apply your own poultices—though I daresay it would be quicker and easier for the pair of you to simply dig your own graves and take your ease in them until your inevitable transition to a more quiet state of affairs!”

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke, grasping the old man by the arms, “Jean and I are more grateful than we can say for your aid; I suspect that we would both be dead without your intervention. I mean to repay you for the time you’ve endured with us here in this hovel; I expect to come into a few thousand crowns in very short order. Some of it is yours; you shall have a new life far from here with very full pockets. And the rest will be used to put Capa Raza under the earth; take heart. Look what Jean has already done to his sisters.”

“A feat I’m in no condition to perform again,” said Jean. “Take care of yourself, Locke; I won’t be able to come running to the rescue if something goes awry tonight.”

“Though I have no doubt you would try,” muttered Ibelius.

“Don’t worry, Jean. It’ll be nothing but a routine evening with the duke and his entire fucking court, assembled in a glass tower six hundred feet in the air. What could possibly go wrong?”

“That sarcasm sounds halfhearted,” said Jean. “You’re really looking forward to this, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am, Jean. Chains would be beside himself with glee if he were alive; I’m going to play Lukas Fehrwight in front of the gods-damned duke, not to mention all the other peers of our acquaintance. The de Marres, the Feluccias, old Javarriz … Glory to the Crooked Warden, it’s going to be fantastic fucking fun. Assuming I’m on top of my game. And then … money in our pockets. And then revenge.”

“When are you expected at the Salvara manor?”

“Third hour of the afternoon, which means I’ve no more time to dawdle. Jean, Ibelius … how do I look?”

“I would hardly recognize the man we laid on that sickbed not so many days ago,” said Ibelius. “I’ll confess, you’ve a surprising degree of professional skill; I’d never conceived of such a thing as this false-facing of yours.”

“That’s to our advantage, Master Ibelius,” said Jean. “Very few have. You look ready for the evening, Master Fehrwight. Now, you’re going to take the long way round to the Isla Durona, right?”

“Gods, yes. I’m only mad to a certain measure. I’ll go north through the graveyards and up through the Quiet; I expect I won’t see a soul once I’m out of Ashfall.”

As he spoke, he draped himself with the oilcloak Jean had brought back from his encounter with the Berangias sisters, despite the sweltering heat. It would conceal his fine garments from sight until he reached the Hill of Whispers. A man dressed in evening best might attract too much attention from some of the lurkers in the dark places of Ashfall.

“I’m for Raven’s Reach, then,” said Locke. “Until much later, Jean; rest up. Master Ibelius, favor Jean with your motherly attention; I hope to return with very good news.”

“I shall be grateful if you return at all,” said Ibelius.

2

MIDSUMMER-MARK; the Day of Changes, the seventeenth of Parthis in the Seventy-eighth Year of Aza Guilla, as the Therin Calendar would have it. On the Day of Changes, the city of Camorr went mad.

A Shifting Revel commanded the wide circular pond of the market, but this one was smaller and more ragged than the formal monthly Revels. The centerpiece of this one was a floating handball court made from a number of flat-topped barges lashed together. Teams of commoners had selected colors from out of a barrel; now randomly matched, they were mauling one another drunkenly as a crowd composed entirely of commoners cheered. When a team scored, a small boat with a beer keg lashed amidships would pull alongside the playing court and ladle out a drink for every man on that team. Naturally, the matches got wilder and dirtier as they progressed; quite a few players were flung into the water, there to be fished out by a crew of diligent yellowjackets who wouldn’t otherwise dream of interfering.

Commoners ruled the streets of lower Camorr on the Day of Changes. They held wandering picnics, hauling ale barrels and wine bags around with them. Streams of celebrants would cross paths, jostle, join, and split; a gods’-eye view of the affair would have shown disorderly men and women circulating through the city streets like blood through the vessels of an inebriated man.

In the Snare, business was bountiful. The celebration sucked in sailors and visitors from foreign shores like a tidal pool drawing downward; a few hours of Camorri hospitality and the guest revelers were unlikely to be able to tell their asses from their eardrums. There would be few ships setting out from port the next day; few would have the able manpower necessary to raise so much as a flag pennant, let alone a sail.

In the Cauldron and the Narrows and the Dregs, Capa Raza’s people celebrated their new ruler’s largesse. By his order, dozens upon dozens of casks of cheap red wine had been rolled out in dog-carts. Those gangs that were too poor or too lazy to journey to the crossroads of wickedness that was the Snare drank themselves silly on their own doorsteps. Raza’s garristas passed through the neighborhoods he claimed as his own with baskets of bread, passing them out to anyone who asked for them. It turned out that each loaf had either a copper piece or a silver piece baked into it, and when these hidden gifts were revealed (by means of a few unlucky broken teeth), not a single loaf of bread was safe from depredation south of the Temple District.

Raza’s Floating Grave was open for visitors; several of his garristas and their gangs amused themselves with a game of cards that grew to epic size; at its height, forty-five men and women were bickering and shuffling and drinking and screaming at one another on the floor above the dark waters of the Waste—the waters that had eaten Capa Barsavi and his entire family.

Raza was nowhere to be seen; Raza had business in the north that evening, and he told none outside his close circle of original servants that he would be at the duke’s court, looking down on them from the tower of Raven’s Reach.

In the Temple District, the Day of Changes was celebrated in a more restrained fashion. Each temple’s full complement of priests and initiates traded places with another in an ever-shifting cycle. The black-robes of Aza Guilla’s house conducted a stately ritual on the steps of Iono’s temple; the servants of the Father of Grasping Waters did likewise at theirs. Dama Elliza and Azri, Morgante and Nara, Gandolo and Sendovani; all the delegations of the divine burned candles and sang to the sky before a different altar, then moved on a few minutes later. A few extra benedictions were offered at the burnt-out House of Perelandro, where a single old man in the white robes of the Lord of the Overlooked, recently summoned from Ashmere, pondered the mess of a temple that had been thrust into his care. He had no idea how to begin composing his report to the chief divine of Perelandro on the destruction he’d found in an Elderglass cellar—the existence of which he’d not been informed of before his journey.

In the North Corner and Fountain Bend, well-to-do young couples made for Twosilver Green, where it was thought to be good luck to make love on the eve of the Midsummer-mark. It was said that any union consummated there before Falselight would bring the couple whatever they most desired in a child. This was a pleasant bonus, if true, but for the time being most of the men and women hidden away among the crushed-stone paths and rustling walls of greenery desired only one another.

On the waters of Old Harbor, the frigate Satisfaction floated at anchor, yellow flags flying atop its masts, yellow lanterns shining even by day. A dozen figures moved on its deck, surreptitiously going about the business of preparing the ship for night action. Crossbows were racked at the masts, and canvas tarps flung over them. Antiboarding nets were hauled out below the rails on the ship’s upper deck and set there for rapid rigging, out of sight. Buckets of sand were set out to smother flames; if the shore engines let fly, some of them would surely hurl alchemical fire, against which water would be worse than useless.

In the darkened holds beneath the ship’s upper deck, another three dozen men and women ate a large meal, to have their stomachs full when the time for action came. There wasn’t an invalid among them; not so much as an ague fever.

At the foot of Raven’s Reach, home and palace of Duke Nicovante of Camorr, a hundred carriages were parked in a spiraling fashion around the tower’s base. Four hundred liveried drivers and guards milled about, enjoying refreshments brought to them by scampering men and women in the duke’s colors. They would be there waiting all night for the descent of their lords and ladies. The Day of Changes was the only day of the year when nearly every peer of Camorr—every lesser noble from the Alcegrante islands and every last member of the Five Families in their glass towers—would be crammed together in one place, to drink and feast and scheme and intrigue and offer compliments and insults while the duke gazed down on them with his rheumy eyes. Each year the coming generation of Camorr’s rulers watched the old guard gray a bit more before their eyes; each year their bows and curtsies grew slightly more exaggerated. Each year the whispers behind their hands grew more poisonous. Nicovante had, perhaps, ruled too long.

There were six chain elevators serving Raven’s Reach; they rose and fell, rose and fell. With each new cage that creaked open at the top of the tower, a new flurry of people in colored coats and elaborate dresses was disgorged onto the embarkation terrace to mingle with the chattering flood of nobles and flatterers, power brokers and pretenders, merchants and idlers and drunkards and courtly predators. The sun beat down on this gathering with all of its power; the lords and ladies of Camorr seemed to be standing on a lake of molten silver, at the top of a pillar of white fire.

The air rippled with waves of heat as the iron cage holding Locke Lamora and the Salvaras swung, clattering, into the locking mechanisms at the edge of the duke’s terrace.

3

“HOLY MARROWS,” said Locke, “but I have never seen the like. I have never been this high in the air; by the Hands Beneath the Waters, I have never been this high in society! My lord and lady Salvara, pardon me if I cling to you both like a drowning man.”

“Sofia and I have been coming here since we were children,” said Lorenzo. “Every year, on this day. It’s only overwhelming the first ten or eleven times you see it, believe me.”

“I shall have to take you at your word, my lord.”

Attendants in black and silver livery, with rows of polished silver buttons gleaming in the sunlight, held the cage door open for them as Locke followed the Salvaras onto the embarkation terrace. A squad of blackjackets marched past, in full ceremonial dress, with rapiers carried over their shoulders in silver-chased scabbards. The soldiers wore tall black fur hats with medallions bearing the crest of the Duchy of Camorr just above their eyes. Locke winced to think at how those must have felt, marching back and forth beneath the sun’s merciless consideration for hours on end. His own clothes were working up a healthy sweat, but he and his hosts had the option of moving inside the tower at will.

“Don Lorenzo and Doña Sofia? My lord and lady Salvara?”

The man who approached them from the edge of the crowd was very tall and wide-shouldered; he stood a full head above most of the Camorri present, and his angular features and singularly fair hair were the mark of the oldest, purest sort of Vadran blood. This man had roots in the far northeast, in Astrath or Vintila, the heartlands of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. Curiously, he was dressed in Nightglass Company black, with a captain’s silver collar pips, and his voice was pure upper-class Camorr without the hint of any other accent.

“Why, yes,” said Don Lorenzo.

“Your servant, my lord and lady. My name is Stephen Reynart; Doña Vorchenza, I believe, should have mentioned me to you.”

“Oh, of course!” Doña Sofia held out her hand; Reynart bent at the waist with his right foot forward, took her hand, and kissed the air just above it. “So pleased to make your acquaintance at last, Captain Reynart. And how is dear Doña Vorchenza this afternoon?”

“She is knitting, my lady,” said Reynart, with a smirk that told of some private joke. “She has commandeered one of the duke’s sitting rooms for herself; you know how she feels about large, noisy gatherings.”

“I must, of course, find her,” said Sofia. “I should love to see her.”

“I’m sure the feeling will be mutual, my lady. But may I presume? Is this Master Fehrwight, the merchant of Emberlain I was told you would be bringing?” Reynart bowed again, just the neck this time, and in heavily accented Vadran he said, “May the Marrows run sweet and the seas run calm, Master Fehrwight.”

“May the Hands Beneath the Waves carry you to good fortune,” Locke replied in his own much smoother Vadran, genuinely surprised. He switched back to Therin for the sake of politeness. “One of my countrymen, Captain Reynart? In the service of the duke of Camorr? How fascinating!”

“I am most definitely of the Vadran blood,” said Reynart, “but my parents died when I was an infant, on a trading mission to this city. I was adopted and raised by Doña Vorchenza, the countess of Amberglass—the bright golden tower over there. She had no children of her own. Although I cannot inherit her title and her properties, I have been allowed to serve in the duke’s Nightglass Company.”

“Astonishing! I must say, you look exceedingly formidable—the image of the kings of the Marrows themselves. I’d wager the duke is only too pleased to have you in his service.”

“I hope with all my heart for that to be true, Master Fehrwight. But come; I’m holding you up. I beg pardon, my lord and lady Salvara; I am hardly a worthy topic of conversation. Let me show you into the tower, by your leave.”

“By all means,” said Sofia. She leaned close to Locke’s ear and whispered, “Doña Vorchenza is a dear old thing, something like a grandmother to all of us Alcegrante ladies. She is the arbiter of all our gossip, you might say. She is not well—she is more and more distant with every passing month—but she is still very close to us. I hope you will have the chance to make her acquaintance.”

“I shall look forward to it, my lady Salvara.”

Reynart ushered them into the tower of Raven’s Reach itself, and the sight that met Locke’s eyes drew an unwilling gasp from his mouth.

From the outside, Raven’s Reach was opaque silver. From the inside, at least on the levels he could see, it was nearly transparent. A smoky haze seemed to live within the glass, cutting out the glare of the sun, reducing it to a plain white circle overhead that the naked eye could easily bear to regard. But in all other ways it let in the view as though it were not there at all. The hilly countryside and the wide Angevine lay to the north, while all the islands of the lower city lay spread like illustrations on a map to the south. Locke could even make out the thin black shapes of ships’ masts bobbing past the southern edge of the city. His stomach fluttered with the thrill of vertigo.

On the level of the tower just above them, the Sky Garden began; there were said to be a hundred tons of rich earth in the pots and troughs atop that roof. Vines cascaded down the sides; well-tended bushes and fullsized trees sprouted from the apex of the tower—a little round forest in miniature. In the branches of one of those trees, facing south to the Iron Sea, was a wooden chair that was regarded as the very highest point in Camorr any sane person could reach. The Sky Garden would be full of children; it was where all the youngest nobles would be released to amuse themselves while their parents tended to the business of the court beneath their feet.

The floor they stood on did not cover the full hundred-foot width of the tower; it was a hemisphere, covering only the north half of the tower’s diameter. Locke grasped a rail at the southern edge of the floor and looked down; there were four other hemispherical galleries beneath them, each about twenty feet below the one above, and each one full of men and women. The vertigo threatened to swallow him again. Staring down at least eighty feet to “ground,” with the transparent side of the tower and that mind-twisting southern view spread out before him, he felt almost as though the world were tilting on its axis. The hand of Don Salvara on his shoulder brought him back to the present.

“You’ve got Raven’s Reach disease, Lukas,” the don laughed. “You’re clutching that rail like a lover. Come have some refreshments; your eyes will sort out the views in time, and it will all come to seem perfectly normal.”

“Oh, my lord Salvara, if only that should prove to be the case! But I would be glad to visit the banquet tables.”

The don led him through the press of silks and cottons and cashmeres and rare furs, nodding here and waving there. Sofia had vanished, along with Reynart.

The banquet tables (or perhaps these were merely the appetizer tables; the light afternoon refreshments at a feast like this could rival the main course from any lesser occasion) were laid out with silver-trimmed linen cloths, fifty feet from end to end. Guild Chefs—the masters of the Eight Beautiful Arts of Camorr—stood at attention in their cream-yellow ceremonial robes and black scholars’ caps with hanging gold cords behind their ears. Each chef, male or female, had intricate black tattoos on each of the four fingers of their hands; every design representing mastery of one of the Eight Gourmet Forms.

At one end of the banquet table were desserts (the Fifth Beautiful Art): cherry cream cakes encased in shells of gold leaf that were intended to be eaten; cinnamon tarts painstakingly assembled with honey-paste glue into the shape of sailing vessels, a whole fleet of little ships with white marzipan sails and raisins for crewmen. There were hollowed-out pears, their cores replaced with cylinders of river-melon fruit or brandy creams; there were shaved river-melons, their green exteriors scraped down to reveal the pink flesh inside. Every exposed pink face bore a relief sculpture of the crest of Camorr, and alchemical globes set within the melons made them glow with an inviting pink light.

At the other end of the table were meats. Each one of the silver platters held a phantasmavola: an Impossible Dish, an imaginary animal formed by joining the halves of two separate creatures during preparation and cooking. Locke saw a roast boar with the head of a salmon, resting on a pile of black caviar. Nearby there was a pig’s head, complete with a marsh apple in its mouth, with a roast capon for a body. The whole affair was covered in brown caramel sauce and figs, and Locke gave in to the growling sensation at the bottom of his stomach. He let one of the chefs slice him a fair portion of the pig/capon, which he ate from a silver dish with a little silver fork; it came apart in his mouth with the texture of butter, and the flavors set his head whirling. He hadn’t tasted anything so magnificent in weeks, and he knew that it would have taken all of his powers, with the help of the Sanza brothers at their peak, to prepare something so fine in his old glass cellar. But that thought stole some of the savor from his meal, and he finished quickly.

The bullock’s head with the body of a squid, he was happy to avoid.

At the center of the banquet tables was the crowning glory (of this particular level, at least). It was a massively unsubtle subtlety, eight feet in length: an edible sculpture of the city of Camorr. The islands were baked sweetbread on little raised metal platforms; the channels between those platforms ran deep with some blue liquor that was being ladled out in cups by a chef at the right side of the diorama. Each major bridge in the city was represented by a crystallized-sugar replica; each major Elderglass landmark was given a tiny analog, from the Broken Tower in the south to the House of Glass Roses to the Five Towers overlooking everything. Locke peered very closely. There was even a tiny frosted chocolate galleon little bigger than an almond, floating on a brown pudding Wooden Waste.

“How are you faring, Lukas?”

Don Salvara was beside him again, wineglass in hand; a black-coated attendant plucked Locke’s used dish from his fingers the moment he turned to speak to the don.

“I am overwhelmed,” said Locke, without much exaggeration. “I had no idea what to expect. By the Marrows, perhaps it is well that I had no preconceptions. The court of the king of the Marrows must be like this; I can think of nowhere else that would possibly compare.”

“You honor our city with your kind thoughts,” said Lorenzo. “I’m very pleased you decided to join us; I’ve just been around chatting with a few of my peers. I’ll have a serious talk with one of them in about an hour; I think he’ll be good for about three thousand crowns. I hate to say it, but he’s rather malleable, and he’s very fond of me.”

“Lukas,” cried Doña Sofia as she reappeared with Reynart at her heels, “is Lorenzo showing you around properly?”

“My lady Salvara, I am quite astounded by the spectacle of this feast; I daresay your husband could leave me sitting in a corner with my thumb in my mouth, and I would be adequately entertained all evening.”

“I would do no such thing, of course,” laughed Don Salvara. “I was just off speaking to Don Bellarigio, love; he’s here with that sculptor he’s been patronizing these past few months, that Lashani fellow with the one eye.”

A team of liveried attendants walked past, four men carrying something heavy on a wooden bier between them. The object was a gold-and-glass sculpture of some sort—a gleaming pyramid crested with the arms of Camorr; it must have had alchemical lamps within it, for the glass glowed a lovely shade of orange. As Locke watched, the color shifted to green, and then to blue, and then to white, and back to orange again.

“Oh, how lovely!” Doña Sofia was clearly enamored with all things alchemical. “The shifting hues! Oh, those adjustments must be precise; how I would love to see inside! Tell me, can Don Bellarigio’s Lashani sculpt me one of those?”

Three more teams of men hauled three more sculptures past; each one shifted through a slightly different pattern of changing colors.

“I don’t know,” said Reynart. “Those are gifts for the duke, from one of our … more unusual guests. They’ve been cleared with my superiors; they certainly do look lovely.”

Locke turned back to the banquet table and suddenly found himself six feet away from Giancana Meraggio, who had an orchid at his breast, a silver plate of fruit in one hand, and a gorgeous young woman in a red gown on the other. Meraggio’s gaze passed over Locke, then whirled back; those penetrating eyes fixed on him, and on the clothes he wore. The master money-changer opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, and then opened it again.

“Sir,” said Meraggio in a cold voice, “I beg your pardon, but—”

“Why, Master Meraggio!” Don Salvara stepped up beside him. At the sight of a don, Meraggio shut his mouth once again and bowed politely, from the waist, though not very deeply.

“Don Salvara,” said Meraggio, “and the lovely Doña Sofia. What a pleasure to see you both! Greetings to you as well, Captain Reynart.” He dismissed the tall Vadran from his consideration with a shift of his head and peered at Locke again.

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke. “Why, what a fortunate coincidence! It is a pleasure to meet you at last; I have looked for you at your countinghouse, many times, and I am afraid I have never had a chance to pay my proper respects.”

“Indeed? Why, I was just about to ask … who might you be, sir?”

“Master Meraggio,” said Don Salvara, “allow me to present Lukas Fehrwight, merchant of Emberlain, servant of the House of bel Auster. He has come down to discuss the import of a certain quantity of small beer; I’d like to see how those Emberlain ales fare against our native best. Lukas, this is the honorable Giancana Meraggio, master of the countinghouse that bears his name, known by many as the Duke of White Iron, for very good reason. All finance whirls around him like the constellations in the sky.”

“Your servant, sir,” said Locke.

“Of Emberlain? Of the House of bel Auster?”

“Why yes,” said Doña Sofia, “he’s here at the feast as our special guest.”

“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “I hope I do not presume too much, but do you find the cut of my coat pleasing? And the fabric?”

“A singular question,” said Meraggio, scowling, “for both seem strangely familiar.”

“And well they should,” said Locke. “On the advice of the Salvaras, I secured for myself a single suit of clothes cut in your Camorri style. I requested of the tailor that he select a cut that was especially favored by the best-known taste in the entire city. And who should he name but yourself, sir; this suit of clothes is fashioned after your very own preferences! I hope you will not find me forward if I say that I find it most excellently comfortable.”

“Oh, no,” said Meraggio, looking terribly confused. “Oh, no. Not too forward at all—very flattering, sir, very flattering. I, um … I do not feel entirely well; the heat, you see. I believe I shall avail myself of some of the punch from that subtlety. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Fehrwight. If you will excuse me, Doña Sofia, Don Lorenzo.”

Meraggio moved off, peering back over his shoulder at Locke and then shaking his head. Oh, Crooked Warden, thought Locke, you’re one funny son of a bitch, aren’t you?

“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.

4

“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.”

5

“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.”

“Oh, no.” Locke sighed and put his face in his hands. “Oh, Doña Vorchenza, I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but the list of people that haven’t outsmarted me seems to be getting smaller all the fucking time.”

“Well,” said Doña Vorchenza, “that can’t be pleasant. But come, you must be feeling rather strange by now; you must be unsteady on your feet. Just say yes. Give me the location of the funds you’ve stolen, and perhaps those years in the Palace of Patience can be mitigated. Give me the names of your accomplices, and I’m sure an accommodation can be reached.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke forcefully, “I have no accomplices, and even if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you who they were.”

“What about Graumann?”

“Graumann is a hireling,” said Locke. “He thinks I’m really a merchant of Emberlain.”

“And those so-called bandits in the alley beside the Temple of Fortunate Waters?”

“Hirelings, long since fled back to Talisham.”

“And the false Midnighters, the ones who visited the Salvaras?”

“Homunculi,” said Locke. “They crawl out of my ass every full moon; they’ve been a problem for years.”

“Oh, Master Thorn … grief-willow will still that tongue of yours rather permanently. You don’t have to speak your secrets now; just surrender so I can give you this vial, and we can continue this conversation in more pleasant surroundings.”

Locke stared at Doña Vorchenza for several long seconds; he locked his gaze with those ancient eyes of hers and saw the obvious satisfaction in them, and his right hand curled into a fist of its own accord. Perhaps Doña Vorchenza was so used to her aura of privilege she forgot their disparity in ages; perhaps she’d simply never conceived that a man of apparent refinement, even a criminal, could do what Locke did next.

He punched her square in the teeth, a whirling right that would have been comical had he thrown it against a younger, sturdier woman. But it snapped Doña Vorchenza’s head back; her eyes rolled up and she buckled at the knees. Locke caught her as she toppled, carefully plucking the vial from her fingers while he did so. He heaved her back into her chair, then uncapped the vial and poured its contents down his throat. The warm fluid tasted like citrus; he gulped it eagerly and threw the vial aside. Then, working with the utmost haste, he took off his coat and used it to tie Doña Vorchenza into her chair, knotting the sleeves several times behind her back.

Her head lolled forward and she groaned; Locke gave her a pat on the shoulder. On an impulse, he ran his hands quickly (and as politely as possible) through her waistcoat; he grunted in satisfaction when he turned up a little silk purse, jingling with coins. “Not what I was hoping for,” he said, “but we’ll call it fair payment for a gods-damned needle in the neck, hmmm?”

Locke stood up and paced for a few moments. He turned back to Doña Vorchenza, knelt before her, and said, “My lady, it wounds me to have to treat someone such as yourself so crudely; the truth is, I admire you very much and at any other time I’d be very curious to hear just where I fucked up and tipped you off. But you must admit, I’d have to be crazy to go with you; the Palace of Patience simply does not suit. So thank you for the very interesting afternoon, and give my regards to Don and Doña Salvara.”

With that, he pushed the wooden shutter as wide as it would go and stepped out the window.

The exterior of Raven’s Reach, considered up close, was actually covered with irregularities, with little indentations and ledges, circling the tower at virtually every level. Locke slipped out onto a slender ledge about six inches wide; he pressed his stomach up against the warm glass of the tower and waited for the pounding of the blood within his temples to cease sounding like a pummeling from a heavy man’s fists. It didn’t, and he sighed.

“I am the king idiot,” he muttered, “of all the world’s fucking idiots.”

The warm wind pushed at his back as he inched to his right; the ledge grew wider a few moments later, and he found an indentation in which to place his hand. Confident that he was in no immediate danger of falling, Locke glanced downward over his shoulder, and immediately regretted it.

Seeing Camorr spread out behind glass offered a layer of insulation between the viewer and the vista; out here, it seemed as though the whole world fell away in a vast arc. He wasn’t six hundred feet in the air, he was a thousand, ten thousand, a million—some incomprehensible number of feet that only the gods were fit to dare. He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched at the glass wall as though he could pour himself into it, like mortar into stones. The pork and capon in his stomach made enthusiastic inquiries about coming up in a nauseous torrent; his throat seemed to be on the verge of granting the request.

Gods, he thought, I wonder if I’m on one of the transparent sections of the tower? I must look pretty fucking funny.

There was a creaking noise from overhead; he looked up and gasped.

One of the elevator cages was coming down toward him; it would be in line with him on the face of the tower, and it would pass by about three feet from the wall he was clinging to.

It was empty.

“Crooked Warden,” Locke whispered, “I’ll do this, but the only thing I ask, the only thing, is that when this is done, you make me fucking forget. Steal this memory out of my head. And I will never climb more than three feet off the ground as long as I draw breath. Praise be.”

The cage creaked down; it was ten feet above him, then five feet, and then its bottom was even with his eyes. Breathing in deep, ragged, panicky gasps, Locke turned himself around on the tower, so that his back was against the glass. The sky and the world beneath his feet both seemed too big to fit into his eyes; gods, he didn’t want to think about them. The cage was sliding past; its bars were right there, three feet away over fifty-some stories of empty air.

He screamed, and pushed himself off the glass wall of the tower. When he hit the blackened iron sidebars of the cage, he clung as desperately as any cat ever clung to a tree branch; the cage swayed back and forth, and Locke did his best to ignore the incredible things that did to the sky and the horizon. The cage door; he had to slip the cage door. They closed tight but didn’t have elaborate locks.

Working with hands that shivered as though the air were freezing, Locke slipped the bolt on the cage’s door and let it fall open. He then swung himself gingerly around the corner, from the exterior to the interior, and with one last burst of dreadful vertigo reached out and slammed the door shut behind him. He sat down on the floor of the cage, gasping in deep breaths, shaky with relief and the aftereffects of the poison.

“Well,” he muttered, “that was fucking hideous.”

Another elevator cage full of noble guests drew upward, twenty feet to his right; the men and women in the cage looked at him very curiously, and he waved.

He half dreaded that the cage would lurch to a halt before it reached the ground and start to draw back up; he decided if it did that he would take his chances with the Palace of Patience. But the cage continued all the way down; Vorchenza must still be tied to her chair, out of the action. Locke was on his feet when the cage settled against the ground; the liveried men who opened the door peered in at him with wide eyes.

“Excuse me,” said one of them, “but were you … did you … were you in this cage when it left the embarkation platform?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “That shape you saw, darting out from the tower? Bird. Biggest gods-damned bird you ever saw. Scared the piss right out of me, let me tell you. I say, are any of these carriages for hire?”

“Go to the outer row,” said the footman, “and look for the ones with the white flags and lanterns.”

“Much obliged.” Locke rapidly perused the contents of Doña Vorchenza’s coin purse; there was a very satisfactory quantity of gold and silver inside. He tossed a solon apiece to the liveried men beside the cage as he stepped out. “It was a bird, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said the other man with a tip of his black cap. “Biggest gods-damned bird we ever saw.”

6

THE HIRED carriage left him at the Hill of Whispers; he paid very well—the “forget you made this run” sort of well—and then he walked south through Ashfall on his own. It was perhaps the sixth hour of the evening when he returned to the hovel, bursting through the curtained door, yelling as he came—

“Jean, we have one hell of a fucking problem—”

The Falconer stood in the center of the little room, smirking at Locke, his hand folded before him. Locke took in the tableau in a split second: Ibelius lay motionless against the far wall, and Jean lay slumped at the Bondsmage’s feet, writhing in pain.

Vestris perched upon her master’s shoulder; she fixed him with those black-and-gold eyes, then opened her beak and screeched triumphantly. Locke winced at the noise.

“Oh yes, Master Lamora,” said the Falconer. “Yes, I’d say you do have one hell of a fucking problem.”

INTERLUDE

The Throne in Ashes

Therim Pel was once called the Jewel of the Eldren; it was the largest and grandest of the cities that the lost race of ancients left to the men who claimed their lands long after their disappearance.

Therim Pel sat at the headwaters of the Angevine River, where they poured in a white torrent from the mountains; it sat beneath their craggy majesty and was surrounded by rich fields for two days’ ride by fast horse in any other direction. In the autumn, those fields would be swaying with stalks of amber—a bounty fit for the seat of an empire, which Therim Pel was.

All the cities of the south knelt before the Therin Throne. The engineers of the empire built tens of thousands of miles of roads to weave those cities together. The empire’s generals manned them with patrols to put bandits down, and maintained garrisons at smaller towns and villages to ensure that commerce and letters could flow, without interruption, from one end of the empire to the other—from the Iron Sea to the Sea of Brass.

Karthain and Lashain, Nessek and Talisham, Espara and Ashmere, Iridain and Camorr, Balinel and Issara—all those mighty city-states were ruled by dukes who took their crowns of silver from the hands of the emperor himself. The few dukes who remain in present times may wield great power, but they are self-declared; the high lineages dating back to the time of the Therin Throne have long been severed.

The Therin Throne entered into decline when the Vadrans appeared from the north. A raiding sea-people, they took the Throne protectorates on the northern half of the continent; they named the seven great rivers that flowed to the northern sea their Seven Holy Marrows, and they discouraged the Throne’s efforts to reclaim its territory by smashing every army it sent north. Weakened, the Therin Throne could not sustain the effort, and so it was diminished. Diminished, but not broken.

It took the Bondsmagi of Karthain to do that.

The Bondsmagi were newly formed in the city of Karthain; they were beginning to expand the reach of their unique and deadly guild to other cities, and they showed little sign of catering to the angry demands of the emperor in Therim Pel. He insisted that they halt their activities, and they are said to have replied with a short letter listing the prices for which His August Majesty could hire their services. The emperor sent in his own royal circle of sorcerers; they were slain without exception. The emperor then raised his legions and marched on Karthain, vowing to slay every sorcerer who claimed the title of Bondsmage.

The emperor’s declaration of war was a test of resolve for the new guild’s rules. For anyone who dared to harm a Bondsmage, they had publicly vowed reciprocity that would be awful to behold.

During his march to Karthain, the emperor’s soldiers managed to kill about a dozen.

Four hundred Bondsmagi met the emperor’s legions just to the east of Karthain; the sorcerers condescended to offer a pitched battle. In less than two hours, one-third of the emperor’s forces were slaughtered. Strange mists boiled up from the ground to mislead their maneuvers; illusions and phantasms tormented them. Flights of arrows halted in the air and fell to the ground, or were hurled back upon the archers who had loosed them. Comrade turned upon comrade, maddened and misled by sorcery that could chain a man’s actions as though he were a marionette. The emperor himself was hacked to pieces by his personal guard. It is said that no piece larger than a finger remained to be burned on a pyre afterward. The empire was soundly defeated—its surviving generals routed, their remaining soldiers scampering like message-runners for Therim Pel.

But the affair did not end there. The Bondsmagi in conclave decided to enforce their rules, and to enforce them in such a fashion that the entire world would shudder at the thought of crossing them, for as long as men might have memories.

They worked their retribution on the city of Therim Pel.

The firestorm they conjured was unnatural. Four hundred magi, working in concert, kindled something at the heart of the empire that historians still fear to describe. It is said that the flames were as white as the hearts of the stars themselves; that the column of black smoke rose so high it could be seen from the deep Iron Sea, far east of Camorr, and as far north as Vintila, capital of the young Kingdom of the Seven Marrows.

Even this hideous conjuring could not touch Elderglass; those structures in the city built by Eldren arts survived unscathed. But everything else the fire touched, it ate; wood and stone and metal, mortar and paper and living things. All the city’s buildings and all the city’s culture and all the city’s population who could not flee before the magi began their work were burnt into a desert of gray ashes—a desert that settled a foot deep across a black scar baked into the ground.

Those ashes swirled in the hot wind at the foot of the one human-crafted object the magi willingly preserved: the throne of the empire. That chair remains there to this day, in the haunted city of Therim Pel, surrounded by a field of ashes that time and rains have turned into a sort of black concrete. Nothing grows in Therim Pel anymore; no sensible man or woman will set foot within that black monument to the resolve of the Bondsmagi of Karthain.

It was they who broke the Therin Throne with that unearthly fire; they who cast the city-states of the south into hundreds of years of warring and feuding while the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows grew powerful in the north.

It is that image that comes to mind when most men think to cross a Bondsmage—the image of an empty chair standing alone in a dry sea of desolation.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

JUSTICE IS RED

1

THE FALCONER MOVED his fingers, and Locke Lamora fell to his knees, gripped by an all-too-familiar pain that burned within his bones. He toppled onto the floor of the hovel, beside Jean.

“What a pleasure,” said the sorcerer, “to see that you survived our little arrangement at the Echo Hole. I am impressed. Even despite your reputation, I had imagined we were too clever for you. Only this afternoon I thought it was Jean Tannen alone that I sought; but this is something finer by far.”

“You,” spat Locke, “are a twisted fucking animal.”

“No,” said the Bondsmage, “I obey the orders of my paying client. And my orders are to make sure the murderer of my client’s sisters takes his time in dying.” The Falconer cracked his knuckles. “You I regard as a windfall.”

Locke screamed and reached out toward the Bondsmage, willing himself forward through the pain, but the Falconer muttered under his breath, and the racking, stabbing sensations seemed to multiply tenfold. Locke flopped onto his back and tried to breathe, but the muscles behind and beneath his lungs were as solid as stones.

When the Bondsmage released him from this torment, he slumped down, gasping. The room spun.

“It’s very strange,” said the Falconer, “how the evidence of our victories can become the instruments of our downfall. Jean Tannen, for example—you must be a fantastic fighter to have taken my client’s sisters, though I see you suffered in doing so. And now they’ve struck back at you from the shadelands. A great many divinations are possible when one of my kind can get his hands on the physical residue of another man—fingernail parings, for example. Locks of hair. Blood on the edge of a knife.”

Jean groaned, unable to speak from pain.

“Oh, yes,” said the Falconer. “I was certainly surprised to see who that blood led me to. In your shoes, I’d have been in the first caravan to the other side of the continent. You might even have been left in peace.”

“Gentlemen Bastards,” hissed Locke, “do not abandon one another, and we do not run when we owe vengeance.”

“That’s right,” said the Bondsmage. “And that’s why they also die at my feet in filthy fucking hovels like this one.”

Vestris fluttered from his shoulder and settled into another corner of the room, staring balefully down at Locke, twitching her head from side to side in excitement. The Falconer reached inside his coat and drew out a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. He uncapped the bottle and set it down atop the sleeping pallet; he wet the quill and smiled down at Locke.

“Jean Tannen,” said the Falconer. “What a simple name; easy to write. Easier even than it was to stitch.”

His quill flew across the parchment; he wrote in great looping whorls, and his smile grew with every letter. When he was finished, his silver thread snaked out around the fingers of his left hand, and he moved them with an almost hypnotic rhythm. A pale silver glow arose from the page in his hands, outlining the curves of his face.

“Jean Tannen,” said the Falconer. “Arise, Jean Tannen. I have a task for you.”

Shuddering, Jean rose first to his knees and then to his feet. He stood before the Falconer; Locke, for his part, still found it impossible to move.

“Jean Tannen,” said the Bondsmage, “take up your hatchets. Nothing would please you more at this moment than to take up your hatchets.”

Jean reached beneath the sleeping pallet and took out the Wicked Sisters; he slipped one into either hand, and the corners of his mouth drew upward.

“You like to use those, don’t you, Jean?” The Falconer shifted the silver threads in his left hand. “You like to feel them biting into flesh.… You like to see the blood spatter. Oh, yes … don’t worry. I have a task you can set them to.”

With the sheet of paper in his right hand, the Falconer gestured down at Locke.

“Kill Locke Lamora,” he said.

Jean shuddered; he took a step toward Locke, then hesitated. He frowned and closed his eyes.

“I name your given name, Jean Tannen,” said the Bondsmage. “I name your given name, the truthful name, the name of the spirit. I name your name. Kill Locke Lamora. Take up your hatchets and kill Locke Lamora.”

Jean took another halting step toward Locke; his hatchets rose slowly. He seemed to be clenching his jaws. A tear rolled out of his right eye; he took a deep breath, and then another step. He sobbed, and raised the Wicked Sisters above his shoulders.

“No,” said the Falconer. “Oh, no. Wait. Step back.”

Jean obliged, backing off a full yard from Locke, who sent up silent prayers of relief, mingled with dread for whatever might come next.

“Jean’s rather soft-hearted,” said the Falconer, “but you’re the real weakling, aren’t you? You’re the one who begged me to do anything to you as long as I left your friends alone; you’re the one who went into the barrel with his lips closed when he could have betrayed his friends, and perhaps lived. I know how to make this right. Jean Tannen, drop your hatchets.”

The Wicked Sisters hit the ground with a heavy thud, bounced, and landed just beside Locke’s eyes. A moment later, the Bondsmage spoke in his sorcerous tongue and shifted the threads in his left hand; Jean screamed and fell to the ground, shaking feebly.

“It would be much better, I think,” said the Falconer, “if you were to kill Jean, Master Lamora.”

Vestris screeched down at Locke; the sound had the strange mocking undertones of laughter.

Oh, fuck, Locke thought. Oh, gods.

“Of course,” said the Falconer, “we already know your last name is a sham. But I don’t need a full name; even a fragment of a true name will be quite enough. You’ll see, Locke. I promise that you’ll see.” His silver threads disappeared; he dipped his quill once again and wrote briefly on the parchment.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. You may move again.” And as he spoke, it was so; the paralysis lifted, and Locke twitched his fingers experimentally. The Bondsmage wiggled his silver thread once more; Locke felt a strange something seem to form in the air around him, a sort of pressure, and the parchment glowed again.

“Now,” said the Falconer. “I name your name, Locke. I name your given name, the truthful name, the name of the spirit. I name your name, Locke. Arise. Arise and take up Jean Tannen’s hatchets. Arise and kill Jean Tannen.”

Locke pushed himself up to his knees and rested on his hands for a moment.

“Kill Jean Tannen.”

Shaking, he reached out for one of Jean’s hatchets, slid it toward himself, and crawled forward with it clutched in his right hand. His breathing was ragged; Jean Tannen lay at the Bondsmage’s heels, just three or four feet away, on his face in the plaster dust of the hovel.

“Kill Jean Tannen.”

Locke paused at the Falconer’s feet and turned his head slowly to stare at Jean. One of the big man’s eyes was open, unblinking; there was real terror there. Jean’s lips quivered uselessly, trying to form words.

Locke pushed himself up and raised the hatchet; he bellowed wordlessly.

He jabbed up with the heavy ball of the hatchet; the blow struck home right between the Falconer’s legs. The silver thread and the parchment fluttered from the Bondsmage’s hands as he gasped and fell forward, clutching at his groin.

Locke whirled to his right, expecting instant attack from the scorpion hawk, but to his surprise the bird had fallen from its perch and was writhing on the hovel floor, wings beating uselessly at the air, a series of choked half screeches issuing from its beak.

Locke smiled the cruelest smile he’d ever worn in his entire life as he rose to his feet.

“It’s like that, is it?” He grinned fiercely at the Bondsmage as he slowly raised the hatchet, ball-side down. “You see what she sees; each of you feels what the other feels?”

The words brought him a warm sense of exultation, but they nearly cost him the fight; the Falconer managed to find concentration enough to utter one syllable and curl his fingers into claws. Locke gasped and staggered back, nearly dropping the hatchet. It felt as though a hot dagger had been shoved through both of his kidneys; the sizzling pain made it impossible to act, or even to think.

The Falconer attempted to stand up, but Jean Tannen suddenly rolled toward him and reached up, grabbing him by the lapels. The big man yanked hard, and the Falconer crashed back down, forehead-first, against the floor of the hovel. The pain in Locke’s guts vanished, and Vestris screeched once again from the floor beside his feet. He wasted no further time.

He whipped the hatchet down in a hammer-blow, breaking Vestris’ left wing with a dry crack.

The Falconer screamed and writhed, flailing hard enough to briefly break free from Jean’s grasp. He clutched at his left arm and hollered, his eyes wide with shock. Locke kicked him in the face, hard, and the Bondsmage rolled over in the dust, spitting up the blood that was suddenly running from his nose.

“Just one question, you arrogant fucking cocksucker,” said Locke. “I’ll grant the Lamora part is easy to spot; the truth is, I didn’t know about the apt translation when I took the name. I borrowed it from this old sausage dealer who was kind to me once, back in Catchfire before the plague. I just liked the way it sounded.

“But what the fuck,” he said slowly, “ever gave you the idea that Locke was the first name I was actually born with?”

He raised the hatchet again, reversed it so the blade side was toward the ground, and then brought it down with all of his strength, severing Vestris’ head completely from her body.

The sound of the bird’s suddenly interrupted screech echoed and merged with the screams of the Falconer, who clutched at his head and kicked his legs wildly. His cries were pure madness, and it was a mercy to the ears of Locke and Jean when they died, and he fell sobbing into unconsciousness.

2

THE FALCONER of Karthain awoke to find himself lying spread-eagled, arms and legs out on the dusty floor of the hovel. The smell of blood was in the air—Vestris’ blood. He closed his eyes and began to weep.

“He is secure, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. When the dog-leech had awoken from whatever spell the Bondsmage had flung at him, he’d been only too eager to help tie the Karthani down. He and Jean had scavenged some metal stakes from the other side of the structure; these were pounded into the floor, and the Bondsmage was lashed to them by long strips of bedding, tied tight around his wrists and ankles. Smaller strips had been tied around his fingers and had been used to pad between them, immobilizing them.

“Good,” said Locke.

Jean Tannen sat on the sleeping pallet, looking down at the Bondsmage with dull, deeply shadowed eyes. Locke stood at the sorceror’s feet, staring down at him with undisguised loathing.

A small oil fire burned in a glass jar; Ibelius crouched beside it, slowly heating a dagger over it. The thin brown smoke curled up toward the ceiling.

“You are fools,” said the Falconer between sobs, “if you think to kill me. My brethren will take satisfaction; think on the consequences.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” said Locke. “I’m going to play a little game I like to call ‘scream in pain until you answer my fucking questions.’ ”

“Do what you will” said the Falconer. “The code of my order forbids me to betray my client.”

“Oh, you’re not working for your client anymore, asshole,” said Locke. “You’re not working for your client ever again.”

“It’s ready, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius.

The Bondsmage craned his neck to stare over at Ibelius. He swallowed and licked his lips, his wet, bloodshot eyes darting around the room.

“What’s the matter?” Locke reached out and carefully took the dagger from the dog-leech’s hand; its blade glowed red. “Afraid of fire? Why ever should that be?” Locke grinned, an expression utterly without humor. “Fire’s the only thing that’s going to keep you from bleeding to death.”

Jean rose from the sleeping pallet and knelt on the Falconer’s left arm. He pressed it down at the wrist, and Locke slowly came over to stand beside him, hatchet in one hand and glowing knife in the other.

“I heartily approve, in theory,” said Ibelius, “but in practice I believe I shall … absent myself.”

“By all means, Master Ibelius,” said Locke.

The curtain swished, and the dog-leech was gone.

“Now,” said Locke, “I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might happen when they fuck with someone’s friends in Camorr.”

The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed.

“That’s Nazca,” said Locke. “Remember Nazca?”

He swung down again; the ring finger of the left hand rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted.

“That’s Calo,” said Locke.

Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony.

“Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up—this one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the hell.” The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined its brethren in bloody exile.

“Now the rest,” said Locke, “the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me and Jean.”

3

IT WAS tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterize all the wounds. The Falconer was quivering with pain by the time they’d finished; his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt flesh and scalded blood.

“Now,” said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest. “Now it’s time to talk.”

“I cannot,” whispered the Bondsmage. “I cannot … betray my client’s secrets.”

“You no longer have a client,” said Locke. “You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza. At least, that’s the way I see it.”

“Go to hell,” the Falconer spat.

“Oh, good. You’ve decided to do it the hard way.” Locke smiled again and tossed the now-cool dagger to Jean, who set it over the flame and began to heat it once again. “If you were any other man, I’d threaten your balls next. I’d make all sorts of cracks about eunuchs; but I think you could bear that. You’re not most men. I think the only thing I can take from you that would truly pain you to the depths of your soul would be your tongue.”

The Bondsmage stared at him, his lips quivering. “Please,” he croaked hoarsely, “have pity, for the gods’ sakes. Have pity. We had a contract. I was merely carrying it out.”

“When that contract became my friends,” said Locke, “you exceeded your mandate.”

“Please,” whispered the Falconer.

“No,” said Locke. “I will cut it out; I will cauterize it while you lay there writhing. I will make you a mute—I’m guessing you might eventually be able to conjure some magic without fingers, but without a tongue?”

“No! Please!”

“Then speak,” said Locke. “Tell me what I want to know.”

“Gods,” sobbed the Falconer, “gods forgive me. Ask. Ask your questions.”

“If I catch you in a lie,” said Locke, “it’s balls first, and then the tongue. Don’t presume on my patience. Why did Capa Raza want us dead?”

“Money,” whispered the Falconer. “That vault of yours; I spied it out while I was first making my observations of you. He’d intended just to use you as a distraction for Capa Barsavi; when we discovered how much money you’d already stolen, he wanted to have it—to pay for me. Almost another month of my services. To help him finish his tasks here in the city.”

“You murdered my fucking friends,” said Locke, “and you tried to murder Jean and myself, for the metal in our vault?”

“You seemed the type to hold a grudge,” coughed the Falconer. “Isn’t that funny? We figured we’d be better off with all of you safely dead.”

“You figured right,” said Locke. “Now Capa Raza, the Gray King, whoever the fuck he is.”

“Anatolius.”

“That’s his real name? Luciano Anatolius?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Fuck you, Falconer, answer my questions. Anatolius. What was his business with Barsavi?”

“The Secret Peace,” said the Bondsmage.

“What about it?”

“The Secret Peace was not achieved without a great deal of bloodshed … and difficulty. There was one rather powerful merchant, with the resources to discover what Barsavi and the duke’s Spider had put together; not being of noble blood, he was rather upset at being excluded.”

“And so … Barsavi killed him?” said Locke.

“Yes. Avram Anatolius, a merchant of Fountain Bend. Barsavi murdered him and his wife, and his three younger children—Lavin, Ariana, and Maurin. But the three older children—they escaped with one of their master’s maids. She protected them, pretending they were her own. She took them to safety in Talisham.”

“Luciano,” said Locke. “Luciano, Cheryn, and Raiza.”

“Yes … the oldest son and the twin sisters. They have been rather consumed with the idea of vengeance, Master Lamora. You’re an amateur by comparison. They spent twenty-two years preparing for the events of the past two months; Cheryn and Raiza returned eight years ago, under an assumed name; they built their reputations as contrarequialla and became Barsavi’s most loyal servants.

“Luciano, on the other hand … Luciano went to sea, to train himself in the arts of command and to amass a fortune. A fortune with which to purchase the services of a Bondsmage.”

“Capa Raza was a freighter captain?”

“No,” said the Falconer. “A buccaneer. Not the ragged sort of idiot you find down on the Sea of Brass; he was quiet, efficient, professional. He struck rarely and he struck well; he took good cargo from the galleons of Emberlain. He sank the ships and left no one alive to speak his name.”

“Gods damn it,” said Jean. “Gods damn it; he’s the captain of the Satisfaction.”

“Yes, the so-called plague ship,” chuckled the Falconer. “Odd how easy it is to keep people away from your ship when you really want to, isn’t it?”

“He’s been sending his fortune out to it as ‘charitable provisions,’ ” said Jean. “It must be all the money he stole from us, and everything he took from Capa Barsavi.”

“Yes,” said the Bondsmage sadly. “Only now it belongs to my order, for services rendered.”

“We’ll just see about that. So what now? I saw your master Anatolius at Raven’s Reach a few hours ago; what the fuck does he think he’s doing next?”

“Hmmm.” The Bondsmage fell silent for several moments; Locke prodded him in the neck with Jean’s hatchet, and he smiled strangely. “Do you mean to kill him, Lamora?”

“Ila justicca vei cala,” said Locke.

“Your Throne Therin is passable,” said the Bondsmage, “but your pronunciation is excrement. ‘Justice is red,’ indeed. So you want him, more than anything? You want him screaming under your knife?”

“That’d do for a start.”

Unexpectedly, the Falconer threw back his head and began to laugh—a high-pitched noise, tinged with madness. His chest shook with mirth, and fresh tears ran from his eyes.

“What?” Locke prodded him again with the hatchet. “Quit being deliberately freakish and give me my fucking answer.”

“I’ll give you two,” said the Falconer, “and I’ll give you a choice. It’s guaranteed to cause you pain, either way. What hour of the evening is it?”

“What the hell does it matter to you?”

“I’ll tell you everything; please, just tell me what the hour is.”

“I’d wager it’s half past seven,” said Jean. The Bondsmage began chuckling once again. A smile grew on his haggard face, impossibly beatific for a man who’d just lost his fingers and thumbs.

“What the fuck is it? Spit out a real answer or you lose something else.”

“Anatolius,” said the Falconer, “will be at the Floating Grave. He’ll have a boat behind the galleon; he can reach it through one of Barsavi’s escape hatches. At Falselight, the Satisfaction will turn on her anchor chain and put out to sea; she’ll tack first to the east, sweeping past the south end of the Wooden Waste, where it opens to the ocean. His crew in the city has been sneaking out to the ship, one or two at a time, in the provision boat. Like rats leaving a sinking vessel. He’ll stay until the last; it’s his style. Last out of danger. They’ll pick him up south of the Waste.”

“His crew in the city,” said Locke. “You mean his ‘Gray King’s men,’ the ones who’ve been helping him all along?”

“Yes,” said the Bondsmage. “Time your entrance properly … and you should have him to yourself, or very close, before he sets off in the boat.”

“That doesn’t cause me pain,” said Locke. “That thought brings me pleasure.”

“But here’s the second point. The Satisfaction puts out to sea just as the greater part of Anatolius’ plan goes into effect.”

“Greater part?”

“Think, Lamora. You can’t truly be this dense; Barsavi slew Avram Anatolius, but who allowed it to happen? Who was complicit?”

“Vorchenza,” said Locke slowly. “Doña Vorchenza, the duke’s Spider.”

“Yes,” said the Falconer. “And behind her, the man who gave her the authority to make such decisions?”

“Duke Nicovante.”

“Oh yes,” whispered the sorcerer, genuinely warming to his subject. “Oh, yes. But not just him, either. Who stood to benefit from the Secret Peace? Who did the arrangement shield, at the expense of men like Avram Anatolius?”

“The nobility.”

“Yes. The peers of Camorr. And Anatolius wants them.”

“Them? Which ‘them’?”

“Why, all of them, Master Lamora.”

“How the fuck is that possible?”

“Sculptures. Four unusual sculptures delivered as gifts to the duke. Currently placed at various points within Raven’s Reach.”

“Sculptures? I’ve seen them—gold and glass, with shifting alchemical lights. Your work?”

“Not my work,” said the Falconer. “Not my sort of thing at all. The alchemical lights are just a bit of mummery; they are beautiful, I suppose. But there’s a lot of room left inside those things for the real surprise.”

“What?”

“Alchemical fuses,” said the Falconer. “Set for a certain time; small clay pans of fire-oil, intended to be set off by the fuses.”

“But that can’t be all.”

“Oh no, Master Lamora.” Now the sorcerer positively smirked. “Before he hired me, Anatolius spent part of his considerable fortune to secure large amounts of a rare substance.”

“No more games, Falconer—what the hell is it?”

“Wraithstone.”

Locke was silent for a long moment; he shook his head as though to clear it. “You can’t be fucking serious.”

“Hundreds of pounds of it,” said the Falconer, “distributed in the four sculptures. All the peers of Camorr will be crammed into those galleries at Falselight; the duke and his Spider and all their relatives and friends and servants and heirs. Do you know anything about Wraithstone smoke, Master Lamora? It’s slightly lighter than air. It will spread upward until it fills every level of the duke’s feast; it will pass out through the roof vents and it will fill the Sky Garden, where all the children of the nobility are playing as we speak. Anyone standing on the embarkation platform might escape … but I very much doubt it.”

“At Falselight,” said Locke in a small voice.

“Yes,” hissed the sorcerer. “So now you have your choice, Master Lamora. At Falselight, the man you want to kill more than anyone in the world will be briefly alone at the Floating Grave. And at Falselight, six hundred people at the top of Raven’s Reach will suffer a fate worse than death. Your friend Jean looks to be in very poor health; I doubt he can help you with either task. So the decision is yours. I wish you joy of it.”

Locke arose and tossed Jean his hatchet. “It’s no decision at all,” he said. “Gods damn you, Falconer, it’s no decision at all.”

“You’re going to Raven’s Reach,” said Jean.

“Of course I am.”

“Have a pleasant time,” said the Falconer, “convincing the guards and the nobility of your sincerity; Doña Vorchenza herself is rather convinced that the sculptures are completely harmless.”

“Well,” said Locke, grinning wryly and scratching the back of his head. “I’m kind of popular at Raven’s Reach at the moment; they might be glad to see me.”

“How do you expect to get back out?” asked Jean.

“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I don’t have the first fucking clue; but it’s a state of affairs that’s served me well in the past. I need to run. Jean, for the love of the gods, hide near the Floating Grave if you must, but don’t you dare go in there; you’re in no condition to fight.” Locke turned to the Bondsmage. “Capa Raza—how is he with a blade?”

“Deadly,” said the Falconer with a smile.

“Well, look, Jean. I’ll do what I can at Raven’s Reach; I’ll try to get to the Floating Grave somehow. If I’m late, I’m late; we’ll follow Raza and we’ll find him somewhere else. But if I’m not late, if he’s still there …”

“Locke, you can’t be serious. At least let me come with you. If Raza has any skill with a blade at all, he’ll kick the shit out of you.”

“No more arguments, Jean; you’re hurt too badly to be of much use. I’m fit, and I’m obviously crazy. Anything could happen. But I have to go, now.” Locke embraced Jean, stepped to the doorway, and turned back. “Cut this bastard’s fucking tongue out.”

“You promised!” yelled the Falconer. “You promised!”

“I didn’t promise you shit. My dead friends, on the other hand—I made them certain promises I intend to keep.”

Locke whirled and went out through the curtain; behind him, Jean was setting the knife over the oil flame once again. The Falconer’s screams followed him down the debris-strewn street, and then faded into the distance as he turned north and began to jog for the Hill of Whispers.

4

IT WAS well past the eighth hour of the evening before Locke set foot on the flagstones beneath the Five Towers of Camorr once again. The journey north had been problematic. Between bands of drunken revelers with obliterated senses (and sensibilities) and the guards at the Alcegrante watch stations (Locke finally managed to convince them that he was a lawscribe heading north to meet an acquaintance leaving the duke’s feast; he also slipped them a “Midsummer-mark gift” of gold tyrins from a little supply concealed up his sleeve), he felt himself fortunate to make it at all. Falselight would rise within the next hour and a quarter; the sky was already turning red in the west and dark blue in the east.

He made his way past the rows and rows of carriages in close array. Horses stamped and whinnied; a great many of them had relieved themselves onto the lovely stones of the largest courtyard in Camorr. Locke snorted; horses were not Verrari water-engines, to be left standing decorating the place until needed. Footmen and guards and attendants mingled in groups, sharing food and staring up at the Five Towers, where the glory of the coming sunset painted strange, fresh colors on their Elderglass walls.

Locke was so busy considering what to say to the men at the elevator hoists that he didn’t even see Conté until the taller, stronger man had one hand around the back of Locke’s neck and one of his long knives jammed into Locke’s back.

“Well, well,” he said, “Master Fehrwight. The gods are kind. Don’t say a fucking thing, just come with me.”

Conté half led and half hauled him to a nearby carriage; Locke recognized the one he’d ridden to the feast in with Sofia and Lorenzo. It was an enclosed, black-lacquered box with a window on the side opposite the door; that window’s curtains and shutters were drawn tightly shut.

Locke was thrown onto one of the padded benches within the carriage; Conté bolted the door behind him and sat down on the opposite bench, with his knife held at the ready.

“Conté, please,” said Locke, not even bothering with his Fehrwight accent, “I need to get back into Raven’s Reach; everyone inside is in terrible danger.”

Locke hadn’t known that someone could kick so hard from a sitting position; Conté braced himself against the seat with his free hand and showed him that it was possible. The bodyguard’s heavy boot knocked him back into his corner of the carriage; Locke bit down hard on his tongue and tasted blood. His head rattled against the wooden walls.

“Where’s the money, you little shit?”

“It’s been taken from me.”

“Not fucking likely. Sixteen thousand and five hundred full crowns?”

“Not quite; you’re forgetting the additional cost of meals and entertainment at the Shifting—”

Conté’s boot lashed out again, and Locke went sprawling into the opposite corner of his side of the carriage.

“For fuck’s sake, Conté! I don’t have it! It’s been taken from me! And it’s not important at the moment.”

“Let me tell you something, Master Lukas-fucking-Fehrwight. I was at Godsgate Hill; I was younger then than you are now.”

“Good for you, but I don’t give a sh—,” Locke said, and for that he ate another boot.

“I was at Godsgate Hill,” continued Conté, “too fucking young by far, the single most scared-shitless runt of a pikeman Duke Nicovante had in that mess. I was in it bad; my banneret was up to its neck in shit and Verrari and the Mad Count’s cavalry. Our horse had withdrawn; my position was being overrun. Our peers of Camorr fell back and saw to their own safety—with one fucking exception.”

“This is the single most irrelevant thing I’ve ever—,” said Locke as he moved for the door; Conté brought up his knife and convinced him back into his seat.

“Baron Ilandro Salvara,” said Conté. “He fought until his horse went down beneath him; he fought until he took four wounds and had to be hauled from the field by his legs. All the other peers treated us like garbage; Salvara nearly killed himself trying to save us. When I got out of the duke’s service, I tried the city watch for a few years; when that turned to shit, I begged for an audience with the old Don Salvara, and I told him I’d seen him at Godsgate Hill. I told him he’d saved my fucking life, and that I’d serve him for the rest of his, if he’d have me. He took me in. When he passed away, I decided to stay on and serve Lorenzo. Fucking move for that door again and I will bleed some enthusiasm out of you.

“Now Lorenzo,” said Conté with undisguised pride, “he’s more a man of business than his father was. But he’s made of the same stuff; he went into that alley with a blade in his hand when he didn’t know you, when he thought you were being attacked for real, by real fucking bandits that meant you harm. Are you proud, you fucking pissant? Are you proud of what you’ve done to that man, who tried to save your fucking life?”

“I do what I do, Conté,” said Locke with a bitterness that surprised him. “I do what I do. Is Lorenzo a saint of Perelandro? He’s a peer of Camorr; he profits from the Secret Peace. His great-great-grandfather probably slit someone’s throat to claim a peerage; Lorenzo benefits from that every day. People make tea from ashes and piss in the Cauldron while Lorenzo and Sofia have you to peel their grapes and wipe their chins for them. Don’t talk to me about what I’ve done. I need to get inside Raven’s Reach now.”

“Get serious about telling me where that money is,” said Conté, “or I’ll kick your ass so hard every piece of shit that falls out of it for the rest of your life will have my gods-damned heel print on it.”

“Conté,” said Locke, “everyone in Raven’s Reach is in danger. I need to get back up there.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Conté. “I wouldn’t fucking believe you if you told me my name was Conté. I wouldn’t believe you if you told me fire was hot and water was wet. Whatever you want, you don’t get it.”

“Conté, please, I can’t fucking escape up there. Every gods-damned Midnighter in the city is up there; the Spider is up there; the Nightglass Company is up there. Three hundred peers of Camorr are up there! I’m unarmed; haul me up there yourself. But for the love of the fucking gods, get me up there! If I don’t get up there before Falselight, it’ll be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

“I don’t have the time to explain; listen to me babble to Vorchenza and it’ll all fall together.”

“Why the hell,” said Conté, “do you need to talk to that fading old crone?”

“My mistake,” said Locke. “I seem to have more of the pulse of things than you do. Look, I can’t fuck around anymore. Please, please, I’m begging you. I’m not Lukas Fehrwight; I’m a gods-damned thief. Tie my hands, put your knife to my back; I don’t care what your terms are. Please just take me back up into Raven’s Reach; I don’t care how. You tell me how we do it.”

“What’s your real name?”

“How is that important?”

“Spit it up,” said Conté, “and maybe I’ll tie your hands, and fetch some guards, and I’ll try to get you up into Raven’s Reach.”

“My name,” said Locke with a sigh of resignation, “is Tavrin Callas.”

Conté looked hard at him for a moment, then grunted.

“Very well, Master Callas. Hold out your hands and don’t move; I’m going to tie you up so tight I guarantee it’ll fucking hurt. Then we’ll take a walk.”

5

THERE WERE Nightglass soldiers near the chain elevator landings who’d been given his description; naturally, they were delighted when Conté hauled him over with his hands tied in front of him. They ascended once again; Locke with Conté at his back and a blackjacket holding him by either arm.

“Please take me to Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “If you can’t find her, please find one of the Salvaras. Or even a captain in your company named Reynart.”

“Shut up, you,” said one of the blackjackets. “You go where you go.”

The cage slid home into the locking mechanisms on the embarkation terrace; a milling crowd of nobles and their guests turned their attention to Locke as he was carried forward between the three men. As they passed the threshold into the first gallery within the tower, Captain Reynart happened to be standing nearby with a plate of small confectionary ships in his hands. His eyes grew wide; he took a last bite of marzipan sail, wiped his mouth, and thrust his dish into the arms of a passing waiter, who nearly toppled over in surprise.

“By the gods,” he said, “where did you find him?”

“We didn’t, sir,” said one of the blackjackets. “Man behind us says he’s in the service of Lord and Lady Salvara.”

“I caught him by the carriages,” said Conté.

“Fantastic,” said Reynart. “Take him down a level, to the eastern wing of suites. There’s an empty storeroom with no windows. Search him, strip him down to his breechclout, and throw him in there. Two guards at all times. We’ll pull him out after midnight, when the feast starts to break up.”

“Reynart, you can’t,” cried Locke, struggling uselessly against the men who held him. “I came back on my own. On my own, do you understand? Everyone here is in danger. Are you in on your adopted mother’s business? I need to talk to Vorchenza!”

“I’ve been warned to develop selective hearing when it comes to you.” Reynart gestured at the blackjackets. “Storeroom, now.”

“Reynart, no! The sculptures, Reynart! Look in the fucking sculptures!”

Locke was shouting; guests and nobles were taking an intense interest, so Reynart clapped a hand over his mouth. More blackjackets appeared out of the crowd.

“Keep making a fuss,” said Reynart, “and these lords and ladies might just see blood.” He withdrew his hand.

“I know who she is, Reynart! I know who Vorchenza is. I’ll shout it across all of these galleries; I’ll go kicking and screaming, but before I’m in that room everyone will know! Now, look at the gods-damned sculptures, please.”

“What about the sculptures?”

“There’s something in them, damn it. It’s a plot. They’re from Capa Raza.”

“They were a gift to the duke,” said Reynart. “My superiors cleared them personally.”

“Your superiors,” said Locke, “have been interfered with. Capa Raza hired the services of a Bondsmage. I’ve seen what he can do to someone’s mind.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Reynart. “I can’t believe I’m letting you conjure another fairy tale. Get him downstairs, but first let me gag him.” Reynart plucked a linen napkin from another nearby waiter’s tray and began to wad it up.

“Reynart, please, take me to Vorchenza. Why the hell would I come back if it wasn’t important? Everyone here is going to fucking die if you throw me in that storeroom. I’m tied up and under guard; please take me to Vorchenza.”

Stephen stared coldly at him, then set the napkin down. He put his finger in Locke’s face. “So be it. I’ll take you to see the doña. But if you utter so much as a single word while we’re hauling you over to her, I will gag you, beat you senseless, and put you in the storeroom. Is that clear?”

Locke nodded vigorously.

Reynart gestured for more blackjackets to join his procession; Locke was led across the gallery and down two sets of stairs with six soldiers at his side and Conté scowling just behind him. Reynart led him back to the very same hall and the very same chamber where he’d first met Doña Vorchenza. She was sitting in her chair, knitting discarded at her feet, holding a wet cloth to her lips while Doña Salvara knelt beside her. Don Salvara stood staring out the window with his leg up on the sill; all three of them looked very surprised indeed when Reynart thrust Locke into the room before him.

“This room is closed,” said Reynart to his guards. “Sorry, you, too,” he said when Conté tried to pass.

“Let the Salvaras’ man come in, Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza. “He already knows most of it; he might as well know the rest.”

Conté stepped in, bowed to Vorchenza, and grabbed Locke by the right arm while Reynart locked the door behind them. The Salvaras gave Locke a matching pair of scowls.

“Hello, Sofia. Hey, Lorenzo. Nice to see you two again,” said Locke, in his natural voice.

Doña Vorchenza rose from her chair, closed the distance between herself and Locke with two steps, and punched him in his own mouth, a straight-arm blow with the flat of her palm. His head whirled to the right, and spikes of pain shot through his neck.

“Ow,” he said. “What the fuck is it with you, anyway?”

“A debt to be repaid, Master Thorn.”

“You stuck a gods-damned poisoned needle in my neck!”

“You most certainly deserved it,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“Well, I for one would dis—”

Reynart grabbed him by his left shoulder, spun him around, and slammed his own fist into Locke’s jaw. Vorchenza was rather impressive for someone of her age and build, but Reynart could really hit. The room seemed to go away for a few seconds; when it returned, Locke was sprawled in a corner, lying on his side. Small blacksmiths seemed to be pounding on anvils inconveniently located just above his eyes; Locke wondered how they’d gotten in there.

“I told you Doña Vorchenza was my adoptive mother,” said Reynart.

“Oh my,” said Conté, chuckling. “Now this is my sort of private party.”

“Has it occurred to any of you,” said Locke, crawling back to his feet, “to ask why the fuck I came all the way back to Raven’s Reach when I’d already made it clean away?”

“You jumped from one of the outside ledges,” said Doña Vorchenza, “and you grabbed one of the elevator cages as it went past, didn’t you?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, all the other ways to the ground were too unhealthy to consider.”

“You see? I told you, Stephen.”

“Perhaps I thought it was possible,” said the Vadran, “but I just didn’t want to think it had actually been done.”

“Stephen is not fond of heights,” said Vorchenza.

“He’s a very wise man,” said Locke, “but please, please listen to me. I came back to warn you—those sculptures. Capa Raza gave you four of them. Everyone in this tower is in awful fucking danger from them.”

“Sculptures?” Doña Vorchenza stared down at him curiously. “A gentleman left four gold-and-glass sculptures as a gift for the duke.” She looked over at Stephen. “I’m sure the duke’s security men have looked into them, and approved them. I wouldn’t know; I’m just consulting in this affair as a favor to some of my peers.”

“So I’ve been told by my superiors,” said Reynart.

“Oh, quit that,” said Locke. “You’re the Spider. I’m the Thorn of Camorr. Did you meet with Capa Raza? Did you meet a Bondsmage, styling himself the Falconer? Did they speak to you about the sculptures?”

Don and Doña Salvara were staring at Doña Vorchenza; the old woman stuttered and coughed.

“Whoops,” said Locke. “You hadn’t told Sofia and Lorenzo, had you? Playing the old friend-of-a-friend angle? Sorry. But I need to talk to you as the Spider. When Falselight comes, everyone in Raven’s Reach is fucked.”

“I knew it,” said Sofia. “I knew it!” She grabbed her husband by the arm and squeezed hard enough to make him wince. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“I’m still not so sure,” said Lorenzo.

“No,” said Doña Vorchenza, sighing. “Sofia has the truth of the matter. I am the duke’s Spider. Having said that, if it gets beyond this room, throats will be cut.”

Conté looked at her with surprise and a strange sort of approval in his eyes; Locke stumbled back to his feet.

“As for the matter of the sculptures,” said Doña Vorchenza, “I did clear them personally. They are a gift to the duke.”

“They’re a plot,” said Locke. “They’re a trap. Just open one up and you’ll see! Capa Raza means to ruin every man, woman, and child in this tower; it’ll be worse than murder.”

“Capa Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “was a perfect gentleman; he was almost too demure to accept my invitation to briefly join us this evening. This is another one of your fabulations, intended to bring you some advantage.”

“Oh, shit yes,” said Locke. “I marched back here after escaping and had myself cleverly tied up and hauled in here by the whole gods-damned Nightglass Company, on purpose. Now I’ve got you right where I fucking want you. Those sculptures are full of Wraithstone, Vorchenza! Wraithstone.”

“Wraithstone?” said Doña Sofia, aghast. “How can you know?”

“He doesn’t,” said Doña Vorchenza. “He’s lying. The sculptures are harmless.”

“Open one up,” said Locke. “There’s an easy remedy for this argument. Please, open one up. They catch fire at Falselight.”

“Those sculptures,” said Vorchenza, “are ducal property worth thousands of crowns. They will not be damaged on some mad whim of a known criminal.”

“Thousands of crowns,” said Locke, “versus hundreds of lives. Every peer in Camorr is going to be a drooling moron, do you understand? Can you imagine those children in that garden with white eyes like a Gentled horse? That’s what we’ll all be,” he shouted. “Gentled. That shit will eat our fucking souls.”

“Can it really hurt to check?” asked Reynart.

Locke looked up at Reynart with gratitude on his face. “No, it can’t, Reynart. Please do.”

Doña Vorchenza massaged her temples. “This is quite out of hand,” she said. “Stephen, throw this man somewhere secure until after the feast. A room without windows, please.”

“Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke, “what does the name Avram Anatolius mean to you?”

Her eyes were cold. “I couldn’t begin to say,” she said. “What do you imagine it means to you?”

“Capa Barsavi murdered Avram Anatolius twenty-two years ago,” said Locke. “And you knew about it. You knew he was a threat to the Secret Peace.”

“I can’t see what relevance this has to anything,” said Doña Vorchenza. “You will be silent now, or I’ll have you silenced.”

“Anatolius had a son,” said Locke with desperate haste, as Stephen took a step toward him. “A surviving son, Doña Vorchenza. Luciano Anatolius. Luciano is Capa Raza. Luciano took revenge on Barsavi for the murder of his parents and his siblings—now he means to have revenge on you as well! You and all your peers.”

“No,” said Doña Vorchenza, touching her head again. “No, that’s not right. I enjoyed the time I spent with Capa Raza. I can’t imagine he would do anything like this.”

“The Falconer,” said Locke. “Do you recall the Falconer?”

“Raza’s associate,” said Vorchenza distantly. “I … I enjoyed my time with him, as well. A quiet and polite young man.”

“He did something to you, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “I’ve seen him do it, right before my eyes. Did he speak your true name? Did he write something on a piece of parchment?”

“I … I … cannot … this is …” Doña Vorchenza cringed; the wrinkles of her face bent inward, as though she were in pain. “I must invite Capa Raza … It would be impolite not to invite him to the … to the feast.…” She slumped against her chair and screamed.

Lorenzo and Sofia rushed to her aid; Reynart picked Locke up by the front of his vest and slammed him against the north wall, hard. Locke’s feet dangled a foot off the ground.

“What did you do to her?” bellowed Reynart.

“Nothing,” gasped Locke. “A Bondsmage cast a spell over her! Think, man—is she being rational about the sculptures? The bastard did something to her mind.”

“Stephen,” said Doña Vorchenza in a hoarse voice, “put the Thorn down. He’s right. He’s right.… Raza and the Falconer … It’s like I’d forgotten, somehow. I wasn’t going to accept Raza’s request.… Then the Falconer did something at the desk, and I …”

She stood up once more, assisted by Sofia. “Luciano Anatolius, you said. Capa Raza is Avram Anatolius’ son? How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I tied that Bondsmage to the floor just an hour or two ago,” said Locke as Reynart let him slide back down the wall. “I cut off his fingers to get him to talk, and when he’d confessed everything I wanted to hear, I had his fucking tongue cut out, and the stump cauterized.”

Everyone in the room stared at him.

“I called him an asshole, too,” said Locke. “He didn’t like that.”

“It’s worse than death, to slay a Bondsmage,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“He’s not dead. He’s just very gods-damned sorry.”

Doña Vorchenza shook her head. “Stephen, the sculptures. There’s one on this floor, isn’t there? Beside the bar?”

“Yes,” said Reynart, moving for the door. “What else do you know about them, Thorn?”

“They’ve got alchemical fuses,” said Locke. “And clay pots of fire-oil. At Falselight, that fire-oil goes up; this whole tower fills with Wraithstone smoke. And Anatolius sails away, laughing his head off.”

“This Luciano Anatolius,” said Sofia, “is he the one we met on the stairs?”

“One and the same,” said Locke. “Luciano Anatolius, also known as Capa Raza, also known as the Gray King.”

“If these things are alchemical,” said Sofia, “I’d better be the one to have a look at them.”

“If it’s going to be dangerous, I’m going as well,” said Lorenzo.

“And me,” said Conté.

“Great! We can all go! It’ll be fun!” Locke waved his tied hands at the door. “But hurry it up, for fuck’s sake.”

Conté took him by the arm and pushed him along at the rear of the procession; Reynart and Vorchenza led their way out past the startled blackjackets. Reynart beckoned for them to follow. They left the hallway and returned to the main gallery.

“On the other side of the bar, by the glasses,” said Locke. “Behind one of the velvet ropes, I think.”

The crowd of red-faced revelers parted as the strange procession swept through the gallery. Reynart strode up to the blackjacket standing beside the glittering pyramid of wineglasses. “This end of the bar is temporarily closed. Make it so,” he said. Turning to his other soldiers, he said, “Cordon this area off fifteen or twenty feet back. Don’t let anyone else get close, in the name of the duke.”

Doña Sofia ducked under the velvet rope and crouched beside the sculpted pyramid, which was about three feet tall. The soft lights continued to flash and shift behind the glass windows set into its faces.

“Captain Reynart,” she said, “you had a pair of gloves at your belt, I seem to recall. May I borrow them?”

Reynart passed her a pair of black leather gloves, and she slipped them on. “It’s rarely wise to take too much for granted. Contact poisons are child’s play,” she said absently, and ran her fingers across the surface of the sculpture while peering at it closely. She shifted position several times, her frown deepening with each new examination.

“I can’t see any breach in the casing,” she said, standing up again. “Not so much as a seam; the workmanship is very good. If the device is intended to issue forth smoke, I can’t imagine how the smoke would escape.” She tapped a gloved finger against one of the glass windows.

“Unless …” She tapped the window again. “This is what we call ornamental glass; it’s thin and fragile. It’s not commonly used in sculpture, and we never use it in the laboratory, because it can’t take heat.…”

Her head whirled toward Locke; her almond-blonde ringlets spun like a halo. “Did you say there were pots of fire-oil in this device?”

“So I heard,” he replied, “from a man very eager not to lose his tongue.”

“That might be it,” she said. “Fire-oil could generate a great deal of heat inside a metal enclosure. It would shatter the glass—shatter the glass and let out the smoke! Captain, draw your rapier, please. I should like to use it.”

Concealing any qualms he might have had, Reynart drew his rapier and carefully passed it to her, hilt first. She examined the silver butt of the weapon, nodded, and used it to smash in the glass. It broke with a high-pitched tinkle. She reversed the rapier and used the blade to sweep away the jagged fragments from around the edges of the window, then passed it back to Reynart. There were mutters and exclamations from the watching crowd, who were barely being kept in check by Reynart’s thin arc of apologetic blackjackets.

“Careful, Sofia,” said Don Lorenzo.

“Don’t teach a sailor to shit in the ocean,” she muttered as she peered into the window, which was about eight inches wide at its base, tapering slightly toward the top. She reached in with one gloved hand and touched one of the shifting alchemical lights; she twisted her wrist and drew it out.

“Not even attached to anything,” she said as she set it on the ground beside her. “Oh, gods,” she whispered when she peeked back into the window without the light in her way. Her hand came up to her mouth and she stumbled back to her feet, shaking.

Doña Vorchenza stepped up directly beside her. “Well?”

“It’s Wraithstone,” said Doña Salvara with disgust. “The whole thing is full of it. I can see it in there—so much of it I can smell the powder.” She shuddered, as some people might when a large spider scuttles across their path. “There’s enough in just this one sculpture to do for the whole tower. Your Capa Raza wanted to be thorough.”

Doña Vorchenza stared out through the glass at the vista north of Camorr; the sky was noticeably darker than it had been even when Locke had been dragged past the bar for his second visit with Doña Vorchenza. “Sofia,” said the Countess Amberglass, “what can you do about these things? Can you prevent their ignition?”

“I don’t believe so,” said Doña Salvara. “I couldn’t see the alchemical fuses; they must be under the Wraithstone. And it’s also possible they might ignite if they’re interfered with. Trying to disable it might be as bad as letting it burn in the first place.”

“We need to get them out of the tower,” said Reynart.

“No,” said Sofia. “Wraithstone smoke rises; it’s lighter than the air around us. I doubt we can get them far enough away by Falselight. If they go off at the bottom of Raven’s Reach, we’ll still be standing in the column of smoke as it rises. The best thing to do would be to drown them; Wraithstone is rendered impotent by the admixture of water, after a few minutes. The fire-oil would still burn, but the white smoke wouldn’t rise. If only we could fling them into the Angevine!”

“We can’t,” said Vorchenza, “but we can drop them into the Sky Garden’s cistern; it’s ten feet deep and fifteen feet wide. Will that do?”

“Yes! Now we just need to get them up there.”

“Stephen—,” said Doña Vorchenza, but Captain Reynart was already in motion.

“My lords and ladies,” Reynart bellowed at the top of his voice. “Your assistance is urgently required, in the name of Duke Nicovante. Nightglass, to me; I require a clear path to the stairs, my lords and ladies. With all apologies, I will not be gentle with anyone in our way.”

“We need to fetch these damn things off the galleries and haul them up to the Sky Garden,” said Reynart. He grabbed one of his men by the shoulder. “Run up to the embarkation terrace and find Lieutenant Razelin. Tell him to clear the Sky Garden, on my authority. Tell him I don’t want a single child up there five minutes from now. He’ll know what to do. Act now, apologize later.”

“Free my hands,” said Locke. “Those things are heavy; I’m not terribly strong, but I can help.”

Doña Vorchenza looked at him curiously. “Why did you come back to warn us, Master Thorn? Why didn’t you simply make good on your escape?”

“I’m a thief, Doña Vorchenza,” he said quietly. “I’m a thief, and maybe even a murderer, but this is too much. Besides, I mean to kill Raza. If he wanted it, I had to foil it. Simple as that.” He held out his hands, and she nodded slowly.

“You can help, but we must speak afterward.”

“Yes, we must—hopefully without needles this time,” said Locke. “Conté, be a friend and get rid of these ropes.”

The lean bodyguard slashed through Locke’s bonds with one of his knives. “If you try to fuck around,” he growled, “I’ll put you in the cistern and have them drop the sculptures on top of you.”

Locke, Conté, Reynart, Don Salvara, and several blackjackets knelt to lift the sculpture; Sofia watched for a second or two, frowning, and then shoved her way in beside her husband to take part of his edge.

“I shall find the duke,” said Vorchenza. “I shall see that he’s notified of what’s going on.” She hurried away across the gallery.

“Well, this isn’t so bad with eight of us,” said Reynart, “but it’s going to be awkward as all hell. We’ve got quite a few steps to go up.”

Stumbling along together, they hauled the sculpture up one flight of stairs. More blackjackets were waiting on that gallery floor. “Find all of these sculptures,” Reynart yelled. “Eight men to each of them! Find them and carry them up to the Sky Garden. In the duke’s name, give a good shove to anyone who gets in your way—and by the gods, don’t drop them!”

Soon multiple parties of struggling, swearing soldiers were hauling sculptures up in the wake of Reynart’s party. Locke was panting and sweating; the others around him weren’t much better off.

“What if this thing goes off in our arms?” muttered one of the blackjackets.

“First, we’d burn our hands,” said Sofia, red-faced with exertion. “Then we’d all fall over senseless before we could take six steps, and then we’d be Gentled. And then we’d feel very silly, wouldn’t we?”

Up to the last gallery and beyond; they left the feast in their wake. Guards and servants leapt aside as they stumbled along service passages. At the very top of Raven’s Reach, a wide marble staircase wound its way up to the Sky Garden, spiraling along the inside of the smoky-transparent exterior walls. All of Camorr whirled around them as they went up spiral after spiral; the sun was just half a pale medallion, sinking below the curved western horizon. Strange dark shapes hung down from above; Locke had to stare at them for several seconds before he realized they were the dangling vines of the Sky Garden, swaying in the wind outside.

Dozens of children were running down past them, shouting, chased by blackjackets and scolded by servants. The staircase opened onto the rooftop garden, which really was a forest in miniature. Olive trees and orange trees and alchemical hybrids with rustling emerald leaves rippled in the warm wind beneath the cloudless purple sky.

“Where’s the damn cistern?” asked Locke. “I’ve never been up here.”

“On the eastern edge of the garden,” said Lorenzo. “I used to play up here.”

Beneath the dangling tendrils of a weeping willow they found the cistern—a circular pond ten feet across, as Doña Vorchenza had promised. Without preamble, they heaved the sculpture into the water; a great splash sprang up in its wake, dousing two of the blackjackets. It sank rapidly, trailing a milky white cloud in the water, and struck the bottom of the cistern with a heavy clank.

One by one the other three sculptures were tossed in on top of it, until all four were beneath the surface of the now-milky water and the Sky Garden was crowded with blackjackets.

“Now what?” Locke panted.

“Now we should clear the roof,” said Doña Sofia. “That’s still a great deal of Wraithstone; I wouldn’t want anyone near it, even with it underwater. Not until a few hours have passed.”

Everyone else on the roof was only too happy to comply with her suggestion.

6

FALSELIGHT WAS just beginning to rise when Doña Vorchenza met them on the top gallery of Raven’s Reach. The scintillating streamers of ghostly color from the Elderglass towers could just be seen through the tall door to the embarkation platform. The gathering was in an uproar around them; blackjackets were running to and fro, uttering apologies to dons and doñas as they stumbled against them.

“It’s as good as war,” she said when the Salvaras, Locke, Conté, and Reynart gathered around her. “To try something like this! Gods! Nicovante’s calling up the Nightglass, Stephen; you’re going to have a busy night.”

“Midnighters?” he asked.

“Get them all out of here,” said Vorchenza, “quickly and quietly. Assemble at the Palace of Patience; have them ready for a scrap. I’ll throw them in wherever Nicovante decides they can do the most good.

“Master Thorn,” she said, “we are grateful to you for what you’ve done; it will earn you a great deal of consideration. But now your part in this affair is over. I’ll have you taken over to Amberglass under guard. You’re a prisoner, but you’ve earned some comforts.”

“Bullshit,” said Locke. “You owe me more than that. Raza’s mine.”

“Raza,” said Doña Vorchenza, “is now the most wanted man in all Camorr; the duke intends to crush him like an insect. His domains will be invaded and the Floating Grave thrown open.”

“You idiots,” cried Locke. “Raza isn’t commanding the Right People, he’s fucking using them! The Floating Grave is empty; Raza’s escaping as we speak. He didn’t want to be Capa of Camorr; he just wanted to use the position to get Barsavi and wipe out the peerage of Camorr.”

“How do you know so much about the affairs of Raza, Master Thorn?”

“Raza forced me to help him fox Capa Barsavi, back when Raza was still calling himself the Gray King. The deal was that he’d let me go after that, but it was a double cross. He killed three of my friends and he took my money.”

“Your money?” said Don Lorenzo, curling one hand into a fist. “I daresay you mean our money!”

“Yes,” said Locke. “And everything I took from Doña de Marre, and Don Javarriz, and the Feluccias. More than forty thousand crowns—a fortune. Raza stole it from me. I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t have it anymore.”

“Then you’ve nothing of further value to bargain with,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“I said I didn’t have it anymore, not that I didn’t know where it was,” said Locke. “Raza’s got it mingled with Barsavi’s fortune, ready to smuggle out of the city. It was meant to be used to pay for his Bondsmage.”

“Then tell us where it is,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“Raza’s mine,” said Locke. “I get sent back down to the ground and I go free. Raza killed three of my friends, and I mean to cut out his fucking heart; I’d trade all the white iron in Camorr for the chance.”

“Men are hanged in this city for stealing a few pieces of silver,” said Doña Vorchenza, “and you propose to go free after stealing tens of thousands of full crowns? I think not.”

“It’s a moment of truth, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “Do you want the money back? I can tell you where it is; I’ll tell you right where to find it, along with Barsavi’s fortune, which has to be considerable. In exchange, all I want is Raza. I go free and I kill the man who tried to wipe out you and all your peers. Be reasonable! Now that you all know my face and my voice, I can hardly return to my old career, at least here in Camorr.”

“You presume too much.”

“Did the Spider of Camorr prevent Capa Raza from filling Raven’s Reach with enough Wraithstone to Gentle the whole fucking city? No, that was the Thorn of Camorr, thanks very much. Every man and woman and child here tonight is only alive because I have a soft fucking heart, not because you were doing your job. You owe me, Vorchenza. You owe me, on your honor. Give me Raza and you can have the money, too.”

She gave him a stare that could have turned water to ice. “On my honor, Master Thorn,” she said at last, “for services rendered to the duke and to my peers. You may go free, and if you beat us to Raza, you may have him, though if you do not, I shall not apologize. And should you resume your activities, and our paths cross again, I will have you executed without trial.”

“Seems fair. I’m going to need a sword,” said Locke. “I nearly forgot.”

To his surprise, Captain Reynart unbuckled his rapier belt and tossed it to Locke. “Get it wet,” he said. “With my compliments.”

“Well,” said Doña Vorchenza as Locke strapped the belt around his waist, over Meraggio’s excellent blue breeches. “Now the money. Where is it?”

“North of the Teeth of Camorr, there are three shit-barges at the private docks. You know the ones; they haul all the drek and excrement out of the city and take it north to the fields.”

“Of course,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“Raza’s been having his fortune hidden on one of them,” said Locke. “In wooden chests, sealed in layers of oilcloth, for obvious reasons. After he slips out of Camorr, his plan is to meet the barge up north and offload the treasure. It’s all there, underneath those heaps of shit—begging your pardon.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“I didn’t say my answer was going to be pleasant,” said Locke. “Think about it. What’s the last place anyone would want to look for a cache of coins?”

“Hmmm. Which barge?”

“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I just know that it’s one of the three.”

Vorchenza looked over at Reynart.

“Well,” said the captain, “there are reasons the gods saw fit to invent the enlisted man.”

“Oh, shit,” said Locke, swallowing a lump in his throat. Make this good, he thought. Make this very good. “Doña Vorchenza, this isn’t over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Boats, barges, escape. I’ve been thinking. The Falconer made all sorts of strange jokes when he was under my knife. He was taunting me with something; I didn’t have a chance to figure it out until now. That plague ship. The Satisfaction. You have to sink it.”

“And why would that be?”

“It belongs to Anatolius,” said Locke. “According to the Falconer, Anatolius was a pirate on the White Iron Sea, building up his fortunes so he could hire a Bondsmage and return to Camorr for his revenge. The Satisfaction is his ship. But Anatolius isn’t planning to escape on it—he’s leaving the city to the north, going up the Angevine.”

“Meaning what?”

“The Falconer was dropping hints about a backup plan,” said Locke. “That plague ship is the backup plan. It’s not full of corpses, Doña Vorchenza. It has a token crew—men who’ve survived exposure to Black Whisper, like the duke’s Ghouls. A token crew and holds full of animals—goats, sheep, donkeys. I thought the Falconer was just trying to be irreverent … but think about it.”

“Animals can carry the Whisper,” said Reynart.

“Yes,” said Locke. “It doesn’t kill them, but they can sure as hell give it to us. Sink that fucking ship, Doña Vorchenza. It’s Raza’s other stroke. If he finds out he failed to wipe out the peers, he may attempt to take his revenge on the entire city. His last chance.”

“Madness,” Doña Vorchenza whispered, but she looked half-convinced.

“Anatolius already tried to wipe out every last peer of Camorr, down to the children. He is mad, Countess Amberglass. How well do you think he’ll react to frustration? All his men have to do is beach that ship against the quay and let those animals out. If they get under way, you might not be able to stop them in time. Or maybe they’ll just toss a few sheep into the city with a catapult. Sink that fucking ship.”

“Master Thorn,” said Doña Vorchenza, “you have a curiously tender heart, for a thief of your appetites.”

“I’m a sworn brother of the Nameless Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, the Benefactor,” said Locke. “I’m a priest. I didn’t save the people in this tower just to see my entire city die. For propriety’s sake, Doña Vorchenza, for propriety’s sake—sink that gods-damned ship. I beg you.”

She stared at him over the edges of her half-moon optics, then turned to Reynart. “Captain,” she said slowly, “go to the lantern station on the embarkation platform. Flash messages to the Arsenal and the Dregs.”

She folded her hands over her stomach and sighed. “On my authority, in the name of Duke Nicovante, sink the Satisfaction and shoot down any survivor who tries to reach shore.”

Locke sighed with relief. “Thank you, Doña Vorchenza. Now—my elevator?”

“Your elevator, Master Thorn.” She actually ground her teeth together for a second. “As promised. I’ll have one made ready for you without delay. If the gods should give you Capa Raza before my men find him … may they give you strength.”

“I’m going to miss you, Doña Vorchenza,” said Locke. “And you as well, my lord and lady Salvara—all apologies for getting most of your fortune buried under shit. I hope we can still be friends.”

“Set foot in our house again,” said Sofia, “and you’ll become a permanent fixture in my laboratory.”

7

BLUE LIGHT flashed from the embarkation platform of Raven’s Reach; even against the shifting glimmer of Falselight, it stood out well enough to be seen at the relay station atop the Palace of Patience. In moments, shutters were falling rapidly open and closed over signal lanterns; the message passed through the air over the heads of thousands of revelers and arrived at its destinations—the Arsenal, the South Needle, the Dregs.

“Holy mother of shit,” said the watch-sergeant in the tower at the very tip of the South Needle, blinking to clear his eyes, wondering if he’d counted the signal flashes right. He slipped his illicit Day of Changes wineskin beneath his chair with pangs of guilt.

“Watch-sergeant,” said his younger companion, “that ship’s up to something awful funny.”

Out on the water of Old Harbor, the Satisfaction was slowly turning to larboard; sailors could just barely be seen atop the yards of the main and foremasts, preparing to unfurl topsails. Dozens of small dark shapes were moving on deck, doubly lit by the glow of yellow lamps and the glare of Falselight.

“She’s casting, sir. She’s going to make for sea—where’d all those people come from?” said the younger watchman.

“I don’t know,” said the sergeant, “but the signal’s just gone up. Merciful gods, they’re going to sink that yellow-lit bitch.”

Pinpoints of bright orange light began to erupt around the periphery of the Dregs; each little engine-tower had emergency oil lamps that served to signal when they were both manned and ready for action. Drums beat within the Arsenal, and whistles sounded from across the city, above the low echoing murmur of the Day of Changes crowds.

One of the engines on the Dregs’ shore loosed with an echoing crash. The stone was a blurred shadow in the air; it missed by yards and raised a white fountain on the frigate’s starboard side.

The next engine to let fly hurled an arc of orange-white fire that seemed to hang in the sky, a hypnotic banner of burning light. The South Needle watchmen stared in awe as it crashed down onto the Satisfaction‘s deck, spraying hot tendrils in every direction. Men ran frantically about on the deck, some of them obviously on fire. One leapt from the vessel’s side, plunging into the water like a burning cinder thrown into a puddle.

“Gods, that’s fire-oil,” said the younger watchman. “It won’t stop burning even down there.”

“Well, even sharks like cooked meat,” said the sergeant with a chuckle. “Poor bastards.”

A stone crashed against the side of the frigate, shattering wooden rails and sending splinters flying. Men whirled and screamed and fell to the deck; the fire was rising into the sails and rigging, despite the frantic efforts of the Satisfaction’s crew to control it with sand. Another fire-barrel exploded against the quarterdeck; the men and women at the wheel were engulfed in a roaring nimbus of white flame. They didn’t even have time to scream.

Stones battered the ship and tore through her few fluttering sails; fires burned out of control at her bow, her stern, and amidships. Fingers of orange and red and white capered about the decks and rose into the sky, along with smoke in several colors. Under the arc of a dozen throwing-engines, the unarmed and nearly motionless frigate never had a chance. Five minutes after the signal had flashed forth from Raven’s Reach, the Satisfaction was a pyre—a mountain of red-and-white flame reaching up from the water that rippled like a red mirror beneath the dying ship’s hull.

Archers took up position on the shore, ready to shoot down any survivors who tried to swim for it, but there were none. Between the fire and the water and the things that lurked in the harbor’s depths, arrows were unnecessary.

8

LUCIANO ANATOLIUS, the Gray King, the Capa of Camorr, the last living member of his family line, stood alone on the upper deck of the Floating Grave, beneath the silk awnings that fluttered in the Hangman’s Wind, beneath the dark sky that reflected the eerie waver of Falselight, and watched his ship burn.

He stared into the west with the red fire rippling in his eyes, and he did not blink; he stared north, to the glowing tower of Raven’s Reach, where flashing blue and red lights could be seen, where no cloud of pale white smoke was rising against the sky.

He stood alone on the deck of the Floating Grave, and he did not cry, though in his heart he desired nothing more at that moment.

Cheryn and Raiza would not have cried. Mother and Father would not have cried. They had not cried, when Barsavi’s men had kicked in their door in the middle of the night, when his father had died trying to defend them all long enough for Gisella to bundle him and the little twins out the back door.

The Satisfaction burned before his eyes, but in his mind he was running through the darkness of the gardens once again, thirteen years old, stumbling over familiar paths with branches lashing his face and hot tears streaming down his cheeks. In the villa behind them, knives were rising and falling; a small child was crying for her mother—and then that crying suddenly stopped.

“We’ll never forget,” Raiza had said, in the dark hold of the ship that had carried them to Talisham. “We’ll never forget, will we, Luciano?”

Her little hand had curled tight inside his; Cheryn slept uneasily against his other side, murmuring and crying out in her sleep.

“We’ll never forget,” he’d replied. “And we’ll go back. I promise you, someday we’ll go back.”

He stood on the deck of Barsavi’s fortress, in Camorr, and he had the power to do exactly nothing as his ship turned the waters of Old Harbor bloodred with its death.

“Capa Raza?”

There was a hesitant voice behind him; a man came up through the passage from the galleries below. One of the Rum Hounds, from the extravagant gambling circle that had grown in his throne room. He turned slowly.

“Capa Raza, this just got brought in … one of the Falselight Cutters, Your Honor. Says a man in Ashfall gave him a tyrin and told him to get this to you right away.”

The man held out a burlap sack; RAZA was scrawled on it in rough black letters—the ink still seemed to be wet.

Luciano took the bag and waved the man away; the Rum Hound ran for the passage and vanished down it, not at all pleased with what he’d seen in his master’s eyes.

The Capa of Camorr opened the bag and found himself staring down at the body of a scorpion hawk—a headless scorpion hawk. He turned the bag upside down and let the contents fall to the deck; the head and the body of Vestris bounced against the wooden planks. A folded, bloodstained piece of parchment fluttered down after them. He grabbed at it and opened it:

WE’RE COMING.

Luciano stared down at the note for an unknown interval of time. It might have been five seconds; it might have been five minutes. Then he crumpled it in his hands and let it fall. It hit the deck and rolled to a rest beside Vestris’ glassy, staring eyes.

If they were coming, they were coming. There would be time enough for escape when this last personal debt was discharged.

He went down the passage to the gallery below, into the light and the noise of the ongoing party. The smell of smoke and liquor hung in the air; his booted feet made the boards creak as he hurried down the stairs.

Men and women looked up from their cards and dice as he stalked past. Some waved and shouted greetings or honorifics; none of them received any response. Capa Raza threw open the door to his private suite of apartments (formerly Barsavi’s) and vanished inside for several minutes.

When he emerged, he was dressed as the Gray King, in his old fog-gray leather vest and breeches, in his gray sharkskin boots with the tarnished silver buckles, in his gray swordsman’s gloves creased at the knuckles from use, in his gray cloak and mantle with the hood raised. His cloak fluttered behind him as he moved forward; the lights of the Floating Grave gleamed on the naked steel of his drawn rapier.

The party died in an instant.

“Get out,” he said. “Get out and stay away. Leave the doors open. No guards. Get out while I’ll still give you the chance.”

Cards spiraled down to the deck; dice rattled across the wood. Men and women jumped to their feet, dragging drunk comrades with them. Bottles rolled and wine pooled as the general retreat progressed. In less than a minute, the Gray King stood alone at the heart of the Floating Grave.

He strolled slowly over to a bank of silver cords that hung down from the ceiling on the starboard side of the old galleon. He pulled on one and the white lights of the chandeliers died; he pulled another and the curtains over the room’s tall windows were pulled back, opening the throne room to the night. A tug on a third cord, and red alchemical globes came to life in dark niches on the walls; the heart of the wooden fortress became a cave of carmine light.

He sat upon his throne with the rapier balanced across his legs, and the red light made fires of his eyes within the shadowed hood.

He sat upon his throne and waited for the last two Gentlemen Bastards to find him.

9

AT HALF past the tenth hour of the evening, Locke Lamora entered that throne room and stood with one hand on his rapier, staring at the Gray King, seated thirty yards away in his silent audience chamber. Locke was breathing hard, and not merely from his journey south; he’d covered most of the distance on a stolen horse.

The feel of the hilt of Reynart’s blade beneath his hand was at once exhilarating and terrifying. He knew he was probably at a disadvantage in a straightforward fight, but his blood was up. He dared to imagine that anger and speed and hope could sustain him for what was coming. He cleared his throat.

“Gray King,” he said.

“Thorn of Camorr.”

“I’m pleased,” said Locke. “I thought you might have left already. But I’m sorry … you needed that frigate, didn’t you? I had my good friend, the Countess Amberglass, send it to the bottom of the fucking bay.”

“That deed,” said the Gray King in a weary voice, “will lose its savor in a few minutes, I assure you. Where’s Jean Tannen?”

“On his way,” said Locke. “On his way.”

Locke walked forward slowly, cutting the distance between them in half.

“I warned the Falconer not to toy with Tannen,” said the Gray King. “Apparently, my warning wasn’t heeded. I congratulate you both for your improbable resilience, but now I fear I’ll be doing you a favor by killing you before the Bondsmagi can take their revenge.”

“You’re assuming the Falconer is dead,” said Locke. “He’s still breathing, but he’ll, ah, never play any musical instruments again.”

“Interesting. How have you done all this, I wonder? Why does the Death Goddess scorn to snuff you like a candle? I wish I knew.”

“Fuck your wishes. Why did you do it the way you did, Luciano? Why didn’t you try for an honest accommodation with us? One might have been reached.”

“Might,” said the Gray King. “There was no room for ‘might,’ Lamora. There were only my needs. You had what I needed, and you were too dangerous to let live once I had it. You’ve made that only too clear.”

“But you could have settled for simple theft,” said Locke. “I would have given it all to keep Calo and Galdo and Bug alive. I would have given it all, had you put it to me like that!”

“What thief does not fight to hold what he has?”

“One that has something better,” said Locke. “The stealing was more the point for us than the keeping; if the keeping had been so fine, we would have found something to fucking do with it all.”

“Easy to say, in hindsight.” The Gray King sighed. “You would have said something different, when they were still alive.”

“We stole from the peers, you asshole. We stole from them exclusively. Of all the people to double-cross … You aided the nobility when you tried to wipe us out. You gave the people you hate a gods-damned gift.”

“So you relieved them of their money, Master Lamora, scrupulously refraining from taking lives in the process.… Should I applaud? Name you a brother-in-arms? There’s always more money, Lamora. Theft alone would not teach them the lesson they had coming.”

“How could you do it, Luciano? How could a man who lost what you lost, who felt what you felt for Barsavi do the same to me?”

“The same?” The Gray King leapt up; the rapier was in his hand. “The same? Were your parents murdered in their beds to protect a lie, Master Lamora? Were your infant siblings put to the knife so they could never grow old enough to revenge? Thief! You don’t know what crime truly is.”

“I lost three brothers at your hands,” said Locke. “I almost lost four. You didn’t need to do it. When you thought you were finished with me, you tried to kill hundreds. Children, Luciano, children—born years after Barsavi murdered your parents. It must be nice to be righteous; from where I’m standing it looks like fucking lunacy.”

“They were sheltered by the Secret Peace,” said the Gray King. “They were parasites, guilty by birth. Save your arguments, Priest. Don’t you think I’ve had them with myself on too many nights to count over the past twenty-two fucking years?”

The Gray King took a step forward, the tip of his blade rising in Locke’s direction.

“If it were in my power,” he said, “I would knock this city to the ground and write the names of my family in its ashes.”

“Ila justicca vei cala,” Locke whispered. He stepped forward once again, until they were separated by barely two yards. He slid Reynart’s rapier out of its scabbard and stood at guard.

“Justice is red.” The Gray King faced Locke with his knees bent, the true edge of his rapier facing the ground, in the position Camorri fencers called the waiting wolf. “It is indeed.”

Locke struck out before the Gray King had finished speaking; for an eyeblink darting steel cut an afterimage in the air between the two men. The Gray King parried Locke’s thrust, forte to foible, and riposted with speed more than equal to Locke’s own. Lamora avoided a skewering only by an undignified backward lunge; he landed in a crouch with his left hand splayed out to keep himself from going ass-over-elbows on the hard wood of the deck.

Warily, Locke circled in the direction the lunge had knocked him, barely rising from his crouch. A dagger appeared in his left hand as though by legerdemain; this he twirled several times.

“Hmm,” said the Gray King. “Tell me you don’t mean to fight Verrari-style. I find the school insipid.”

“Please yourself.” Locke wiggled his dagger suggestively. “I’ll try not to get too much blood on your cloak.”

Sighing theatrically, the Gray King plucked one of two narrow-hilted daggers from his own belt, and held it out so that his blades opened in the air before him like jaws. He then took two exaggerated hops forward.

Locke flicked his gaze down to the Gray King’s feet for a fraction of a second, realizing almost too late that he was intended to do just that. He whipped himself to his right and barely managed a parry with his dagger; the Gray King’s thrust slid off and cut the air just an inch from his left shoulder. His own riposte met the Gray King’s dagger as though intended for it. Again, Anatolius was too fast by half.

For a few desperate seconds, the two men were fully engaged. Their blades wove silver ghosts in the air—crossing and uncrossing, feint and false feint, thrust and parry. Locke remained just out of reach of the Gray King’s longer, more muscular cuts while the Gray King caught and turned Locke’s every lunge with easy precision. At last they flew apart and stood panting, staring at one another with the resigned, implacable hatred of fighting dogs.

“Hmmm,” said the Gray King, “an illuminating passage.”

He flicked out almost casually with his rapier; Locke darted back once again and parried feebly, tip to tip, like a boy in his first week of training. The Gray King’s eyes glittered.

“Most illuminating.” Again, a casual flick; again, Locke jumped back. “You’re not actually very good at this, are you?”

“It would be to my advantage if you thought so, wouldn’t it?”

At this the Gray King actually laughed. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” With one decisive gesture, he flung his cloak and mantle to the ground. A wild grin had etched deep furrows of anticipation into his lean face. “No more bluffs. No more games.”

And then he fell on Locke, his footwork a blur, his brutality unmatched by anything in Locke’s memory. Behind his blade, there were twenty years of experience and twenty years of blackest hatred. Some tiny, detached part of Locke’s mind cooly registered his own inadequacy as he desperately flailed parry after parry, chasing phantom thrusts with his eyes and hands even while the Gray King’s steel was punching through cloth and flesh.

Once, twice, three times—in between breaths, the Gray King’s blade sang out and bit Locke’s left wrist, forearm, and biceps.

Cold surprise hit Locke harder than the pain of the thrusts; then the warm blood began to flow across his sweat-slick skin, tickling devilishly, and a wave of nausea rose up from the pit of his stomach. The dagger dropped from his left hand, red with the wrong man’s blood.

“At last we come to something you cannot pretend your way out of, Master Lamora.” The Gray King flicked Locke’s blood from the tip of his rapier and watched it splash against the wooden deck in an arc. “Good-bye.”

Then he was moving again, and in the wine-colored light of the alchemical globes the full length of his blade was bright scarlet.

“Aza Guilla,” Locke whispered, “give me justice for the death of my friends. Give me blood for the death of my brothers!”

His voice rising to a shout, he thrust, missed, and thrust again, willing all of his desperate hatred and fear into each cut, driving the blade faster than he ever had in his life, and still the Gray King caught and turned his every thrust; still the Gray King displaced himself from the path of Locke’s cuts as though fighting a child.

“It seems that the final difference between us, Master Lamora,” said the Gray King between passages, “is that I knew what I was doing when I stayed here to meet you one last time.”

“No,” gasped Locke, “the difference between us is that I am going to have my revenge.”

Cold pain exploded in Locke’s left shoulder, and he stared down in horror at the Gray King’s blade, sunk three inches into his flesh just above his heart. The Gray King twisted savagely, scraping bone as he withdrew his rapier, and the sensation sent Locke tumbling to his knees, his useless left arm thrown out instinctively to break his fall.

But instinct, too, betrayed him here; his hand struck the hard deck palm-up, folded awkwardly under the full weight of his arm, and with a terrible sharp snap his left wrist broke. He was too shocked to scream. A split second later the Gray King slammed a vicious kick into the side of Locke’s head, and Locke’s world became a kaleidoscope of agony, tumbling end over end as stinging tears filled his eyes. Reynart’s rapier clattered across the deck.

Locke was conscious of the wood pressing up against his back. He was conscious of the blood that misted his vision. He was conscious of the bright, hot rings of pain that radiated from his shattered wrist, and of the slick wet agony of the hole in his shoulder joint. But most of all he was conscious of his own shame, his own terror of failure, and the great weight of three dead friends, lying unavenged, lying unquiet because Locke Lamora had lost.

He sucked in a great gasping breath, kindling new flickers of pain all across his chest and back, but now it was all one pain, all one red sensation that drove him up from the ground. Bellowing without an ounce of reason in his voice, he pulled his legs in and whipped himself up, attempting to tackle the Gray King around the stomach.

The killing thrust that had been falling toward Locke’s heart struck his left arm instead; impelled with every ounce of the Gray King’s ferocity, it punched fully through the meat of Locke’s slender forearm and out the other side. Wild with pain, Locke threw this arm forward and up as the Gray King struggled to withdraw; the edges of his rapier worked a terrible business on Locke’s flesh, but stayed caught, sawing back and forth at the muscle as the two men struggled.

The Gray King’s dagger loomed before Locke’s eyes; some animal instinct drove Locke to lash out with the only weapon available. His teeth sank into the first three fingers of the Gray King’s hand where they wrapped around the hilt; he tasted blood and felt bone beneath the tips of his teeth. The Gray King cried out and the dagger fell sideways, rebounding off Locke’s left shoulder before clattering to the deck. The Gray King jerked his hand free, and Locke spat the man’s skin and blood back at him.

“Give it up!” the Gray King screamed, punching Locke atop his skull, then across his nose. With his good right arm, Locke clutched for the Gray King’s sheathed dagger. The Gray King slapped his hand away, laughing.

“You can’t win. You can’t win, Lamora!” With every exhortation, the Gray King rained blows on Locke, who clutched at him desperately, as a drowning man might hug a floating timber. The Gray King laughed savagely as he pummeled Lamora’s skull, his ears, his forehead, and his shoulders, deliberately driving his fist down into the seeping wound. “You … cannot … beat me!”

“I don’t have to beat you,” Locke whispered, grinning madly up at the Gray King, his face streaked with blood and tears, his nose broken and his lips cracked, his vision swimming and edged with blackness. “I don’t have to beat you, motherfucker. I just have to keep you here … until Jean shows up.”

At that, the Gray King became truly desperate, and his blows fell like rain, but Locke was heedless of them, laughing the wet braying laugh of utter madness. “I just have to keep you here … until Jean … shows up!”

Hissing fury, the Gray King shook Locke’s grip off enough to make a grab for his sheathed dagger. As he tore his left hand from Locke’s right, Lamora let a gold tyrin coin fall from his sleeve into his palm; a desperate flick of his wrist sent the coin caroming off the wall behind the Gray King, echoing loudly.

“There he is, motherfucker!” Locke yelled, spraying blood across the front of the Gray King’s shirt. “Jean! Help me!”

And the Gray King whirled, dragging Locke halfway around with him; whirled in fear of Jean Tannen before he realized that Locke must be lying; whirled for just the half second that Locke would have begged from any god that would hear his prayer. Whirled for the half second that was worth Locke’s entire life.

He whirled just long enough for Locke Lamora to snake his right arm around the Gray King’s waist, and slide out the dagger sheathed there, and bury it with a final scream of pain and triumph in the Gray King’s back, just to the right of his spine.

The Gray King’s back arched, and his mouth hung open, gasping in the icy thrall of shock; with both of his arms he pushed at Locke’s head, as though by prying the smaller man off him he could undo his wound, but Locke held fast, and in an impossibly calm voice he whispered, “Calo Sanza. My brother and my friend.”

Backward, the Gray King toppled, and Locke slid the knife out of his back just before he struck the deck. Locke fell on top of him. He raised the dagger once again and brought it down in the middle of the Gray King’s chest, just beneath his rib cage. Blood spurted and the Gray King flailed, moaning. Locke’s voice rose as he worked the knife farther in: “Galdo Sanza, my brother and my friend!”

With one last convulsive effort, the Gray King spat warm coppery blood into Locke’s face and grabbed at the dagger that transfixed his chest; Locke countered by bearing down with his useless left side, batting the Gray King’s hands away. Sobbing, Locke wrenched the dagger out of the Gray King’s chest, raised it with a wildly shaking right arm, and brought it down in the middle of the Gray King’s neck. He sawed at the windpipe until the neck was half-severed and great rivers of blood were flowing on the deck. The Gray King shuddered one last time and died, his wide white eyes still fixed on Locke’s.

“Bug,” Locke whispered. “His real name was Bertilion Gadek. My apprentice. My brother. And my friend.”

His strength failed, and he slid down atop the Gray King’s corpse.

“My friend.”

But the man beneath him said nothing, and Locke was acutely aware of the stillness of the chest beneath his ears; of the heart that should have been beating against his cheek, and he began to cry—long wild sobs that racked his entire body, drawing new threads of agony from his tortured nerves and muscles. Mad with grief and triumph and the red haze of pain and a hundred other feelings he couldn’t name, he lay atop the corpse of his greatest enemy and bawled like a baby, adding saltwater to the warm blood that covered the body of the Gray King.

He lay there shaking in the light of the red lamps, in a silent hall, alone with his triumph, unable to move and bleeding to death.

10

JEAN FOUND him there just a minute or two later; the big man turned Locke over and slid him off the Gray King’s corpse, eliciting a sincere howl of pain from his half-conscious friend.

“Oh, gods,” Jean cried. “Oh, gods, you fucking idiot, you miserable fucking bastard.” He pressed his hands against Locke’s chest and neck as though he could simply will the blood back into his body. “Why couldn’t you wait? Why couldn’t you wait for me?”

Locke stared drunkenly up at Jean, his mouth a little O of concern.

“Jean,” Locke whispered gravely, “you have … been running. You were in … no condition to fight. Gray King … so accommodating. Could not refuse.”

Jean snorted despite himself. “Gods damn you, Locke Lamora. I sent him a message. I thought it might keep him around a while.”

“Bless your heart. I did … get him, though. I got him and I burnt his ship.”

“So that’s what happened,” Jean said, very gently. “I saw. I was watching the fire from the other side of the Wooden Waste; I saw you walk into the Floating Grave like you owned the place, and I came running as fast as I could. But you didn’t even need me.”

“Oh no.” Locke swallowed, grimacing at the taste of his own blood. “I made excellent use … of your reputation.”

At this Jean said nothing, and the forlorn light of his eyes chilled Locke more than anything yet.

“So this is revenge,” Locke mumbled.

“It is,” whispered Jean.

After a few seconds, new tears welled up in Locke’s eyes and he closed them, shaking his head. “It’s a shit business.”

“It is.”

“You have to leave me here.”

At this, Jean rocked back on his knees as though he’d been slapped. “What?”

“Leave me, Jean. I’ll be dead … just a few minutes. They won’t get anything from me. You can still get away. Please … leave me.”

Jean’s face turned bright red—a red that showed even by the light of the alchemical globes—and his eyebrows arched, and every line in his face drew so taut that Locke found the energy to be alarmed. Jean’s jaw clenched; his teeth ground together, and the planes of his cheeks stood out like mountain ridges under his gilding of fat.

“That is a hell of a thing for you to say to me,” he finally hissed in the flattest, deadliest voice Locke had ever heard.

“I made a mistake, Jean!” Locke croaked in desperation. “I couldn’t really fight him. He did for me before I could cheat my way out of it. Just promise … promise me that if you ever find Sabetha, you’ll—”

“You can find her yourself, half-wit, after we both get the hell out of here!”

“Jean!” Locke clutched weakly at the lapels of Jean’s coat with his good hand. “I’m sorry, I fucked up. Please don’t stay here and get caught; the blackjackets will be coming, soon. I couldn’t bear to have you taken. Please just leave me. I can’t walk.”

“Idiot,” Jean whispered, brushing away hot tears with his good hand. “You won’t have to.”

Working awkwardly but rapidly, Jean took up the Gray King’s cloak and tied it around his own neck, creating a makeshift sling for his right arm. This he slid beneath Locke’s knees, and straining mightily, he was able to pick the smaller man up and cradle him in front of his chest. Locke moaned.

“Quit sobbing, you damn baby,” Jean hissed as he began to lope back along the dock. “You must have at least a half beer glass of blood left somewhere in there.” But Locke was now well and truly unconscious, whether from pain or blood loss Jean couldn’t tell, and his skin was so pale that it almost looked like glass. His eyes were open but unseeing, and his mouth hung open, trailing blood and spittle.

Panting and shuddering, ignoring the wrenching pains of his own wounds, Jean turned and began to run as fast as he could.

The body of the Gray King lay forgotten on the deck behind him, and the red light shone on in the empty hall.

INTERLUDE

A Minor Prophecy

Father Chains sat on the roof of the House of Perelandro, staring down at the astonishingly arrogant fourteen-year-old that had grown out of the little orphan he’d purchased so many years before from the Thiefmaker of Shades’ Hill.

“Someday, Locke Lamora,” he said, “someday, you’re going to fuck up so magnificently, so ambitiously, so overwhelmingly that the sky will light up and the moons will spin and the gods themselves will shit comets with glee. And I just hope I’m still around to see it.”

“Oh, please,” said Locke. “It’ll never happen.”

EPILOGUE

FALSELIGHT

1

THE EIGHTEENTH OF Parthis in the Seventy-eighth Year of Aza Guilla; wet Camorri summer. The whole city had a hangover and the sky did, too.

Warm rain was falling in sheets, spattering and steaming in the glow of Falselight. The water caught the Falselight glimmer like layers of shifting, translucent mirrors and formed split-second works of art in the air, but men cursed it anyway, because it made their heads wet.

“Watch-sergeant! Watch-sergeant Vidrik!”

The man yelling outside Vidrik’s station at the south end of the Narrows was another watchman; Vidrik stuck his lean, weathered face out through the window beside the shack’s door and was rewarded with a stream of runoff on his forehead. Thunder boomed overhead. “What is it, son?”

The watchman approached out of the rain; it was Constanzo, the new lad just shifted in from the North Corner. He was leading a Gentled donkey; behind the donkey was an open-topped cart, with two more yellowjacketed watchmen at its rear. They huddled in their oilcloaks and looked miserable, which meant they were sensible men.

“Found something, Sergeant,” said Constanzo. “Something pretty fucked.”

Teams of yellowjackets and blackjackets had been combing the south of Camorr since the previous night; rumors were swirling of some sort of assassination attempt at Raven’s Reach. Gods only knew what the Spider thought his boys should be doing turning over stones in the Dregs and the Ashfall districts, but Vidrik was used to never hearing the whys and the wherefores.

“Define ‘pretty fucked,’ ” he yelled as he slipped into his own oilcloak and threw up the hood. He stepped out into the rain and crossed to the donkey-cart, waving to the two men standing behind it. One of them owed him two barons from the previous week’s dicing.

“Have a look,” said Constanzo, sweeping back the wet blanket that covered the donkey-cart’s cargo. Beneath it was a man, youngish and very pale, balding, with a fuzz of stubble on his cheeks. He was fairly well dressed, in a gray coat with red cuffs. It happened to be spattered with blood.

The man was alive, but he lay in the cart with his fingerless hands pressed against his cheeks, and he stared up at Vidrik without a speck of sane comprehension in his eyes. “Mahhhhhh,” he moaned as the rain fell on his head, “mwaaaaaaaaah!”

His tongue had been cut out; a dark scar covered the stump at the bottom of his mouth, oozing blood.

“Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

“Sweet fucking Perelandro,” said Vidrik, “tell me I don’t see what I see on his wrists.”

“It’s a bondsmage, Sergeant,” said Constanzo. “It is—or it was.”

He threw the soaked blanket back over the man’s face and reached inside his oilcloak. “There’s more. Show it to you inside?”

Vidrik led Constanzo back into his shack; the two men swept their hoods back but didn’t bother taking their cloaks off. Constanzo pulled out a piece of folded parchment.

“We found this fellow tied to a floor over in Ashfall,” he said. “Pretty gods-damned weird. This parchment was on his chest.”

Vidrik took it and unfolded it to read:

PERSONAL ATTENTION OF THE DUKE’S SPIDER

FOR RETURN TO KARTHAIN

“Gods,” he said. “A real Karthani bondsmage. Looks like he won’t be recommending Camorr to his friends.”

“What do we do with him, Sergeant?”

Vidrik sighed, folded the letter, and passed it back to Constanzo.

“We pass the coin, lad,” he said. “We pass this fucking coin right up the chain of command and we forget we ever saw it. Haul him to the Palace of Patience and let someone else give it a ponder.”

2

FALSELIGHT GLIMMERED on the rain-rippled water of Camorr Bay as Doña Angiavesta Vorchenza, dowager countess of Amberglass, stood on the dock, huddled in a fur-lined oilcloak, while teams of men with wooden poles prowled through a barge full of rain-sodden shit beneath her. The smell was attention-grabbing.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” said the watch-sergeant at her left hand. “We’re positive there’s nothing on the other two barges, and we’ve been at this one for six hours. I sincerely doubt that anything will turn up. We will, of course, continue our efforts.”

Doña Vorchenza sighed deeply and turned to look at the carriage that stood on the dock behind her, drawn by four black stallions and framed with alchemical running lights in the Vorchenza colors. The door was open; Don and Doña Salvara sat inside peering out at her, along with Captain Reynart. She beckoned to them.

Reynart was the first to reach her side; as usual he wore no oilcloak and he bore the heavy rain with stiff-necked stoicism. The Salvaras were sensibly covered up against the downpour; Lorenzo held up a silk parasol to shield his wife even further.

“Let me guess,” said Reynart. “They’re full of shit.”

“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza. “Thank you for your time, Watch-sergeant; you are dismissed. You may call your men out of the barge, as well. I don’t believe we’ll be needing them anymore.”

As the greatly relieved yellowjackets filed away down the dock, wooden poles held very carefully on their shoulders, Doña Vorchenza seemed to shudder and gasp. She put her hands to her face and bent forward.

“Doña Vorchenza,” cried Sofia, rushing forward to grab her by the shoulders. As they all bent close around her, she suddenly straightened up and cackled, gasping in air between bursts of dry-sounding laughter. She shook with it; her tiny fists punched the air before her.

“Oh, gods,” she gasped. “This is too much.”

“What? Doña Vorchenza, what’s the matter?” Reynart grabbed her by the arm and peered at her.

“The money, Stephen.” She chuckled. “The money was never anywhere near this place. The little bastard had us digging through shit-barges purely for his own amusement. The money was on board the Satisfaction.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Isn’t it plain? It’s all striking me from so many directions at once. Capa Raza assisted with the charitable contributions to the plague ship, yes?”

“He did.”

“Not from any sense of charitable duty. But because he needed a means to move his fortune out to the frigate!”

“Out to a plague ship?” said Doña Sofia. “That wouldn’t do him any good.”

“It would if there was no plague,” said Doña Vorchenza. “The plague was a lie.”

“But,” said Don Lorenzo, “why was Lukas so adamant about sinking that ship? Was it simple pique? If he couldn’t have it, no one could?”

“His name was Callas, Lorenzo dear—Tavrin Callas.”

“Whichever, darling,” said Lorenzo. “Forty-five thousand crowns, plus whatever Barsavi’s fortune came to. That’s a great deal of money to put out of everyone’s grasp, forever.”

“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And he told us why he was doing it while he stood there. Damn me for a fool.”

“I fear,” said Doña Sofia, “I speak for the rest of us when I say we don’t follow.”

“The Thorn said he was a priest of the Thirteenth,” she said. “The heresy of the Nameless Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden, the god of thieves and malefactors. ‘For propriety’s sake,’ he said. ‘For propriety’s sake.’ He said that on purpose.”

She laughed again, biting down on her knuckles to contain herself.

“Oh, gods. Anatolius killed three of his friends. So don’t you see? There was no danger on that ship; he didn’t want it sunk to save Camorr. It was a death-offering, Stephen, a death-offering.”

Reynart slapped one hand against his forehead; water flew.

“Yes,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And I sank it for him, in sixty fathoms of shark-infested water, neat as you please.”

“So …,” said Don Lorenzo, “all of our money is three hundred and sixty feet down on the bottom of Old Harbor?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Doña Vorchenza.

“Ah … what do we do now?”

Doña Vorchenza sighed and meditated for a few moments. “First,” she said when she looked back up at the Salvaras, “all the truths behind this affair will be declared state secrets of the Duchy of Camorr; I bind you all to silence concerning them. The Thorn of Camorr is a myth; the money he allegedly stole never existed; the duke’s Spider never took any formal interest in the matter.”

“But,” said Doña Sofia, “they told Lorenzo that’s how the Thorn guarantees his own secrecy! When they stole into our house dressed as Midnighters!”

“Yes,” said her husband, “one of the false Midnighters specifically told me that the Thorn relied on the embarrassment of his victims to keep his thefts secret from other potential victims, and I don’t think that part was a lie.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Doña Vorchenza. “But nonetheless, that’s just what we’re going to do. In time, you’ll come to understand that a state like ours cannot afford to offer up a show of weakness for honesty’s sake; Duke Nicovante charges me with vouchsafing his security, not his conscience.”

The Salvaras stared at her, saying nothing.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” she said. “Your real punishment for getting involved in this mess has not yet begun. Come back to Amberglass with me, and let’s talk about the penalty.”

“Our punishment, Doña Vorchenza?” said Lorenzo hotly. “Our punishment was nearly seventeen thousand crowns! Haven’t we been punished enough?”

“Not nearly,” said Doña Vorchenza. “I’ve decided who’s to inherit the title of Countess Amberglass when it’s my time to pass on.” She paused for just a moment before continuing. “Or, should I say, Count and Countess Amberglass.”

“What?” Sofia squeaked like a girl of eight. A particularly squeaky girl of eight, much accustomed to squeaking, loudly.

“It’s no blessing,” said Doña Vorchenza. “It comes with a job.”

“You can’t be serious,” said Don Lorenzo. “There are two dozen families on the Alcegrante with more rank and honor than ourselves; the duke would never name us to Amberglass before them.”

“I believe I know Nicovante somewhat better than you do, young man,” said Doña Vorchenza. “And I believe the inheritance is mine to dictate.”

“But … the job,” said Doña Salvara. “You can’t mean …”

“Of course I do, Sofia. I can’t live forever. Each time something like this affair lands in my lap, I suddenly recall that I don’t want to live forever. Let someone else play the Spider; we’ve deceived everyone for all these years letting them think the office was held by a man. Now let’s deceive them further by passing it on to two individuals.”

She put her arm through Reynart’s and allowed him to help her back toward the carriage.

“You’ll have Stephen to help you, and to run your operations; he’ll serve as the link between you and the Midnighters. You both have acceptably malleable wits. Given just a few more years, I’m sure I can whip the two of you into something resembling the shape I require.”

“And then?” asked Doña Sofia.

“And then, my dear, all these gods-damned crises will be yours to deal with.” Doña Vorchenza sighed. “Old sins will never be buried so deep that they cannot rise again when least expected. And so you’ll pay for the good of Camorr with the coin of your own conscience, parceled out year after year, until that purse is empty at last.”

3

“MASTER LAMORA,” cried Ibelius, “this is entirely unacceptable!”

The sea at Falselight was a surging field of gray and green; the waves rolled and crashed around the galleon Golden Gain—one of only two vessels that had bothered to put out from Camorr that evening, bound for Talisham and thence to Tal Verrar. The wind wailed in the shrouds and sails of the elderly vessel, and sailors in oilcloaks hurried here and there on the decks, muttering private prayers to Iono, Lord of the Grasping Waters.

Locke Lamora lay on a pile of tarp-covered crates on the galleon’s raised stern deck, bundled in blankets within oilcloths within tarps, like a sausage roll. Nothing of him was visible but his abnormally pale (and heavily bruised) face, poking out of the layers around him. Jean Tannen sat at his side, bundled against the rain, but not to the point of immobility.

“Master Ibelius,” said Locke in a weak voice, made nasal by his broken nose, “each time I have left Camorr, I have done it by land. This is something new.… I wanted to see it, one last time.”

“You are very near death, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. “It is foolish for you to be larking about on deck in this weather.”

“Ibelius,” said Jean, “if what Locke is doing were larking about, corpses could get jobs as acrobats. Can we have a moment’s peace?”

“From the attentions that have sustained his life this past day? By all means, young masters. Enjoy your sea view, and on your heads be it!”

Ibelius stomped off across the rolling deck, sliding in this direction and that, quite unaccustomed to life at sea.

Camorr was diminishing behind them, fading gradually between shifting curtains of rain. Falselight rose up from the lower city like an aura above the waves; the Five Towers shone ghostly beneath the churning skies. The wake of the galleon seemed to gleam with phosphorescence—a roiling Falselight of its own.

They sat on the stern deck and watched the dark horizon swallow the city behind them.

“I’m sorry, Locke,” said Jean. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more useful to you, at the end.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You killed Cheryn and Raiza; I could never have done that. You pulled me out of the Floating Grave. You hauled me back to Ibelius and got another lovely fucking poultice smeared all over me. What do you have to apologize for—besides the poultice?”

“I’m a liability,” he said. “My name. I’ve been using my real name all my life, and I never thought it’d come to anything bad.”

“What, the bondsmage? Oh, gods, Jean. Take a false name wherever we end up. Tavrin Callas is good. Let the bastard pop up all over the place; the order of Aza Guilla will have a surfeit of miracles to cherish.”

“I tried to kill you, Locke. I’m sorry.… I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“You didn’t try to kill me, Jean. The Falconer did. You couldn’t do anything about it. Gods, I’m the one with his arm slashed open and his shoulder punched in, and you’re over there moping. Enough!”

Thunder rumbled in the clouds overhead, and there was the sound of shouted orders from the forward deck of the ship.

“Jean,” said Locke, “you are a greater friend than I ever could have imagined before I met you; I owe you my life too many times over to count. I would rather be dead myself than lose you. Not just because you’re all I have left.”

Jean said nothing for several minutes; they stared north across the Iron Sea as the whitecaps lashed one another with an increasing tempo.

“Sorry,” said Jean. “Mouth sort of ran away with me. Thanks, Locke.”

“Well, cheer up. At least you’ve got more mobility than a fucking tadpole on dry land. Look at my little oilcloth castle.” Locke sighed. “So this is winning,” he said.

“It is,” replied Jean.

“It can go fuck itself,” said Locke.

They passed another few minutes in silence and rain.

“Locke,” said Jean at last, hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“If you don’t mind my asking … what is your real name?”

“Oh, gods.” Locke smiled weakly. “Can’t I have any secrets?”

“You know mine.”

“Yeah, but you’ve only got the one anyway.”

“Not a fair point.”

“Oh, fine,” said Locke. “Get over here.”

Jean stumbled over to the pile of crates on which Locke was lying, and bent down to put his ear near Locke’s mouth. Locke whispered five syllables, and Jean’s eyes widened.

“You know,” he said, “I’d have gone with Locke in preference to that, myself.”

“Tell me about it.”

The galleon rode south before the winds of the storm, and the last few glimmers of Falselight faded behind them. The lights drew down into the darkness, and then they were gone for good, and the rain swept in like a wall above the surface of the sea.

AFTERWORD

A chunk of incredible good fortune fell right out of the sky and landed on my head when this novel was picked up for publication. I owe many thanks to Simon Spanton, Gillian Redfearn, Krystyna Kujawinska, Hannah Whitaker, and Susan Howe at Orion Books, not to mention Anne Groell at Bantam.

It takes a village to keep a first-time author’s ego stoked (or in check, as necessary). I couldn’t have asked for more patient or generous supporters than my parents, Jill and Tom Lynch—nor would anything have been the same without a certain energetic crew of online miscreant-savants: Gabe Chouinard, Matthew Woodring Stover, Kage Baker, Bob Urell, Summer Brooks, M. Lynn Booker, Chris Billett, Gabriel Mesa, Alex Berman, Clucky, Mastadge, Shevchyk, Ariel, and all the rest—including the readers and players of the role-playing game Deeds Not Words.

Thanks also to friends near and far—Jason McCray, Darren Wieland, Cleo McAdams, Jayson Stevens, Peg Kerr, Philip Shill, Bradford Walker, J. H. Frank, Jason Sartin, Abra Staffin-Wiebe, Sammi and Lewis, Mike and Becky, Bridget and Joe, Annie and Josiah, Erik and Aman, Mike and Laura, Paul, Adrian, Ben and Jenny Rose, Aaron, Jesse, Chris and Ren, Andy Nelson, and last but not least Rose Miller, who’s not tall enough to ride the ride just yet, but we let her on anyway.

New Richmond, Wisconsin

September 16, 2005

RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES
A Bantam Spectra Book / August 2007

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved
Copyright © 2007 by Scott Lynch

Maps by Robert Bull

Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lynch, Scott, 1978–
Red seas under red skies / Scott Lynch.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-553-80468-3 (hardcover)
eISBN: 978-0-553-90358-4
1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3612.Y5427R43 2007
813’.6—dc22       2007018597

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1_r2

For Matthew Woodring Stover,
a friendly sail on the horizon.
Non destiti, nunquam desistam.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue: A Strained Conversation

I: Cards in the Hand

Chapter One: Little Games

Reminiscence: The Capa of Vel Virazzo

Chapter Two: Requin

Reminiscence: Best-Laid Plans

Chapter Three: Warm Hospitality

Reminiscence: The Lady of the Glass Pylon

Chapter Four: Blind Alliances

Reminiscence: The Amusement War

Chapter Five: On a Clockwork River

Last Reminiscence: By Their Own Rope

Chapter Six: Balance of Trades

Chapter Seven: Casting Loose

II: Cards up the Sleeve

Chapter Eight: Summer’s End

Chapter Nine: The Poison Orchid

Chapter Ten: All Souls in Peril

Chapter Eleven: All Else, Truth

Chapter Twelve: Port Prodigal

Chapter Thirteen: Points of Decision

III: Cards on the Table

Chapter Fourteen: Scourging the Sea of Brass

Chapter Fifteen: Between Brethren

Chapter Sixteen: Settling Accounts

Epilogue: Red Seas Under Red Skies

Afterword

Acknowledgments

PROLOGUE

A Strained Conversation

1

Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.

He grinned and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of each other’s blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.

“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your situation.”

Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”

They were standing two-by-two on the pier, Locke beside Jean, their assailants beside one another. Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised; four cold metal bolts were cranked and ready scant inches away from the heads of four understandably nervous men. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.

“All four of us would seem to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean.

On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood at the very end of their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire city.

“Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,” said Locke’s opponent. “We’ve been instructed not to kill you, if we don’t have to.”

“And I’m sure you’d be honest if it were otherwise, of course,” said Locke. His smile grew. “I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.”

“Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.”

“I’ll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We’re not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached.”

“Actually,” said Jean, “I know who sent them.”

“Really?” Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary once again.

“And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn’t call it happy.”

“Ah … Jean, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“No.” Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully shifted his aim to his left—until his crossbow was pointing at Locke’s head. The man he’d previously been threatening blinked in surprise. “You’ve lost me, Locke.”

“Jean,” said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, “this isn’t funny.”

“I agree. Hand your piece over to me.”

“Jean—”

“Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing out of my face and point it at him.”

Jean’s former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn’t move. Jean ground his teeth together. “Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I’m doing your job for you. Point your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!”

“Jean, I would describe this turn of events as less than helpful,” said Locke, and he would have said more, except that Jean’s opponent chose that moment to take Jean’s advice.

It seemed to Locke that sweat was now veritably cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous moisture were abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.

“There. Three on one.” Jean spat on the pier and waved toward the two assailants with his free hand. “You gave me no choice but to cut a deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out—gods damn it, you forced me. I’m sorry. I thought they’d make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your weapon over.”

“Jean, what the hell do you think you’re—”

“Don’t. Don’t say another fucking thing. Don’t try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and hand it over.”

Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean’s quarrel, his mouth open in disbelief. The world around him seemed to fade to that tiny, gleaming point, alive with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean would have given him a hand signal if he were lying.… Where the hell was the hand signal?

“I don’t believe this,” he whispered. “This is impossible.”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Locke.” Jean ground his teeth together and held his aim steady, directly between Locke’s eyes. “Take your finger off the trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon. Right now.”

I
CARDS IN THE HAND

“If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time.”

Chinese Proverb

CHAPTER ONE

LITTLE GAMES

1

THE GAME WAS CAROUSEL HAZARD, the stakes were roughly half of all the wealth they commanded in the entire world, and the plain truth was that Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen were getting beaten like a pair of dusty carpets.

“Last offering for the fifth hand,” said the velvet-coated attendant from his podium on the other side of the circular table. “Do the gentlemen choose to receive new cards?”

“No, no—the gentlemen choose to confer,” said Locke, leaning to his left to place his mouth close to Jean’s ear. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “What’s your hand look like?”

“A parched desert,” Jean murmured, casually moving his right hand up to cover his mouth. “How’s yours?”

“A wasteland of bitter frustration.”

“Shit.”

“Have we been neglecting our prayers this week? Did one of us fart in a temple or something?”

“I thought the expectation of losing was all part of the plan.”

“It is. I just expected we’d be able to put up a better fight than this.”

The attendant coughed demurely into his left hand, the card-table equivalent of slapping Locke and Jean across the backs of their heads. Locke leaned away from Jean, tapped his cards lightly against the lacquered surface of the table, and grinned the best knew-what-he-was-doing sort of grin he could conjure from his facial arsenal. He sighed inwardly, glancing at the sizable pile of wooden markers that was about to make the short journey from the center of the table to his opponents’ stacks.

“We are of course prepared,” he said, “to meet our fate with heroic stoicism, worthy of mention by historians and poets.”

The dealer nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen both decline last offering. House calls for final hands.”

There was a flurry of shuffling and discarding as the four players formed their final hands and set them, facedown, on the table before them.

“Very well,” said the attendant. “Turn and reveal.”

The sixty or seventy of Tal Verrar’s wealthiest idlers who had crowded the room behind them to watch every turn of Locke and Jean’s unfolding humiliation now leaned forward as one, eager to see how embarrassed they would be this time.

2

TAL VERRAR, the Rose of the Gods, at the westernmost edge of what the Therin people call the civilized world.

If you could stand in thin air a thousand yards above Tal Verrar’s tallest towers, or float in lazy circles there like the nations of gulls that infest the city’s crevices and rooftops, you could see how its vast dark islands have given this place its ancient nickname. They seem to whirl outward from the city’s heart, a series of crescents steadily increasing in size, like the stylized petals of a rose in an artist’s mosaic.

They are not natural, in the sense that the mainland looming a few miles to the northeast is natural. The mainland cracks before wind and weather, showing its age. The islands of Tal Verrar are unweathered, possibly unweatherable—they are the black glass of the Eldren, unimaginable quantities of it, endlessly tiered and shot through with passages, glazed with layers of stone and dirt from which a city of men and women springs.

This Rose of the Gods is surrounded by an artificial reef, a broken circle three miles in diameter, shadows under shadowed waves. Against this hidden wall the restless Sea of Brass is gentled for the passage of vessels flying the banners of a hundred kingdoms and dominions. Their masts and yards rise in a forest, white with furled sails, far beneath your feet.

If you could turn your eye to the city’s western island, you would see that its interior surfaces are sheer black walls, plunging hundreds of feet to the softly lapping harbor waves, where a network of wooden docks clings to the base of the cliffs. The seaward side of the island, however, is tiered along its entire length. Six wide, flat ledges sit one atop the other with smooth fifty-foot escarpments backing all but the highest.

The southernmost district of this island is called the Golden Steps—its six levels are thick with alehouses, dicing dens, private clubs, brothels, and fighting pits. The Golden Steps are heralded as the gambling capital of the Therin city-states, a place where men and women may lose money on anything from the mildest vices to the wickedest felonies. The authorities of Tal Verrar, in a magnanimous gesture of hospitality, have decreed that no foreigner upon the Golden Steps may be impressed into slavery. As a result, there are few places west of Camorr where it is safer for strangers to drink their brains out and fall asleep in the gutters and gardens.

There is rigid stratification on the Golden Steps; with each successively higher tier, the quality of the establishments rises, as do the size, number, and vehemence of the guards at the doors. Crowning the Golden Steps are a dozen baroque mansions of old stone and witchwood, embedded in the wet green luxury of manicured gardens and miniature forests.

These are the “chance houses of quality”—exclusive clubs where men and women of funds may gamble in the style to which their letters of credit entitle them. These houses have been informal centers of power for centuries, where nobles, bureaucrats, merchants, ships’ captains, legates, and spies gather to wager fortunes, both personal and political.

Every possible amenity is contained within these houses. Notable visitors board carriage-boxes at exclusive docks at the base of the inner harbor cliffs, and are hauled up by gleaming brass water engines, thereby avoiding the narrow, twisting, crowd-choked ramps leading up the five lower Steps on their seaward face. There is even a public dueling green—a broad expanse of well-kept grass lying dead-center on the top tier, so that cooler heads need not be given any chance to prevail when someone has their blood up.

The houses of quality are sacrosanct. Custom older and firmer than law forbids soldiers or constables to set foot within them, save for response to the most heinous crimes. They are the envy of a continent: no foreign club, however luxurious or exclusive, can quite recapture the particular atmosphere of a genuine Verrari chance house. And they are, one and all, put to shame by the Sinspire.

Nearly one hundred and fifty feet tall, the Sinspire juts skyward at the southern end of the topmost tier of the Steps, which is itself more than two hundred and fifty feet above the harbor. The Sinspire is an Elderglass tower, glimmering with a pearly black sheen. A wide balcony decked with alchemical lanterns circles each of its nine levels. At night, the Sinspire is a constellation of lights in scarlet and twilight-sky blue, the heraldic colors of Tal Verrar.

The Sinspire is the most exclusive, most notorious, and most heavily guarded chance house in the world, open from sunset to sunrise for those powerful, wealthy, or beautiful enough to make it past the whims of the doorkeepers. Each ascending floor outdoes the one beneath it for luxury, exclusivity, and the risk ceiling of the games allowed. Access to each higher floor must be earned with good credit, amusing behavior, and impeccable play. Some aspirants spend years of their lives and thousands of solari trying to catch the attention of the Sinspire’s master, whose ruthless hold on his unique position has made him the most powerful arbiter of social favor in the city’s history.

The code of conduct at the Sinspire is unwritten, but as rigid as that of a religious cult. Most simply, most incontrovertibly, it is death to be caught cheating here. Were the archon of Tal Verrar himself to be detected with a card up his sleeve, he would find no appeal this side of the gods themselves from the consequences. Every few months, the tower’s attendants discover some would-be exception to the rule, and yet another person dies quietly of an alchemical overdose in their carriage, or tragically “slips” from the balcony nine stories above the hard, flat stones of the Sinspire’s courtyard.

It has taken Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen two years and a completely new set of false identities to carefully cheat their way up to the fifth floor.

They are, in fact, cheating at this very moment, trying hard to keep up with opponents who have no need to do likewise.

3

“LADIES SHOW a run of Spires and a run of Sabers, crowned with the Sigil of the Sun,” said the attendant. “Gentlemen show a run of Chalices and a mixed hand, crowned with the five of Chalices. Fifth hand is to the ladies.”

Locke bit the inside of his cheek as a wave of applause rippled through the warm air of the room. The ladies had taken four of the five hands so far, and the crowd had barely deigned to notice Locke and Jean’s sole victory.

“Well, damn,” said Jean, in credible mock surprise.

Locke turned to the opponent on his right. Maracosa Durenna was a slender, dark-complexioned woman in her late thirties, with thick hair the color of oil smoke and several visible scars on her neck and forearms. In her right hand she held a thin black cigar wrapped with gold thread, and on her face she wore a tight smile of detached contentment. The game was clearly not demanding her utmost exertion.

The attendant flicked Locke and Jean’s little pile of lost wooden counters toward the ladies’ side of the table with a long-handled crop. He then used the same crop to sweep all the cards back into his hands; it was strictly forbidden for players to touch the cards after the attendant had called for the reveal.

“Well, Madam Durenna,” said Locke, “my congratulations on the increasingly robust state of your finances. Your purse would seem to be the only thing growing faster than my impending hangover.” Locke knuckle-walked one of his markers over the fingers of his right hand. The little wooden disk was worth five solari, roughly eight months’ pay for a common laborer.

“My condolences on a particularly unfortunate run of cards, Master Kosta.” Madam Durenna took a long drag from her cigar, then slowly exhaled a stream of smoke so that it hung in the air between Locke and Jean, just far enough away to avoid direct insult. Locke had come to recognize that she used the cigar smoke as her strat péti, her “little game”—an ostensibly civilized mannerism actually cultivated to distract or annoy opponents at a gaming table, and goad them into mistakes. Jean had planned to use his own cigars for the same purpose, but Durenna’s aim was better.

“No run of cards could be considered truly unfortunate in the presence of such a lovely pair of opponents,” said Locke.

“I could almost admire a man who can stay so charmingly dishonest while being bled of all his silver,” said Durenna’s partner, who was seated on Durenna’s right, between her and the dealer.

Izmila Corvaleur was nearly of a size with Jean, wide and florid, prodigiously rounded in every place a woman could be round. She was undeniably attractive, but the intelligence that shone out of her eyes was sharp and contemptuous. In her Locke recognized a contained pugnacity akin to that of a street brawler—a honed appetite for hard contests. Corvaleur nibbled constantly from a silver-gilded box of cherries coated in powdered chocolate, sucking her fingers loudly after each one. Her own strat péti, of course.

She was purpose-built for Carousel Hazard, thought Locke. A mind for the cards and a frame capable of withstanding the game’s unique punishment for losing a hand.

“Default,” said the attendant. Within his podium, he tripped the mechanism that set the carousel spinning. This device, in the center of the table, was a set of circular brass frames that held row upon row of tiny glass vials, each one capped in silver. It whirled under the soft lantern light of the gaming parlor, until it became continuous streaks of silver within brass, and then—a clinking sound of mechanisms beneath the table, the rattle of many tiny vessels of thick glass colliding with one another, and the carousel spat out two of its vials. They rolled toward Locke and Jean and clattered against the slightly upraised outer rim of the table.

Carousel Hazard was a game for two teams of two; an expensive game, for the clockwork carousel mechanism came very dear. At the end of each hand, the losing team was randomly dispensed two vials from the carousel’s great store of little bottles; these held liquor, mixed with sweet oils and fruit juice to disguise the potency of any given drink. The cards were only one aspect of the game. Players also had to maintain concentration under the increasing effects of the devilish little vials. The only way a game could end was for a player to become too drunk to keep playing.

Theoretically, the game could not be cheated. The Sinspire maintained the mechanism and prepared the vials; the little silver caps were fastened tight over wax seals. Players were not permitted to touch the carousel, or another player’s vials, on pain of immediate default. Even the chocolates and cigars being consumed by the players had to be provided by the house. Locke and Jean could even have refused to allow Madam Corvaleur the luxury of her sweets, but that would have been a bad idea for several reasons.

“Well,” said Jean as he cracked the seal on his tiny libation, “here’s to charming losers, I suppose.”

“If only we knew where to find some,” said Locke, and in unison they tossed back their drinks. Locke’s left a warm, plum-flavored trail down his throat—it was one of the potent ones. He sighed and set the empty vial down before him. Four vials to one, and the way his concentration seemed to be unraveling at the edges meant that he was beginning to feel it.

As the attendant sorted and shuffled the cards for the next hand, Madam Durenna took another long, satisfied draw on her cigar and flicked the ashes into a solid-gold pot set on a pedestal behind her right hand. She exhaled two lazy streams of smoke through her nose and stared at the carousel from behind a gray veil. Durenna was a natural ambush predator, Locke thought, always most comfortable behind some camouflage. His information said that she was only recently arrived in the life of a city-bound merchant speculator. Her previous profession had been the command of bounty-privateers, hunting and sinking the slaver ships of Jerem on the high seas. She hadn’t acquired those scars drinking tea in anyone’s parlor.

It would be very, very unfortunate if a woman like her were to realize that Locke and Jean were counting on what Locke liked to call “discreetly unorthodox methods” to win the game—hell, it would be preferable to simply lose the old-fashioned way, or to be caught cheating by the Sinspire attendants. They, at least, would probably be quick and efficient executioners. They had a very busy establishment to run.

“Hold the cards,” said Madam Corvaleur to the attendant, interrupting Locke’s musings. “Mara, the gentlemen have indeed had several hands of unfortunate luck. Might we not allow them a recess?”

Locke concealed his instant excitement; the pair of Carousel Hazard partners that held the lead could offer their opponents a short break from the game, but the courtesy was rarely extended, for the obvious reason that it allowed the losers precious time to shake the effects of their liquor. Was Corvaleur trying to cover for some distress of her own?

“The gentlemen have seen a great deal of strenuous effort on our behalf, counting all those markers and pushing them over to us again and again.” Durenna drew smoke, expelled it. “You would honor us, gentlemen, if you would consent to a short pause to refresh and recover yourselves.”

Ah. Locke smiled and folded his hands on the table before him. So that was the game—play to the crowd and show off how little regard the ladies truly had for their opponents, how inevitable they considered their own victory. This was etiquette fencing, and Durenna had performed the equivalent of a lunge for the throat. Outright refusal would be terrible form; Locke and Jean’s parry would have to be delicate.

“How could anything be more refreshing,” said Jean, “than to continue our game against such an excellent partnership?”

“You’re too kind, Master de Ferra,” said Madam Durenna. “But would you have it said that we were heartless? You’ve refused us neither of our comforts.” She used her cigar to gesture at Madam Corvaleur’s sweets. “Would you refuse us our desire to give a comfort in exchange?”

“We would refuse you nothing, madam, and yet we would beg leave to answer your greater desire, for which you’ve troubled yourselves to come here tonight—the desire to play.”

“There are many hands yet before us,” added Locke, “and it would wound Jerome and myself to inconvenience the ladies in any way.” He made eye contact with the dealer as he spoke.

“You have thus far presented no inconvenience,” said Madam Corvaleur sweetly.

Locke was uncomfortably aware that the attention of the crowd was indeed hanging on this exchange. He and Jean had challenged the two women widely regarded as the best Carousel Hazard players in Tal Verrar, and a substantial audience had packed all the other tables on the fifth floor of the Sinspire. Those tables should have been hosting games of their own, but by some unspoken understanding between the house and its patrons, other action in the parlor had ceased for the duration of the slaughter.

“Very well,” said Durenna. “We’ve no objection to continuing, for our sakes. Perhaps your luck may even turn.”

Locke’s relief that she had abandoned her conversational ploy was faint; she did, after all, have every expectation of continuing to thrash money out of him and Jean, like a cook might beat weevils from a bag of flour.

“Sixth hand,” said the attendant. “Initial wager will be ten solari.” As each player pushed forward two wooden coins, the attendant tossed three cards down in front of them.

Madam Corvaleur finished another chocolate-dusted cherry and sucked the sweet residue from her fingers. Before touching his cards, Jean slid the fingers of his left hand briefly under the lapel of his coat and moved them, as though scratching an itch. After a few seconds, Locke did the same. Locke caught Madam Durenna watching them, and saw her roll her eyes. Signals between players were perfectly acceptable, but a bit more subtlety was preferred.

Durenna, Locke, and Jean peeked at their cards almost simultaneously; Corvaleur was a moment behind them, with her fingers still wet. She laughed quietly. Genuine good fortune or strat péti? Durenna looked eminently satisfied, but Locke had no doubt she maintained that precise expression even in her sleep. Jean’s face revealed nothing, and Locke for his part tried on a thin smirk, although his three opening cards were pure trash.

Across the room, a curving set of brass-railed stairs, with a large attendant guarding their foot, led up toward the sixth floor, briefly expanding into a sort of gallery on the way. A flicker of movement from this gallery caught Locke’s attention; half concealed in shadow was a slight, well-dressed figure. The warm golden light of the room’s lanterns was reflected in a pair of optics, and Locke felt a shivery thrill of excitement along his spine.

Could it be? Locke tried to keep one eye on the shadowy figure while pretending to fixate on his cards. The glare on those optics didn’t waver or shift—the man was staring at their table, all right.

At last, he and Jean had attracted (or stumbled into, and by the gods they’d take that bit of luck) the attention of the man who kept his offices on the ninth floor—master of the Sinspire, clandestine ruler of all Tal Verrar’s thieves, a man with an iron grip on the worlds of larceny and luxury both.

In Camorr they would have called him capa, but here he affected no title save his own name.

Requin.

Locke cleared his throat, turned his eyes back to the table, and prepared to lose another hand with grace. Out on the dark water, the soft echo of ships’ bells could be heard, ringing the tenth hour of the evening.

4

“EIGHTEENTH HAND,” said the dealer. “Initial wager will be ten solari.” Locke had to push aside the eleven little vials before him, with a visibly shaking hand, to slide his buy-in forward. Madam Durenna, steady as a dry-docked ship, was working on her fourth cigar of the night. Madam Corvaleur seemed to be wavering in her seat; was she perhaps more red-cheeked than usual? Locke tried not to stare too intently as she placed her initial wager; perhaps the waver came solely from his own impending inebriation. It was nearing midnight, and the smoke-laced air of the stuffy room scratched at Locke’s eyes and throat like wool.

The dealer, emotionless and alert as ever—he seemed to have more clockwork in him than the carousel did—flicked three cards to the tabletop before Locke. Locke ran his fingers under his coat lapel, then peeked at his cards and said “Ahhhh-ha,” with a tone of interested pleasure. They were an astonishing constellation of crap; his worst hand yet. Locke blinked and squinted, wondering if the alcohol was somehow masking a set of decent cards, but alas—when he concentrated again, they were still worthless.

The ladies had been forced to drink last, but unless Jean concealed a major miracle on the tabletop to Locke’s left, it was a good bet that another little vial would soon be rolling merrily across the table toward Locke’s wobbling hand.

Eighteen hands, thought Locke, to lose nine hundred and eighty solari thus far. His mind, well wet by the Sinspire’s liquor, wandered off on its own calculations. A year of fine new clothes for a man of high station. A small ship. A very large house. The complete lifetime earnings of an honest artisan, like a stonemason. Had he ever pretended to be a stonemason?

“First options,” said the dealer, snapping him back to the game.

“Card,” said Jean. The attendant slid one to him; Jean peeked at it, nodded, and slid another wooden chit toward the center of the table. “Bid up.”

“Hold fast,” said Madam Durenna. She moved two wooden chits forward from her substantial pile. “Partner reveal.” She showed two cards from her hand to Madam Corvaleur, who was unable to contain a smile.

“Card,” said Locke. The attendant passed him one, and he turned up an edge just far enough to see what it was. The two of Chalices, worth precisely one wet shit from a sick dog in this situation. He forced himself to smile. “Bid up,” he said, sliding two markers forward. “I’m feeling blessed.”

All eyes turned expectantly to Madam Corvaleur, who plucked a chocolate-dusted cherry from her dwindling supply, popped it into her mouth, and then rapidly sucked her fingers clean. “Oh-ho,” she said, staring down at her cards and drumming one set of sticky fingers gently on the table. “Oh … ho … oh … Mara, this is … the oddest …”

And then she slumped forward, settling her head onto her large pile of wooden markers on the tabletop. Her cards fluttered down, faceup, and she slapped at them, without coordination, trying to cover them up.

“Izmila,” said Madam Durenna, a note of urgency in her voice. “Izmila!” She reached over and shook her partner by her heavy shoulders.

“ ’Zmila,” Madam Corvaleur agreed in a sleepy, blubbering voice. Her mouth lolled open and she drooled remnants of chocolate and cherry onto her five-solari chits. “Mmmmmmilllaaaaaaaaa. Verrry … odd … oddest …”

“Play sits with Madam Corvaleur.” The dealer couldn’t keep his surprise out of his voice. “Madam Corvaleur must state a preference.”

“Izmila! Concentrate!” Madam Durenna spoke in an urgent whisper.

“There are … cards …,” mumbled Corvaleur. “Look out, Mara.… Soooo … many … cards. On table.”

She followed that up with, “Blemble … na … fla … gah.”

And then she was out cold.

“Final default,” said the dealer after a few seconds. With his crop, he swept all of Madam Durenna’s markers away from her, counting rapidly. Locke and Jean would take everything on the table. The looming threat of a thousand-solari loss had just become a gain of equal magnitude, and Locke sighed with relief.

The dealer considered the spectacle of Madam Corvaleur using her wooden markers as a pillow, and he coughed into his hand.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “the house will, ah, provide new chits of the appropriate value in place of … those still in use.”

“Of course,” said Jean, gently patting the little mountain of Durenna’s markers suddenly piled up before him. In the crowd behind them, Locke could hear noises of bewilderment, consternation, and surprise. A light ripple of applause was eventually coaxed into existence by some of the more generous observers, but it died quickly. They were faintly embarrassed, rather than exhilarated, to see a notable like Madam Corvaleur inebriated by a mere six drinks.

“Hmmmph,” said Madam Durenna, stubbing out her cigar in the gold pot and rising to her feet. She made a show of straightening her jacket—black brocaded velvet decorated with platinum buttons and cloth-of-silver, worth a good fraction of everything she’d bet that night. “Master Kosta, Master de Ferra … it appears we must admit to being outmatched.”

“But certainly not outplayed,” said Locke, summoning up a snake-charming smile along with the pulverized remnants of his wits. “You very nearly had us … um, sewn up.”

“And the whole world is wobbling around me,” said Jean, whose hands were as steady as a jeweler’s, and had been throughout the entire game.

“Gentlemen, I have appreciated your stimulating company,” said Madam Durenna in a tone of voice that indicated she hadn’t. “Another game later this week, perhaps? Surely you must allow us a chance at revenge, for honor’s sake.”

“Nothing would please us more,” said Jean, to which Locke nodded enthusiastically, making the contents of his skull ache. At that, Madam Durenna coldly held out her hand and consented for the two of them to kiss the air above it. When they had done so, as though making obeisance to a particularly irritable snake, four of Requin’s attendants appeared to help move the snoring Madam Corvaleur somewhere more decorous.

“Gods, it must be tedious, watching us try to drink one another under the table night after night,” said Jean. He flipped the dealer a five-solari chit; it was customary to leave a small gratuity for the attendant.

“I don’t believe so, sir. How would you like your change?”

“What change?” Jean smiled. “Keep the whole thing.”

The attendant betrayed human emotions for the second time that night; relatively well-off as he was, one little wooden chit was half his annual salary. He stifled a gasp when Locke threw him another dozen.

“Fortune is a lady who likes to be passed around,” said Locke. “Buy a house, maybe. I’m having a little trouble counting at the moment.”

“Sweet gods—many thanks, gentlemen!” The attendant took a quick glance around, and then spoke under his breath. “Those two ladies don’t lose very often, you know. In fact, this is the first time I can remember.”

“Victory has its price,” said Locke. “I suspect my head will be paying it when I wake up tomorrow.”

Madam Corvaleur was hauled carefully down the stairs, with Madam Durenna following to keep a close eye on the men carrying her card partner. The crowd dispersed; those observers who remained at their tables called for attendants, food, new decks of cards for games of their own.

Locke and Jean gathered their markers (fresh ones, sans slobber, were swiftly provided by the attendants to replace Madam Corvaleur’s) in the customary velvet-lined wooden boxes and made their way to the stairs.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” said the attendant guarding the way up to the sixth floor. The tinkle of glass on glass and the murmur of conversation could be heard filtering down from above.

“Thank you,” said Locke. “I’m afraid that something in Madam Corvaleur gave way just a hand or two before I might have done the same.”

He and Jean slowly made their way down the stairs that curved all the way around the inside of the Sinspire’s exterior wall. They were dressed as men of credit and consequence in the current height of Verrari summer fashion. Locke (whose hair had been alchemically shifted to a sunny shade of blond) wore a caramel-brown coat with a cinched waist and flaring knee-length tails; his huge triple-layered cuffs were paneled in orange and black and decorated with gold buttons. He wore no waistcoat; just a sweat-soaked tunic of the finest silk, under a loose black neck-cloth. Jean was dressed similarly, though his coat was the grayish blue of a sea under clouds, and his belly was cinched up with a wide black sash, the same color as the short, curly hairs of his beard.

Down past floors of notables they went … past queens of Verrari commerce with their decorative young companions of both sexes on their arms like pets. Past men and women with purchased Lashani titles, staring across cards and wine decanters at lesser dons and doñas from Camorr; past Vadran shipmasters in tight black coats, with sea tans like masks over their sharp, pale features. Locke recognized at least two members of the Priori, the merchant council that theoretically ruled Tal Verrar. Deep pockets seemed to be the primary qualification for membership.

Dice fell and glasses clinked; celebrants laughed and coughed and cursed and sighed. Currents of smoke moved languidly in the warm air, carrying scents of perfume and wine, sweat and roast meats, and here and there the resiny hint of alchemical drugs.

Locke had seen genuine palaces and mansions before; the Sinspire, opulent as it was, was not so very much more handsome than the homes many of these people would be returning to when they finally ran out of night to play in. The real magic of the Sinspire was woven from its capricious exclusivity; deny something to enough people and sooner or later it will grow a mystique as thick as fog.

Nearly hidden at the rear of the first floor was a heavy wooden booth manned by several unusually large attendants. Luckily, there was no line. Locke set his box down on the countertop beneath the booth’s only window, a bit too forcefully.

“All to my account.”

“My pleasure, Master Kosta,” said the chief attendant as he took the box. Leocanto Kosta, merchant speculator of Talisham, was well known in this kingdom of wine fumes and wagers. The attendant swiftly changed Locke’s pile of wooden chits into a few marks on a ledger. In beating Durenna and Corvaleur, even minus his tip to the dealer, Locke’s cut of the winnings came to nearly five hundred solari.

“I understand that congratulations are in order to the both of you, Master de Ferra,” said the attendant as Locke stepped back to let Jean approach the counter with his own box. Jerome de Ferra, also of Talisham, was Leocanto’s boon companion. They were a pair of fictional peas in a pod.

Suddenly, Locke felt a hand fall onto his left shoulder. He turned warily and found himself facing a woman with curly dark hair, richly dressed in the same colors as the Sinspire attendants. One side of her face was sublimely beautiful—the other side was a leathery brown half-mask, wrinkled, as though it had been badly burned. When she smiled, the damaged side of her lips failed to move. It seemed to Locke as though a living woman was somehow struggling to emerge from within a rough clay sculpture.

Selendri, Requin’s majordomo.

The hand that she had placed on his shoulder (her left, on the burned side) wasn’t real. It was a solid brass simulacrum, and it gleamed dully in the lantern light as she withdrew it.

“The house congratulates you,” she said in her eerie, lisping voice, “for good manners as well as considerable fortitude, and wishes you and Master de Ferra to know that you would both be welcome on the sixth floor, should you choose to exercise the privilege.”

Locke’s smile was quite genuine. “Many thanks, on behalf of myself and my partner,” he said with tipsy glibness. “The kind regard of the house is, of course, extremely flattering.”

She nodded noncommittally, then slipped away into the crowd as quickly as she’d come. Eyebrows went up appreciatively here and there—few of Requin’s guests, to Locke’s knowledge, were apprised of their increasing social status by Selendri herself.

“We’re a commodity in demand, my dear Jerome,” he said as they made their way through the crowd toward the front doors.

“For the time being,” said Jean.

“Master de Ferra,” beamed the head doorman as they approached, “and Master Kosta. May I call for a carriage?”

“No need, thanks,” said Locke. “I’ll fall over sideways if I don’t flush my head with some night air. We’ll walk.”

“Very good then, sir.”

With military precision, four attendants held the doors open for Locke and Jean to pass. The two thieves stepped carefully down a wide set of stone steps covered with a red velvet carpet. That carpet was thrown out and replaced each night. As a result, in Tal Verrar alone could one find armies of beggars routinely sleeping on piles of red velvet scraps.

The view was breathtaking; to their right, the whole crescent sweep of the island was visible beyond the silhouettes of other chance houses. There was relative darkness in the north, in contrast to the auralike glow of the Golden Steps. Beyond the city—to the south, west, and north—the Sea of Brass gleamed phosphorescent silver, lit by three moons in a cloudless sky. Here and there the sails of distant ships reached up from the quicksilver tableau, ghostly pale.

Locke could gaze downward to his left and see across the staggered rooftops of the island’s five lower tiers, a vertigo-inducing view despite the solidity of the stones beneath his feet. All around him was the murmur of human pleasure and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobbles; there were at least a dozen moving or waiting along the straight avenue atop the sixth tier. Above, the Sinspire reared up into the opalescent darkness with its alchemical lanterns bright, like a candle meant to draw the attentions of the gods.

“And now, my dear professional pessimist,” said Locke as they stepped away from the Sinspire and acquired relative privacy, “my worry-merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision … what do you have to say to that?”

“Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It’s so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan.”

“That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm.”

“Gods forfend,” said Jean. “You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world.”

“And now you’re—”

“If only there was a leper handy,” interrupted Jean, “so you could lay your hands on and magically heal him.”

“Oh, you’re just farting out your mouth because you’re jealous.”

“It’s possible,” said Jean. “Actually, we are substantially enriched, not caught, not dead, more famous, and welcome on the next floor up. I must admit that I was wrong to call it a silly scheme.”

“Really? Huh.” Locke reached under his coat lapels as he spoke. “Because I have to admit, it was a silly scheme. Damned irresponsible. One drink more and I would have been finished. I’m actually pretty bloody surprised we pulled it off.”

He fumbled beneath his coat for a second or two, then pulled out a little pad of wool about as wide and long as his thumb. A puff of dust was shaken from the wool when Locke slipped it into one of his outer pockets, and he wiped his hands vigorously on his sleeves as they walked along.

“Nearly lost is just another way to say finally won,” said Jean.

“Nonetheless, the liquor almost did me in. Next time I’m that optimistic about my own capacity, correct me with a hatchet to the skull.”

“I’ll be glad to correct you with two.”

It was Madam Izmila Corvaleur who’d made the scheme possible. Madam Corvaleur, who’d first crossed paths with “Leocanto Kosta” at a gaming table a few weeks earlier, who had the reliable habit of eating with her fingers to annoy her opponents while she played cards.

Carousel Hazard really couldn’t be cheated by any traditional means. None of Requin’s attendants would stack a deck, not once in a hundred years, not even in exchange for a dukedom. Nor could any player alter the carousel, select one vial in favor of another, or serve a vial to anyone else. With all the usual means of introducing a foreign substance to another player guarded against, the only remaining possibility was for a player to do herself in by slowly, willingly taking in something subtle and unorthodox. Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.

Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.

Bela paranella was a colorless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as “the night friend.” It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol, bela paranella was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes, if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.

“Gods, that woman had the constitution of a war galley,” said Locke. “She must have started getting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand … probably could’ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less.”

“At least we got what we wanted,” said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged, and slipped it in a pocket.

“We did indeed … and I saw him!” said Locke. “Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We must have excited a personal interest.” The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke’s thoughts. “Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?”

“Well, assume you’re correct. So what now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?”

“A few more weeks? To hell with that. We’ve been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we’ve finally cracked Requin’s shell, I say we bloody well go for it.”

“You’re going to suggest tomorrow night, aren’t you?”

“His curiosity’s piqued. Let’s strike while the blade is fresh from the forge.”

“I suspect that drink has made you impulsive.”

“Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”

“You there,” came a voice from the street in front of them. “Hold it!”

Locke tensed. “I beg your pardon?”

A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd seemed to have gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the dueling green.

“Hold it, sirs, I beg of you,” said the young man. “I’m afraid it’s an affair, and there may be a bolt flying past. Might I beg of you to wait but a moment?”

“Oh. Oh.” Locke and Jean relaxed simultaneously. If someone was dueling with crossbows, it was common courtesy as well as good sense to wait beside the dueling ground until the shots were taken. That way, neither participant would be distracted by movement in the background, or accidentally bury a bolt in a passerby.

The dueling green was about forty yards long and half as wide, lit at each of its four corners by a soft white lantern hanging in a black iron frame. Two duelists stood in the center of the green with their seconds, each man casting four pale gray shadows in a crisscross pattern. Locke had little personal inclination to watch, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be Leocanto Kosta, a man of worldly indifference to strangers punching holes in one another. He and Jean squeezed into the crowd of spectators as unobtrusively as possible; a similar crowd had formed on the other side of the green.

One of the duelists was a very young man, dressed in fine loose gentleman’s clothing of a fashionable cut; he wore optics, and his hair hung to his shoulders in well-tended ringlets.

His red-jacketed opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow—what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.

“Gentlemen,” said the younger duelist’s second. “Please. Can there be no accommodation?”

“If the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation,” added the younger duelist. His voice was high and nervous. “I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—”

“No, there cannot,” said the man standing beside the older duelist. “His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact.”

“… with the merest recognition,” continued the young duelist, desperately, “that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—”

“Were he to condescend to speak to you again,” said the older duelist’s second, “his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a bitch, and would inquire as to whether you’re equally capable of biting like one.”

The younger duelist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.

“I am forced,” said his second, “I am, ah, forced … to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand … back-to-back.”

The two opponents walked toward each other—the older man marched with vigor while the younger still stepped hesitantly—and turned their backs to each other.

“You shall have ten paces,” said the younger man’s second, with bitter resignation. “Wait then, and on my signal, you may turn and loose.”

Slowly he counted out the steps; slowly the two opponents walked away from each other. The younger man was shaking very badly indeed. Locke felt a ball of unaccustomed tension growing in his own stomach. Since when had he become such a damned softhearted fellow? Just because he preferred not to watch didn’t mean he should be afraid to do so … yet the feeling in his stomach paid no heed to the thoughts in his head.

“… nine … ten. Stand fast,” said the young duelist’s second. “Stand fast.… Turn and loose!”

The younger man whirled first, his face a mask of terror; he threw out his right hand and let fly. A sharp twang sounded across the green. His opponent didn’t even jerk back as the bolt hissed through the air beside his head, missing by at least the width of a hand.

The red-jacketed old man completed his own turn more slowly, his eyes bright and his mouth set into a scowl. His younger opponent stared at him for several seconds, as though trying to will his bolt to come flying back like a trained bird. He shuddered, lowered his crossbow, and then threw it down to the grass. With his hands on his hips, he stood waiting, breathing in deep and noisy gulps.

His opponent regarded him briefly, then snorted. “Be fucked,” he said, and he raised his crossbow in both hands. His shot was perfect; there was a wet crack and the younger duelist toppled with a feathered bolt dead in the center of his chest. He fell onto his back, clawing at his coat and tunic, spitting up dark blood. Half a dozen spectators rushed toward him, while one young woman in a silver evening gown fell to her knees and screamed.

“We’ll get back just in time for dinner,” said the older duelist to nobody in particular. He tossed his own crossbow carelessly to the ground behind him and stomped off toward one of the nearby chance houses, with his second at his side.

“Sweet fucking Perelandro,” said Locke, forgetting Leocanto Kosta for a moment and thinking out loud. “What a way to manage things.”

“You don’t approve, sir?” A lovely young woman in a black silk dress regarded Locke with disconcertingly penetrating eyes. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. “I understand that some differences of opinion need to be settled with steel,” said Jean, butting in, appearing to recognize that Locke was still a bit too tipsy for his own good. “But standing before a crossbow bolt seems foolish. Blades strike me as a more honest test of skill.”

“Rapiers are tedious; all that back and forth, and rarely a killing strike right away,” said the young woman. “Bolts are fast, clean, and merciful. You can hack at someone all night with a rapier and fail to kill them.”

“I am quite compelled to agree with you,” muttered Locke.

The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing; a moment later she was gone, vanishing into the dispersing crowd.

The contented murmur of the night—the laughter and chatter of the small clusters of men and women making time beneath the stars—had died briefly while the duel took place, but now it rose up once again. The woman in the silver dress beat her fists against the grass, sobbing, while the crowd around the fallen duelist seemed to sag in unison. The bolt’s work was clearly done.

“Fast, clean, and merciful,” said Locke softly. “Idiots.”

Jean sighed. “Neither of us has any right to offer that sort of observation, since ‘gods-damned idiots’ is likely to be inscribed on our gravemarkers.”

“I’ve had reasons for doing what I’ve done, and so did you.”

“I’m sure those duelists felt the same way.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Locke. “Let’s walk off the fumes in my head and get back to the inn. Gods, I feel old and sour. I see things like this and I wonder if I was that bloody stupid when I was that boy’s age.”

“You were worse,” said Jean. “Until quite recently. Probably still are.”

5

LOCKE’S MELANCHOLY slowly evaporated, along with more of his alcoholic haze, as they made their way down and across the Golden Steps, north by northeast to the Great Gallery. The Eldren craftsmen (Craftswomen? Crafts-things?) responsible for Tal Verrar had covered the entire district with an open-sided Elderglass roof that sloped downward from its peak atop the sixth tier and plunged into the sea at the western island’s base, leaving at least thirty feet of space beneath it at all points in between. Strange twisted glass columns rose up at irregular intervals, looking like leafless climbing vines carved from ice. The glass ceiling of the Gallery was easily a thousand yards from end to end the long way.

Beyond the Great Gallery, on the lower layers of the island, was the Portable Quarter—open-faced tiers on which the miserably destitute were allowed to set up squatters’ huts and whatever shelters they could construct from castoff materials. The trouble was that any forceful wind from the north, especially in the rainy winter, would completely rearrange the place.

Perversely, the district above and immediately southeast of the Portable Quarter, the Savrola, was a pricey expatriate’s enclave, full of foreigners with money to waste. All the best inns were there, including the one Locke and Jean were currently using for their well-heeled alternate identities. The Savrola was sealed off from the Portable Quarter by high stone walls, and heavily patrolled by Verrari constables and private mercenaries.

By day, the Great Gallery was the marketplace of Tal Verrar. A thousand merchants set up their stalls beneath it every morning, and there was room for five thousand more, should the city ever grow so vast. Visitors rooming in the Savrola who didn’t travel by boat were forced, by cunning coincidence, to walk across the full breadth of the market to travel to or from the Golden Steps.

An east wind was up, blowing out from the mainland, across the glass islands and into the Gallery. Locke and Jean’s footsteps echoed in the darkness of the vast hollow space; soft lamps on some of the glass pillars made irregular islands of light. Scraps of trash blew past their feet, and wisps of wood smoke from unseen fires. Some merchants kept family members sleeping in particularly desirable stall locations all night … and of course there were always vagrants from the Portable Quarter, seeking privacy in the shadows of the empty Gallery. Patrols stomped through the Gallery tiers several times each night, but there were none in sight at the moment.

“What a strange wasteland this place becomes after dark,” said Jean. “I can’t decide if I mislike it or if it enchants me.”

“You’d probably be less inclined to enchantment if you didn’t have a pair of hatchets stuffed up the back of your coat.”

“Mmm.”

They walked on for another few minutes. Locke rubbed his stomach and muttered to himself.

“Jean—are you hungry, by chance?”

“I usually am. Need some more ballast for that liquor?”

“I think it might be a good idea. Damn that carousel. Another losing hand and I might have proposed marriage to that gods-damned smoking dragoness. Or just fallen out of my chair.”

“Well, let’s raid the Night Market.”

On the topmost tier of the Great Gallery, toward the northeastern end of the covered district, Locke could see the flickering light of barrel fires and lanterns, and the shadowy shapes of several people. Commerce never truly ground to a halt in Tal Verrar; with thousands of people coming and going from the Golden Steps, there was enough coin floating around for a few dozen nocturnal stall-keepers to stake out a spot just after sunset every evening. The Night Market could be a great convenience, and it was invariably more eccentric than its daytime counterpart.

As Locke and Jean strolled toward the bazaar with the night breeze blowing against them, they had a fine view of the inner harbor with its dark forest of ships’ masts. Beyond that, the rest of the city’s islands lay sensibly sleeping, dotted here and there with specks of light rather than the profligate glow of the Golden Steps. At the heart of the city, the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds (Alchemists, Artificers, and Merchants) curled around the base of the high, rocky Castellana like slumbering beasts. And atop the Castellana, like a looming stone hill planted in a field of mansions, was the dim outline of the Mon Magisteria, the fortress of the archon.

Tal Verrar was supposedly ruled by the Priori, but in reality a significant degree of power rested in the man who resided in that palace, the city’s master of arms. The office of the archon had been created following Tal Verrar’s early disgraces in the Thousand-Day War against Camorr, to take command of the army and navy out of the hands of the bickering merchant councils. But the trouble with creating military dictators, Locke reflected, was getting rid of them after the immediate crisis was past. The first archon had “declined” retirement, and his successor was, if anything, even more interested in interfering with civic affairs. Outside guarded bastions of frivolity like the Golden Steps and expatriate havens like the Savrola, the disagreements between archon and Priori kept the city on edge.

“Gentlemen!” came a voice from their left, breaking into Locke’s chain of thought. “Honored sirs. A walk across the Great Gallery cannot possibly be complete without refreshment.” Locke and Jean had reached the fringes of the Night Market; there were no other customers in sight, and the faces of at least a dozen merchants stared keenly out at them from within their little circles of fire or lamplight.

The first Verrari to throw his pitch against the gates of their good judgment was a one-armed man getting on in years, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow.

“What’s your fare?”

“Delicacies from the table of Iono himself, the sweetest taste the sea has to offer. Sharks’ eyes in brine; all fresh plucked. Crisp the shells, soft the humors, sweet the juices.”

“Sharks’ eyes? Gods, no.” Locke grimaced. “Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill pie would be welcome.”

“Gills? Sir, gills have none of the virtues of the eyes; it is the eyes that tone the muscles, prevent cholera, and firm up a man’s mechanisms for certain, ah, marital duties.”

“I have no need of any mechanism-firming in that respect,” said Locke. “And I’m afraid my stomach is too unsettled for the splendor of sharks’ eyes at just the moment.”

“A pity, sir. For your sake, I wish I had some bit of gill to offer you, but it’s the eyes that I get, and little else. Yet I do have several types—scythe sharks, wolf sharks, blue widower.…”

“We must pass, friend,” said Jean as he and Locke walked on.

“Fruit, worthy masters?” The next merchant along was a slender young woman comfortably ensconced in a cream-colored frock coat several sizes too large for her; she also wore a four-cornered hat with a small alchemical globe dangling on a chain, hanging down just above her left shoulder. She stood watch over a number of woven baskets. “Alchemical fruit, fresh hybrids. Have you ever seen the Sofia Orange of Camorr? It makes its own liquor, very sweet and powerful.”

“We are … acquainted,” said Locke. “And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?”

“Pears, sir. The world would have no unsettled stomachs if only we were all wise enough to eat several every day.”

She took up one basket, about half-full, and held it up before him. Locke sifted through the pears, which seemed firm and fresh enough, and drew out three. “Five centira,” said the fruit seller.

“A full volani?” Locke feigned outrage. “Not if the archon’s favorite whore held them between her legs and wiggled for me. One centira is too much for the lot.”

“One centira wouldn’t buy you the stems. At least I won’t lose money for four.”

“It would be an act of supreme pity,” said Locke, “for me to give you two. Fortunately for you I’m brimming with largesse; the bounty is yours.”

“Two would be an insult to the men and women who grew those, in the hot glass gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. But surely we can meet at three?”

“Three,” said Locke with a smile. “I have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I’m just hungry enough to allow you the honor.” He passed two of the pears to Jean without looking while fumbling in one of his coat pockets for copper. When he tossed three coins to the fruit seller, she nodded.

“A good evening to you, Master Lamora.”

Locke froze and fixed his eyes on her. “I beg your pardon?”

“A good evening to you, is all I said, worthy master.”

“You didn’t …”

“Didn’t what?”

“Ah, nothing.” Locke sighed nervously. “I had a bit much to drink, is all. A fair evening to you, as well.”

He and Jean strolled away, and Locke took a tentative bite of his pear. It was in a fine state, neither too firm and dry nor too ripe and sticky. “Jean,” he said between bites, “did you hear what she said to me, just now?”

“I’m afraid I heard nothing but the death cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: ‘Noooo, don’t eat me, please, nooo.…’ ” Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth, crunched it loudly, and swallowed it all but for the stem, which he flicked away.

“Thirteen gods,” said Locke, “must you do that?”

“I like the cores,” said Jean sulkily. “All the little crunchy bits.”

“Goats eat the gods-damned crunchy bits.”

“You’re not my mother.”

“Well, true. Your mother would be ugly. Oh, don’t give me that look. Go on, eat your other core; it’s got a nice juicy pear wrapped around it.”

“What did the woman say?”

“She said … oh, gods, she said nothing. I’m tipsy, is all.”

“Alchemical lanterns, sirs?” A bearded man held his arm out toward them; at least half a dozen little lanterns in ornamental gilt frames hung from it. “A pair of well-dressed gentlemen should not be without light; only scrubs scuttle about in darkness with no way to see! You’ll find no better lanterns in all the Gallery, not by night or day.”

Jean waved the man off while he and Locke finished their pears. Locke carelessly tossed his core over his shoulder, while Jean popped his into his mouth, taking pains to ensure that Locke was watching when he did.

“Mmmmmm,” he muttered with a half-full mouth, “ambrosial. But you’ll never know, you and all your fellow culinary cowards.”

“Gentlemen. Scorpions?”

That brought Locke and Jean up short. The speaker was a cloaked, baldheaded man with the coffee-colored skin of an Okanti islander; the man was several thousand miles from home. His well-kept white teeth stood out as he smiled and bowed slightly over his wares. He stood over a dozen small wooden cages; dark shapes could be seen moving about in several of them.

“Scorpions? Real scorpions? Live ones?” Locke bent down to get a better look at the cages, but kept his distance. “What on earth for?”

“Why, you must be fresh visitors here.” The man’s Therin had a slight accent. “Many on the Sea of Brass are only too familiar with the gray rock scorpion. Can you be Karthani? Camorri?”

“Talishani,” said Jean. “These are gray rock scorpions, from here?”

“From the mainland,” said the merchant. “And their use is primarily, ahh, recreational.”

“Recreational? Are they pets?”

“Oh no, not really. The sting, you see—the sting of the gray rock scorpion is a complex thing. First there is pain, sharp and hot, as you might expect. But after a few minutes, there is a pleasant numbness, a dreamy sort of fever. It is not unlike some of the powders smoked by Jeremites. After a few stings, a body grows more used to it. The pain lessens and the dreams deepen.”

“Astonishing!”

“Commonplace,” said the merchant. “Quite a few men and women in Tal Verrar keep one close at hand, even if they don’t speak of it in public. The effect is as pleasing as liquor, yet ultimately far less costly.”

“Hmmm.” Locke scratched his chin. “Never had to stab myself with a bottle of wine, though. And this isn’t just some ruse, some amusement for visitors who wouldn’t know any better?”

The merchant’s smile broadened. He extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak; the dark skin of his slender forearm was dotted with little circular scars. “I would never offer a product for which I was not prepared to vouch myself.”

“Admirable,” said Locke. “And fascinating, but … perhaps there are some customs of Tal Verrar best left unexplored.”

“To your own tastes be true.” Still smiling, the man pulled his cloak sleeve back up and folded his hands before him. “After all, a scorpion hawk was never to your liking, Master Lamora.”

Locke felt a sudden cold pressure in his chest. He flicked a glance at Jean, and found the larger man instantly tense as well. Struggling to maintain his outward calm, Locke cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry.” The merchant blinked at him guilelessly. “I merely wished you a pleasant night, gentlemen.”

“Right.” Locke eyed him for a moment or two longer, then stepped back, turned on his heel, and began to walk across the Night Market once more. Jean was at his side immediately.

“You heard that,” whispered Locke.

“Very clearly,” said Jean. “I wonder who our friendly scorpion merchant works for?”

“It’s not just him,” muttered Locke. “The fruit seller called me ‘Lamora’ as well. You didn’t hear that one, but I damn well did.”

“Shit. Want to double back and grab one of them?”

“Going somewhere, Master Lamora?”

Locke almost whirled on the middle-aged female merchant who stepped toward them from their right; he managed to keep the six-inch stiletto concealed up his coat sleeve from flying reflexively into his hand. Jean put one arm beneath the back of his coat.

“You seem to be mistaken, madam,” said Locke. “My name is Leocanto Kosta.”

The woman made no further move toward them; she merely smiled and chuckled. “Lamora … Locke Lamora.”

“Jean Tannen,” said the scorpion merchant, who had stepped out from behind his little cage-covered table. Other merchants were moving slowly behind them, staring fixedly at Locke and Jean.

“There seems to be a, ah, misunderstanding afoot,” said Jean. He slid his right hand back out from under his coat; Locke knew from long experience that the head of one of his hatchets would be cupped in his palm, with the handle concealed up his sleeve.

“No misunderstanding,” said the scorpion merchant.

“Thorn of Camorr …,” said a little girl who stepped out to block their progress toward the Savrola side of the Great Gallery.

“Thorn of Camorr …,” said the middle-aged woman.

“Gentlemen Bastards,” said the scorpion merchant. “Far from home.”

Locke glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest. Deciding that the time for discretion was past, he let his stiletto fall into his itching fingers. All the merchants in the Night Market seemed to have taken an interest in them; they were surrounded, and the merchants were slowly tightening the circle. They cast long dark shadows upon the stones at Locke and Jean’s feet. Was Locke imagining things, or were some of the lights dimming? Already the Night Gallery seemed darker—damn, some of the lanterns were indeed going out right before his eyes.

“That is far enough.” Jean let his hatchet fall visibly into his right hand; he and Locke pressed their backs against one another.

“No closer,” shouted Locke. “Cut the weird shit, or there’s going to be blood!”

“There has already been blood …,” said the little girl.

“Locke Lamora …,” muttered a soft chorus of the people surrounding them.

“There has already been blood, Locke Lamora,” said the middle-aged woman.

The last alchemical lanterns within the periphery of the Night Market dimmed; the last few fires banked down, and now Locke and Jean faced the circle of merchants solely by the wan light coming from the inner harbor, and from the eerie flicker of distant lamps beneath the vast, deserted Gallery, much too far away for comfort.

The little girl took one last step toward them, her eyes gray and unblinking.

“Master Lamora, Master Tannen,” she said in her clear, soft voice, “the Falconer of Karthain sends his regards.”

6

LOCKE STARED at the little girl, jaw half-open. She glided forward like an apparition, until just two paces separated them. Locke felt a pang of foolishness at holding a stiletto on a girl not yet three feet high, but then she smiled coldly in the near darkness, and the malice behind that smile steadied his hand on the hilt of the blade. The little girl reached up to touch her chin.

“Though he cannot speak,” she said.

“Though he cannot speak for himself …,” chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.

“Though he is mad,” said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out.

“Mad beyond measure …,” whispered the circle.

“His friends remain,” said the girl. “His friends remember.”

Jean moved beside Locke, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened steel heads naked to the night. “These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us,” he hissed.

“Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!” said Locke, speaking to the girl.

“We show our power,” she replied.

“What more do you need?” whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.

“What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?” The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsy.

“Whatever you want,” said Locke, “leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don’t want to hurt these people.”

“Of course, Master Lamora.…”

“Of course …,” whispered the circle.

“Of course, that’s the point,” said the girl. “So you must hear what we have to say.”

“State your gods-damned business, then.”

“You must answer,” said the girl.

“Answer for the Falconer,” said the chorus.

“You must answer. Both of you.”

“Of all the … fuck you!” said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. “We did answer for the Falconer. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!”

“Not for you to judge,” hissed the girl.

“… judge the Magi of Karthain …,” whispered the circle.

“Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume a grasp of our laws,” said the girl.

“All the world knows it’s death to slay a Bondsmage,” said Jean. “That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter.”

“This is not business,” said the girl.

“But personal,” said the circle.

“Personal,” repeated the girl. “A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered.”

“You sons of bitches,” said Locke. “You really think you’re fucking gods, don’t you? I didn’t mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I’m not sorry he’s mad and I’m not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free.”

“No,” said the scorpion merchant. A whispered chorus of “no” came from around the circle.

“Cowards. Pissants!” Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. “You can’t scare us with this penny-theater bullshit!”

“If you force us to,” said Locke, “we’ll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us.”

“No,” said the girl, giggling.

“We can do worse,” said the fruit seller.

“We can let you live,” said the scorpion merchant.

“Live, uncertain,” said the girl.

“Uncertain …,” said the chorus of merchants as they began to step backward, widening their circle.

“Watched,” said the girl.

“Followed,” said the circle.

“Now wait,” said the girl. “Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes.…”

“And wait,” whispered the chorus. “Wait for our answer.”

“Wait for our time.”

“You are always in our reach,” said the little girl, “and you are always in our sight.”

“Always,” whispered the circle, slowly dispersing back to their stalls, back to the positions they’d held just a few minutes earlier.

“You will meet misfortune,” said the little girl as she slipped away. “For the Falconer of Karthain.”

Locke and Jean said nothing as the merchants around them resumed their places in the Night Market, as the lanterns and barrel fires gradually rose once more to flush the area with warm light. Then the affair was ended; the merchants resumed their former attitudes of keen interest or watchful boredom, and the babble of conversation rose up around them again. Locke and Jean slipped their weapons out of sight before anyone seemed to notice them.

“Gods,” said Jean, shuddering visibly.

“I suddenly feel,” Locke said quietly, “that I didn’t drink nearly enough from that bloody carousel.” There was mist at the edges of his vision; he put a hand to his cheeks and was surprised to find himself crying. “Bastards,” he muttered. “Infants. Wretched cowardly show-offs.”

“Yes,” said Jean.

Locke and Jean began to walk forward once again, glancing warily around. The little girl who had done most of the speaking for the Bondsmagi was now sitting beside an elderly man, sorting through little baskets of dried figs under his supervision. She smiled shyly as they passed.

“I hate them,” whispered Locke. “I hate this. Do you think they’ve really got something planned for us, or was that just a put-on?”

“I suppose it works either way,” said Jean with a sigh. “Gods. Strat péti. Do we flinch, or do we keep betting? Worst case, we’ve got a few thousand solari on record at the ‘Spire. We could cash out, take a ship, be gone before noon tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere else.”

“There’s no running from these assholes, not if they’re serious.”

“Yes, but—”

“Fuck Karthain.” Locke clenched his fists. “You know, I think I understand? I think I understand how the Gray King could feel the way he did. I’ve never even been there, but if I could smash Karthain, burn the fucking place, make the sea swallow it … I’d do it. Gods help me, I’d do it.”

Jean suddenly came to a complete stop.

“There’s … another problem, Locke. Gods forgive me.”

“What?”

“Even if you stay … I shouldn’t. I’m the one who should be gone, as far from you as possible.”

“What the fuck nonsense is this?”

“They know my name!” Jean grabbed Locke by his shoulders, and Locke winced; that stone-hard grip didn’t agree with the old wound beneath his left clavicle. Jean immediately realized his mistake and loosened his fingers, but his voice remained urgent. “My real name, and they can use it. They can make me a puppet, like these poor people. I’m a threat to you every moment I’m around you.”

“I don’t bloody well care that they know your name! Are you mad?”

“No, but you’re still drunk, and you’re not thinking straight.”

“I certainly am! Do you want to leave?”

“No! Gods, no, of course not! But I’m—”

“Shutting up right this second if you know what’s good for you.”

“You need to understand that you’re in danger!”

“Of course I’m in danger. I’m mortal. Jean, gods love you, I will not fucking send you away, and I will not let you send yourself away! We lost Calo, Galdo, and Bug. If I send you away, I lose the last friend I have in the world. Who wins then, Jean? Who’s protected then?”

Jean’s shoulders slumped, and Locke suddenly felt the beginning of the transition from fading inebriation to pounding headache. He groaned.

“Jean, I will never stop feeling awful for what I put you through in Vel Virazzo. And I will never forget how long you stayed with me when you should have tied weights around my ankles and thrown me in the bay. Gods help me, I will never be better off without you. I don’t care how many Bondsmagi know your damned name.”

“I wish I could be sure you knew best about this.”

“This is our life,” said Locke. “This is our game, that we’ve put two years into. That’s our fortune, waiting for us to steal it at the Sinspire. That’s all our hopes for the future. So fuck Karthain. They want to kill us, we can’t stop them. So what else can we do? I won’t jump at shadows on account of those bastards. On with it! Both of us together.”

Most of the Night Market merchants had taken note of the intensity of Locke and Jean’s private conversation, and had avoided making further pitches. But one of the last merchants on the northern fringe of the Night Market was either less sensitive or more desperate for a sale, and called out to them.

“Carved amusements, gentlemen? Something for a woman or a child in your lives? Something artful from the City of Artifice?” The man had dozens of exotic little toys on an upturned crate. His long, ragged brown coat was lined on the inside with quilted patches in a multitude of garish colors—orange, purple, cloth-of-silver, mustard yellow. He dangled the painted wood figure of a spear-carrying soldier by four cords from his left hand, and with little gestures of his fingers he made the figure thrust at an imaginary enemy. “A marionette? A little puppet, for memory of Tal Verrar?”

Jean stared at him for a few seconds before responding. “For memory of Tal Verrar,” he said quietly, “I would want anything, beg pardon, before I would want a puppet.”

Locke and Jean said nothing else to each other. With an ache around his heart to match the one growing in his head, Locke followed the bigger man out of the Great Gallery and into the Savrola, eager to be back behind high walls and locked doors, for what little it might prove to be worth.

REMINISCENCE

The Capa of Vel Virazzo

1

Locke Lamora had arrived in Vel Virazzo nearly two years earlier, wanting to die, and Jean Tannen had been inclined to let him have his wish.

Vel Virazzo is a deepwater port about a hundred miles southeast of Tal Verrar, carved out of the high rocky cliffs that dominate the mainland coast on the Sea of Brass. A city of eight or nine thousand souls, it has long been a sullen tributary of the Verrari, ruled by a governor appointed directly by the archon.

A line of narrow Elderglass spires rises two hundred feet out of the water just offshore, one more Eldren artifact of inscrutable function on a coast thick with abandoned wonders. The glass pylons have fifteen-foot platforms atop them and are now used as lighthouses, manned by petty convicts. Boats will leave them to climb up the knotted rope ladders that hang down the pylons. That accomplished, they winch up their provisions and settle in for a few weeks of exile, tending red alchemical lamps the size of small huts. Not all of them come back down right in the head, or live to come back down at all.

Two years before that fateful game of Carousel Hazard, a heavy galleon swept in toward Vel Virazzo under the red glow of those offshore lights. The hands atop the galleon’s yardarms waved, half in pity and half in jest, at the lonely figures atop the pylons. The sun had been swallowed by thick clouds on the western horizon, and a soft, dying light rippled across the water beneath the first stars of evening.

A warm wet breeze was blowing from shore to sea, and little threads of mist seemed to be leaking out of the gray rocks to either side of the old port town. The galleon’s yellowed canvas topsails were close-reefed as she prepared to lay to about half a mile offshore. A little harbormaster’s skiff scudded out to meet the galleon, green and white lanterns bobbing in its bow to the rhythm of the eight heaving oarsmen.

“What vessel?” The harbormaster stood up beside her bow lanterns and shouted through a speaking trumpet from thirty yards away.

“Golden Gain; Tal Verrar,” came the return shout from the galleon’s waist.

“Do you wish to put in?”

“No! Passengers only, coming off by boat.”

The lower stern cabin of the Golden Gain smelled strongly of sweat and illness. Jean Tannen was newly returned from the upper deck, and had lost some of his tolerance for the odor, which lent further edge to his bad mood. He flung a patched blue tunic at Locke and folded his arms.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said, “we’re here. We’re getting off this bloody ship and back onto good solid stone. Put the bloody tunic on; they’re lowering a boat.”

Locke shook the tunic out with his right hand and frowned. He was sitting on the edge of a bunk, dressed only in his breeches, and was thinner and dirtier than Jean had ever seen him. His ribs stood out beneath his pale skin like the hull timbers of an unfinished ship. His hair was dark with grease, long and unkempt on every side, and a fine thistle of beard fringed his face.

His upper left arm was crisscrossed with the glistening red lines of barely sealed wounds; there was a scabbed puncture on his left forearm, and beneath that a dirty cloth brace was wound around his wrist. His left hand was a mess of fading bruises. A discolored bandage partially covered an ugly-looking injury on his left shoulder, a scant few inches above his heart. Their three weeks at sea had done much to reduce the swelling of Locke’s cheeks, lips, and broken nose, but he still looked as though he’d tried to kiss a kicking mule. Repeatedly.

“Can I get a hand, then?”

“No, you can do it for yourself. You should’ve been exercising this past week, getting ready. I can’t always be here to hover about like your fairy fucking nursemaid.”

“Well, let me shove a gods-damn rapier through your shoulder and wiggle it for you, and then let’s see how keen you are to exercise.”

“I took my cuts, you sobbing piss-wallow, and I did exercise ’em.” Jean lifted his own tunic; above the substantially reduced curve of his once-prodigious belly was the fresh, livid scar of a long slash across his ribs. “I don’t care how much it hurts; you have to move around, or they heal tight like a caulk-seal and then you’re really in the shit.”

“So you keep telling me.” Locke threw the shirt down on the deck beside his bare feet. “But unless that tunic animates itself, or you do the honors, it seems I go to the boat like this.”

“Sun’s going down. Summer or not, it’s going to be cool out there. But if you want to be an idiot, I guess you do go like that.”

“You’re a son of a bitch, Jean.”

“If you were healthy, I’d rebreak your nose for that, you self-pitying little—”

“Gentlemen?” A crew-woman’s muffled voice came through the door, followed by a loud knock. “Captain’s compliments, and the boat is ready.”

“Thank you,” yelled Jean. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Why did I bother saving your life, again? I could’ve brought the Gray King’s corpse. Would’ve been better fucking company.”

“Please,” said Locke forcefully, gesturing with his good arm. “We can meet in the middle. I’ll pull with my good arm and you handle the bad side. Get me off this ship and I’ll get to exercising.”

“Can’t come soon enough,” said Jean, and after another moment’s hesitation he bent down for the tunic.

2

JEAN’S TOLERANCE rose for a few days with their release from the wet, smelly, heaving world of the galleon; even for paying customers, long-distance sea transit still had more in common with a prison sentence than a vacation.

With their handful of silver volani (converted from Camorri solons at an extortionate rate by the first mate of the Golden Gain, who’d argued that it was still preferable to the numismatic mugging they’d get from the town’s moneychangers), he and Locke secured a third-floor room at the Silver Lantern, a sagging old inn on the waterfront.

Jean immediately set about securing a source of income. If Camorr’s underworld had been a deep lake, Vel Virazzo’s was a stagnant pond. He had little trouble sussing out the major dockside gangs and the relationships between them. There was little organization in Vel Virazzo, and no boss-of-bosses to screw things up. A few nights of drinking in all the right dives, and he knew exactly who to approach.

They called themselves the Brass Coves, and they skulked about in an abandoned tannery down on the city’s eastern docks, where the sea lapped against the pilings of rotting piers that had seen no legitimate use in twenty years. By night, they were an active crew of sneak-thieves, muggers, and coat-charmers. By day, they slept, diced, and drank away most of their profits. Jean kicked in their door (though it hung loosely in its frame, and wasn’t locked) at the second hour of the afternoon on a bright, sunny day.

There were an even dozen of them in the old tannery, young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-odd. Standard membership for a local-trouble sort of gang. Those who weren’t awake were slapped back to consciousness by their associates as Jean strolled into the center of the tannery floor.

“Good afternoon!” He gave a slight bow, from the neck, then spread his arms wide. “Who’s the biggest, meanest motherfucker here? Who’s the best bruiser in the Brass Coves?”

After a few seconds of silence and surprised stares, a relatively stocky young man with a crooked nose and a shaved head leapt down onto the dusty floor from an open staircase. The boy walked up to Jean and smirked.

“You’re lookin’ at him.”

Jean nodded, smiled, then whipped both of his arms around so that his cupped hands cracked against both of the boy’s ears. He staggered, and Jean took a firm hold of his head, lacing his fingers tightly behind the rear arch of his skull. He pulled the tough’s head sharply downward and fed him a knee—once, twice, three times. As the boy’s face met Jean’s kneecap for the last time, Jean let go, and the tough sprawled backward on the tannery floor, senseless as a side of cold, salted meat.

“Wrong,” said Jean, not even breathing heavily. “I’m the meanest motherfucker here. I’m the biggest bruiser in the Brass Coves.”

“You ain’t in the Brass Coves, asshole,” shouted another boy, who nonetheless had a look of awed disquiet on his face.

“Let’s kill this piece of shit!”

A third boy, wearing a tattered four-cornered cap and a set of handmade necklaces threaded with small bones, darted toward Jean with a stiletto drawn back in his right hand. When the thrust came, Jean stepped back, caught the boy by the wrist, and yanked him forward into a backfist from his other hand. While the boy spat blood and tried to blink tears of pain from his eyes, Jean kicked him in the groin, then swept his legs out from under him. The boy’s stiletto appeared in Jean’s left hand as if by magic, and he twirled it slowly.

“Surely you boys can do simple sums,” he said. “One plus one equals don’t fuck with me.”

The boy who’d charged at him with the knife sobbed, then threw up.

“Let’s talk taxes.” Jean walked around the periphery of the tannery floor, kicking over a few empty wine bottles; there were dozens of them scattered around. “Looks like you boys pull in enough coin to eat and drink; that’s good. I’ll have forty percent of it; cold metal. I don’t want goods. You’ll pay your taxes every other day, starting today. Cough up your purses and turn out your pockets.”

“Fuck that!”

Jean stalked toward the boy who’d spoken; the youth was standing against the far wall of the tannery with his arms crossed. “Don’t like it? Hit me, then.”

“Uh …”

“You don’t think that’s fair? You mug people for a living, right? Make a fist, son.”

“Uh …”

Jean grabbed him, spun him around, took hold of him by his neck and by the top of his breeches, and rammed him headfirst into the thick wood of the tannery’s outer wall several times. The boy hit the ground with a thud when Jean let go; he was unable to fight back when Jean patted down his tunic and came up with a small leather purse.

“Added penalty,” said Jean, “for damaging the wall of my tannery with your head.” He emptied the purse into his own, then tossed it back down beside the boy. “Now, all of you get down here and line up. Line up! Four-tenths isn’t much. Be honest; you can guess what I’ll do if I find out that you’re not.”

“Who the hell are you?”

The first boy to approach Jean with coins in his hand offered up the question along with the money.

“You can call me—”

As Jean began to speak, the boy conjured a dagger in his other hand, dropped the coins, and lunged. The bigger man shoved the boy’s extended arm to the outside, bent nearly in half, and slammed his right shoulder into the boy’s stomach. He then lifted the boy effortlessly on his shoulder and dropped him over his back, so that the boy struck the floor of the tannery nearly facefirst. He ended up writhing in pain beside the last Cove who’d pulled a blade on Jean.

“… Callas. Tavrin Callas, actually.” Jean smiled. “That was a good thought, coming at me while I was talking. That at least I can respect.” Jean shuffled backward several paces to block the door. “But it seems to me that the subtle philosophical concept I’m attempting to descant upon may be going over your heads. Do I really have to kick all your asses before you take the hint?”

There was a chorus of mutterings and a healthy number of boys shaking their heads, however reluctantly.

“Good.” The extortion went smoothly after that; Jean wound up with a satisfying collection of coins, surely enough to keep him and Locke ensconced at their inn for another week. “I’m off, then. Rest easy and work well tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, at the second hour of the afternoon. We can start talking about how things are going to be now that I’m the new boss of the Brass Coves.”

3

NATURALLY, THEY all armed themselves, and at the second hour of the afternoon the next day they were waiting in ambush for Jean.

To their surprise, he strolled into the old tannery with a Vel Virazzo constable at his side. The woman was tall and muscular, dressed in a plum-purple coat reinforced with a lining of fine iron chain; she had brass epaulettes on her shoulders, and long brown hair pulled back in a tight swordswoman’s tail with brass rings. Four more constables took up a position just outside the door; they wore similar coats, but also carried long lacquered sticks and heavy wooden shields slung over their backs.

“Hello, lads,” said Jean. All around the room, daggers, stilettos, broken bottles, and sticks were disappearing from sight. “I’m sure some of you recognize Prefect Levasto and her men.”

“Boys,” said the prefect offhandedly, hooking her thumbs into her leather sword-belt. Alone of all the constables, she carried a cutlass in a plain black sheath.

“Prefect Levasto,” said Jean, “is a wise woman, and she leads wise men. They happen to enjoy money, which I am now providing as a consideration for the hardship and tedium of their duties. If anything should chance to happen to me, why, they would lose a new source of the very thing they enjoy.”

“It would be heartbreaking,” said the prefect.

“And it would have consequences,” said Jean.

The prefect set one of her boots on an empty wine bottle and applied steady pressure until it shattered beneath her heel. “Heartbreaking,” she repeated with a sigh.

“I’m sure you’re all bright lads,” said Jean. “I’m sure you’ve all enjoyed the prefect’s visit.”

“Shouldn’t like to have to repeat it,” said Levasto with a grin. She turned slowly and ambled back out the door. The sound of her squad marching away soon receded into the distance.

The Brass Coves looked down at Jean glumly. The four boys closest to the door, with their hands behind their backs, were the ones wearing livid black and green bruises from before.

“Why the fuck are you doing this to us?” grumbled one of them.

“I’m not your enemy, boys. Believe it or not, I think you’ll really come to appreciate what I can do for you. Now shut up and listen.

“First,” said Jean, raising his voice so everyone could hear, “I’d like to say that it’s rather sad, how long you’ve been around without getting the city watch on the take. They were so eager for it when I made the offer. Like sad, neglected little puppies.”

Jean was wearing a long black vest over a stained white tunic. He reached up beneath his back, under the vest, with his right hand.

“But,” he continued, “at least the fact that your first thought was to kill me shows some spirit. Let’s see those toys again. Come on, show ’em off.”

Sheepishly, the boys drew out their weapons once again, and Jean inspected them with a sweep of his head. “Mmmm. Gimp steel, broken bottles, little sticks, a hammer … Boys, the trouble with this setup is that you think those are threats. They’re not. They’re insults.”

He started moving while the last few words were still coming out of his mouth; his left hand slid up beneath his vest beside his right. Both of his arms came out and up in a blur, and then he grunted as he let fly with both of his hatchets, overhand.

There was a pair of half-full wineskins hanging on pegs on the far wall; each one exploded in a gout of cheap Verrari red that spattered several boys nearby. Jean’s hatchets had impaled the wineskins dead center, and stuck in the wood behind them without quivering.

“That was a threat,” he said, cracking his knuckles. “And that’s why you now work for me. Anyone else really want to dispute that at this point?”

The boys standing closest to the wineskins edged backward as Jean stepped over and wrenched his hatchets out of the wall. “Didn’t think so. But don’t take it amiss,” Jean continued. “It works in your favor, too. A boss needs to protect what’s his if he’s going to stay the boss. If anyone other than me tries to shove you around, let me know. I’ll pay them a visit. That’s my job.”

The next day, the Brass Coves grudgingly lined up to pay their taxes. The last boy in line, as he dropped his copper coins into Jean’s hands, muttered, “You said you’d help if someone else gave us the business. Some of the Coves got kicked around this morning by the Black Sleeves, from over on the north side.”

Jean nodded sagely and slipped his takings into his coat pocket.

The next night, after making inquiries, he sauntered into a north-side dive called the Sign of the Brimming Cup. The only thing the tavern was brimming with was thugs, a good seven or eight of them, all with dirty black cloths tied around the arms of their jackets and tunics. They were the only customers, and they looked up with suspicion as he closed the door behind him and carefully slid home the wooden bolt.

“Good evening!” He smiled and cracked his knuckles. “I’m curious. Who’s the biggest, meanest motherfucker in the Black Sleeves?”

The day after that, he collected his taxes from the Brass Coves with the bruised knuckles of his right hand wrapped in a poultice. For the first time, most of the boys paid enthusiastically. A few even started to call him “Tav.”

4

BUT LOCKE did not exercise his wounds, as he’d promised.

Locke’s thin supply of coins was parceled out for wine; his poison of choice was a particularly cheap local slop. More purple than red, with a bouquet like turpentine, its scent soon saturated the room he shared with Jean at the Silver Lantern. Locke took it constantly “for the pain”; Jean remarked one evening that his pain must be increasing as the days went on, for the empty skins and bottles were multiplying proportionally. They quarreled—or more accurately rekindled their ongoing quarrel—and Jean stomped off into the night, for neither the first nor the last time.

Those first few days in Vel Virazzo, Locke would totter down the steps to the common room some nights, where he would play a few desultory hands of cards with some of the locals. He conned them mirthlessly with whatever fast-fingers tricks he could manage with just one good hand. Soon enough they began to shun his games and his bad attitude, and he retreated back to the third floor, to drink alone in silence. Food and cleanliness remained afterthoughts. Jean tried to get a dog-leech in to examine Locke’s wounds, but Locke drove the man out with a string of invective that made Jean (whose speech could be colorful enough to strike fire from damp tinder) blush.

“Of your friend, I can find no trace,” said the man. “He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?”

“We left him in Talisham,” said Jean. “I’m afraid my friend’s attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage.”

“Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver—you shall need it for wine. Or poison.”

More and more, Jean found himself spending time with the Brass Coves for no better reason than to avoid Locke. A week passed, then another. “Tavrin Callas” was becoming a known and solidly respected figure in Vel Virazzo’s crooked fraternity. Jean’s arguments with Locke became more circular, more frustrating, more pointless. Jean instinctively recognized the downward arc of terminal self-pity, but had never dreamed that he’d have to drag Locke, of all people, out of it. He avoided the problem by training the Coves.

At first, he passed on just a few hints—how to use simple hand signals around strangers, how to set distractions before picking pockets, how to tell real gems from paste and avoid stealing the latter. Inevitably, he began to receive respectful entreaties to “show them a thing or two” of the tricks he’d used to pound four Coves into the ground. First in line with these requests were the four who’d been pounded.

A week after that, the alchemy was fully under way. Half a dozen boys were rolling around in the dust of the tannery floor while Jean coached them on all the essentials—leverage, initiative, situational awareness. He began to demonstrate the tricks, both merciful and cruel, that had kept him alive over half a lifetime spent making his points with his fists and hatchets.

Under Jean’s influence, the boys began to take more of an interest in the state of their old tannery. He explicitly encouraged them to start viewing it as a headquarters, which demanded certain comforts. Alchemical lanterns appeared hanging from the rafters. Fresh oilpaper was nailed up over the broken windows, and new planks and straw were raised up to the roof to plug holes. The boys stole cushions, cheap tapestries, and portable shelves.

“Find me a hearthstone,” said Jean. “Steal me a big one, and I’ll teach you poor little bastards how to cook, too. You can’t beat Camorr for chefs; even the thieves are chefs back there. I had years of training.”

He stared around at the increasingly well-maintained tannery, at the increasingly eager band of young thieves living in it, and he spoke wistfully to himself. “We all did.”

He’d tried to interest Locke in the project of the Brass Coves, but had been rebuffed. That night he tried again, explaining about their ever-increasing nightly take, their headquarters, the tips and training he was giving them. Locke stared at him for a long time, sitting on the bed with a chipped glass half-full of purple wine in his hands.

“Well,” he said at last. “Well, I can see you’ve found your replacements, haven’t you?”

Jean was too startled to say anything. Locke drained his glass and continued, his voice flat and humorless.

“That was certainly quick. Quicker than I expected. A new gang, a new burrow. Not a glass one, but you can probably fix that if you look around long enough. So here you are, playing Father Chains, lighting a fire under that kettle of happy horse-shit all over again.”

Jean exploded across the room and slapped the empty glass out of Locke’s hand; it shattered against the wall and showered half the room with glittering fragments, but Locke didn’t even blink. Instead, he leaned back against his sweat-stained pillows and sighed.

“Got any twins yet? How about a new Sabetha? A new me?”

“To hell with you!” Jean clenched his fists until he could feel the warm, slick blood seeping out beneath his nails. “To hell with you, Locke! I didn’t save your gods-damned life so you could sulk in this gods-damned hovel and pretend you’re the man who invented grief. You’re not that gods-damned special!”

“Why did you save me then, Saint Jean?”

“Of all the stupid fucking questions—”

“Why?” Locke heaved himself up off the bed and shook his fists at Jean; the effect would have been comical, but all the murder in the world was in his eyes. “I told you to leave me! Am I supposed to be grateful for this? This bloody room?”

“I didn’t make this room your whole world, Locke. You did.”

“This is what I was rescued for? Three weeks sick at sea, and now Vel Virazzo, asshole of Tal Verrar? It’s the joke of the gods, and I’m the punch-line. Dying with the Gray King was better. I told you to fucking leave me there!

“And I miss them,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “Gods, I miss them. It’s my fault they’re dead. I can’t … I can’t stand it.…”

“Don’t you dare,” growled Jean.

He shoved Locke in the chest, forcefully. Locke fell backward across his bed and hit the wall of the room hard enough to rattle the window shutters.

“Don’t you dare use them as an excuse for what you’re doing to yourself! Don’t you fucking dare.”

Without another word, Jean spun on his heels, walked out the door, and slammed it behind him.

5

LOCKE SANK down against the bed, put his face in his hands, and listened to the creak of Jean’s footsteps recede from the hall outside.

To his surprise, that creak returned a few minutes later, growing steadily louder. Jean threw the door open, face grim, and marched directly over to Locke with a tall wooden bucket of water in his hands. Without warning, he threw this all over Locke, who gasped in surprise and fell backward against the wall again. He shook his head like a dog and pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes.

“Jean, are you out of your fucking—”

“You needed a bath,” Jean interrupted. “You were covered in self-pity.”

He threw the bucket down and moved around the room, plucking up any bottle or wineskin that still contained liquid. He was finished before Locke realized what he was doing; he then swiped Locke’s coin purse from the room’s little table and tossed a thin leather package down in its place.

“Hey, Jean, Jean, you can’t—that’s mine!”

“Used to be ‘ours,’ ” said Jean coldly. “I liked that better.”

When Locke tried to jump up from the bed again, Jean pushed him back down effortlessly. He then stormed out once more, and pulled the door shut behind him. There was a curious clicking noise, and then nothing—not even a creak on the floorboards. Jean was waiting right outside the door.

Snarling, Locke moved across the room and tried to pull the door open, but it held fast in its frame. He frowned in puzzlement and rattled it a few more times. The bolt was on this side, and it wasn’t shot.

“It’s a curious fact,” Jean said through the door, “that the rooms of the Silver Lantern can be locked from the outside with a special key only the innkeeper has. In case he wants to keep an unruly guest at bay while he calls for the watch, you see.”

“Jean, open this fucking door!”

“No. You open it.”

“I can’t! You told me yourself you’ve got the special key!”

“The Locke Lamora I used to know would spit on you,” said Jean. “Priest of the Crooked Warden. Garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards. Student of Father Chains. Brother to Calo, Galdo, and Bug! Tell me, what would Sabetha think of you?”

“You … you bastard! Open this door!”

“Look at yourself, Locke. You’re a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself.”

“You. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotherfuckingkey.”

“You know how to charm a lock, right? I left you some picks on the table. You want your wine back, you work the bloody door yourself.”

“You son of a bitch!”

“My mother was a saint,” said Jean. “The sweetest jewel Camorr ever produced. The city didn’t deserve her. I can wait out here all night, you know. It’ll be easy. I’ve got all your wine and all your money.”

“Gaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Locke snatched the little leather wallet off the table; he wiggled the fingers of his good right hand and regarded his left hand more dubiously; the broken wrist was mending, but it ached constantly.

He bent over the lock mechanism by the door, scowled, and went to work. He was surprised at how quickly the muscles of his back began to protest his uncomfortable posture. He stopped long enough to pull the room’s chair over so he could sit on it while he worked.

As his picks rattled around inside the lock and he bit his tongue in concentration, he heard the heavy creak of movement outside the door and a series of loud thumps.

“Jean?”

“Still here, Locke,” came Jean’s voice, now cheerful. “Gods, you’re taking your sweet time. Oh, I’m sorry—have you even started yet?”

“When I get this door open, you’re dead, Jean!”

“When you get that door open? I look forward to many long years of life, then.”

Locke redoubled his concentration, falling back into the rhythm he’d learned over so many painstaking hours as a boy—moving the picks slightly, feeling for sensations. That damn creaking and thumping had started up on the other side of the door again! What was Jean playing at now? Locke closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out of his mind … tried to let his world narrow down to the message of the picks against his fingers.

The mechanism clicked open. Locke stumbled up from his chair, jubilant and furious, and yanked the door open.

Jean had vanished, and the narrow corridor outside the room was packed wall to wall with wooden crates and barrels—an impassable barrier about three feet from Locke’s face.

“Jean, what the hell is this?”

“I’m sorry, Locke.” Jean was obviously standing directly behind his makeshift wall. “I borrowed a few things from the keeper’s larder, and got a few of the boys you cheated at cards last week to help me carry it all up here.”

Locke gave the wall a good shove, but it didn’t budge; Jean was probably putting his full weight against it. There was a faint chorus of laughter from somewhere on the other side, probably down in the common room. Locke ground his teeth together and beat the flat of his good hand against a barrel.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, Jean? You’re making a gods-damned scene!”

“Not really. Last week I told the keeper you were a Camorri don traveling incognito, trying to recover from a bout of madness. Just now I set an awful lot of silver on his bar. You do remember silver, don’t you? How we used to steal it from people, back when you were pleasant company?”

“This has ceased to amuse me, Jean! Give me back my gods-damned wine!”

“Gods-damned, it is. And I’m afraid that if you want it, you’re going to have to climb out your window.”

Locke took a step back and stared at the makeshift wall, dumbfounded.

“Jean, you can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious.”

“Go to hell. Go to hell! I can’t climb out a bloody window. My wrist—”

“You fought the Gray King with one arm nearly cut off. You climbed out a window five hundred feet up in Raven’s Reach. And here you are, three stories off the ground, helpless as a kitten in a grease barrel. Crybaby. Pissant.”

“You are deliberately trying to provoke me!”

“No shit,” said Jean. “Sharp as a cudgel, you are.”

Locke stomped back into the room, fuming. He stared at the shuttered window, bit his tongue, and stormed back to Jean’s wall.

“Please let me out,” he said, as evenly as he could manage. “Your point is driven home.”

“I’d drive it home with a blackened steel pike if I had one,” said Jean. “Why are you talking to me when you should be climbing out the window?”

“Gods damn you!”

Back to the room; Locke paced furiously. He swung his arms about tentatively; the cuts on his left arm ached, and the deep wound on his shoulder still twinged cruelly. His battered left wrist felt as though it might almost serve. Pain or no pain … he curled his left-hand fingers into a fist, stared down at them, and then looked up at the window with narrowed eyes.

“Fuck it,” he said. “I’ll show you a thing or three, you son of a bloody silk merchant.”

Locke tore his bedding apart, knotting sheet-ends to blankets, inviting twinges from his injuries. The pain only seemed to drive him on faster. He tightened his last knot, threw open the shutters, and tossed his makeshift rope out the window. He tied the end in his hands to his bed frame. It wasn’t a terribly sturdy piece of furniture, but then, he didn’t weigh all that much.

Out the window he went.

Vel Virazzo was an old, low city; Locke’s impressions as he swung there, three stories above the faintly misted street, came in flashes. Flat-topped, sagging buildings of stone and plaster … reefed sails on black masts in the harbor … white moonlight gleaming on dark water … red lights burning atop glass pylons, in a line receding out toward the horizon. Locke shut his eyes, clung to his sheets, and bit his tongue to avoid throwing up.

It seemed easiest to simply let himself slide downward; he did so in fits and starts, letting his palms grow warm against the sheets and blankets before stopping. Down ten feet … twenty … he balanced precariously on the top sill of the inn’s common-room window and gasped in a few deep breaths before continuing. Warm as the night was, he was getting chilly from the soaking he’d received.

The last end of the last sheet ended about six feet off the ground; Locke slid down as far as he could, then let himself drop. His heels slapped against the cobblestones, and he found that Jean Tannen was already waiting for him, with a cheap gray cloak in his hands. Before Locke could move, Jean flung the cloak around his shoulders.

“You son of a bitch,” cried Locke, pulling the cloak around himself with both hands. “You snake-souled, dirty-minded son of a bitch! I hope a shark tries to suck your cock!”

“Why, Master Lamora, look at you,” said Jean. “Charming a lock, climbing out a window. Almost as though you used to be a thief.”

“I was pulling off hanging offenses when you were still teeth-on-tits in your mother’s arms!”

“And I’ve been pulling off hanging offenses while you’ve been sulking in your room, drinking away your skills.”

“I’m the best thief in Vel Virazzo,” growled Locke, “drunk or sober, awake or asleep, and you damn well know it.”

“I might have believed that once,” said Jean. “But that was a man I knew in Camorr, and he hasn’t been with me for some time.”

“Gods damn your ugly face,” yelled Locke as he stepped up to Jean and punched him in the stomach. More surprised than hurt, Jean gave him a solid shove. Locke flew backward, cloak whirling as he tried to keep his balance—until he collided with a man who’d been coming down the street.

“Mind your fucking step!” The stranger, a middle-aged man in a long orange coat and the prim clothes of a clerk or a lawscribe, wrestled for a few seconds with Locke, who clutched at him for support.

“A thousand pardons,” said Locke, “A thousand pardons, sir. My friend and I were merely having a discussion; the fault is all mine.”

“I daresay it is,” said the stranger, at last succeeding in prying Locke from his coat lapels and thrusting him away. “You have breath like a wine cask! Bloody Camorri.”

Locke watched until the man was a good twenty or thirty yards down the street, then whirled back toward Jean, dangling a little black leather purse in the air before him. It jingled with a healthy supply of heavy coins.

“Ha! What do you say to that, hmmm?”

“I say it was bloody child’s play. Doesn’t mean a gods-damned thing.”

“Child’s play? Die screaming, Jean, that was—”

“You’re mangy,” said Jean. “You’re dirtier than a Shades’ Hill orphan. You’ve lost weight, though where from is a great mystery. You haven’t been exercising your wounds or letting anyone tend to them for you. You’ve been hiding in a room, letting your condition slip away, and you’ve been drunk for two straight weeks. You’re not what you were, and it’s your own damn fault.”

“So.” Locke scowled at Jean, slipped the purse into a tunic pocket, and straightened the cloak on his shoulders. “You require a demonstration. Fine. Get back inside and take down your silly wall, and wait for me in the room. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“I—”

But Locke had already thrown up the hood of his cloak, turned, and begun to stride down the street, into the warm Vel Virazzo night.

6

JEAN CLEARED the barrier from the third-floor hallway, left a few more coins (from Locke’s purse) with the bemused innkeeper, and bustled about the room, allowing some of the smell of drunken enclosure to evaporate out the open window. Upon reflection, he went down to the bar and came back with a glass decanter of water.

Jean was pacing, worriedly, when Locke burst back in about four hours later, just past the third hour of the morning. He set a huge wicker basket down on the table, threw off his cloak, grabbed the bucket Jean had used to douse him, and noisily threw up in it.

“My apologies,” he muttered when he finished. He was flushed and breathing heavily, as wet as he’d been when he’d left, but now with warm sweat. “The wine has not entirely left my head … and my wind has all but deserted me.”

Jean passed him the decanter, and Locke slurped from it as shamelessly as a horse at a trough. Jean helped him into the chair. Locke said nothing for a few seconds, then suddenly seemed to notice Jean’s hand on his shoulder, and he recoiled. “Here we are, then,” he gasped. “See what happens when you provoke me? I think we’re going to have to flee the city.”

“What the—what have you done?”

Locke tore the lid from his basket; it was the sort commonly used by merchants to haul small loads of goods to and from a street market. A prodigious assortment of odds and ends lay inside, and Locke began to list them off as he pulled them out and showed them to Jean.

“What’s this? Why, it’s a pile of purses … one-two-three-four of them, all plucked from sober gentlemen in open streets. Here’s a knife, two bottles of wine, a pewter ale mug—dented a bit, but still good metal. A brooch, three gold pins, two earrings—earrings, Master Tannen, plucked from ears, and I’d like to see you try that. Here’s a little bolt of nice silk, a box of sweetmeats, two loaves of bread—the crusty kind with all the spices baked in that you like so much. And now, specially for the edification of a certain pessimistic, peace-breaking son of a bitch who shall remain nameless …”

Locke held up a glittering necklace, a braided band of gold and silver supporting a heavy gold pendant, studded with sapphires in the stylized pattern of a floral blossom. The little phalanx of stones flashed like blue fire even by the light of the room’s single soft lantern.

“That’s a sweet piece,” said Jean, briefly forgetting to be aggravated. “You didn’t snatch that off a street.”

“No,” said Locke, before taking another deep draught of the warm water in the decanter. “I got it from the neck of the governor’s mistress.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“In the governor’s manor.”

“Of all the—”

“In the governor’s bed.”

“Damned lunatic!”

“With the governor sleeping next to her.”

The night quiet was broken by the high, distant trill of a whistle, the traditional swarming noise of city watches everywhere. Several other whistles joined in a few moments later.

“It is possible,” said Locke with a sheepish grin, “that I have been slightly too bold.”

Jean sat down on the bed and ran both of his hands through his hair. “Locke, I’ve spent the past few weeks making a name for Tavrin Callas as the biggest, brightest thing to come along in this city’s sad little pack of Right People for ages! When the watch starts asking questions, someone’s going to point me out … and someone’s going to mention all the time I spend here, and the time I spend with you … and if we try to fence a piece of metal like that in a place this small …”

“As I said, I think we’re going to have to flee the city.”

“Flee the city?” Jean jumped up and pointed an accusatory finger at Locke. “You’ve screwed up weeks of work! I’ve been training the Coves—signals, tricks, teasing, fighting, the whole bit! I was going to … I was going to start teaching them how to cook!”

“Oooh, this is serious. I take it the marriage proposal wasn’t far behind?”

“Dammit, this is serious! I’ve been building something! I’ve been out working while you’ve been sobbing and sulking and pissing your time away in here.”

“You’re the one who lit a fire under me because he wanted to see me dance. Now I’ve danced, and I believe I’ve made my point. Will you be apologizing?”

“Apologizing? You’re the one who’s been an insufferable little shit! Letting you live is apology enough! All my work …”

“Capa of Vel Virazzo? Is that how you saw yourself, Jean? Another Barsavi?”

“Another anything,” said Jean. “There’s worse things to be—Capa Lamora, for example, Lord of One Smelly Room. I won’t be a bloody knockabout, Locke. I am an honest working thief and I’ll do what I have to, to keep a roof over our heads!”

“So let’s go somewhere and get back to something really lucrative,” said Locke. “You want honest crooked work? Fine. Let’s go hook a big fish just like we used to in Camorr. You wanted to see me steal, let’s go out and steal!”

“But Tavrin Callas …”

“Has died before,” said Locke. “Seeker into Aza Guilla’s mysteries, right? Let him seek again.”

“Dammit.” Jean stepped over to the window and took a peek out; there was still whistling coming from several directions. “It might take a few days to arrange a berth on a ship, and we won’t get out by land with what you’ve stolen—they’ll be checking everyone at the gates, probably for a week or two to come.”

“Jean,” said Locke, “now you’re disappointing me. Gates? Ships? Please. This is us we’re talking about. We could smuggle a live cow past every constable in this city, at high noon. Without clothes.”

“Locke? Locke Lamora?” Jean rubbed his eyes with exaggerated motions. “Why, where have you been all these weeks? Here I thought I’d been rooming with a miserable self-absorbed asshole who—”

“Right,” said Locke. “Fine. Ha. Yeah, maybe I deserved that kick in the face. But I’m serious, getting us out is as easy as a bit of cooking. Get down to the innkeeper. Wake him up and throw some more silver at him—there’s plenty in those purses. I’m a mad Camorri don, right? Tell him I’ve got a mad whim. Get me some more dirty cloth, some apples, a hearthstone, and a black iron pot full of water.”

“Apples?” Jean scratched his beard. “Apples? You mean … the apple mash trick?”

“Just so,” said Locke. “Get me that stuff, and I’ll get boiling, and we can be out of here by dawn.”

“Huh.” Jean opened the door, slipped out into the hall, and turned once before leaving for good. “I take some of it back,” he said. “You might still be a lying, cheating, low-down, greedy, grasping, conniving, pocket-picking son of a bitch.”

“Thanks,” said Locke.

7

A DRIZZLE was pattering softly around them as they walked out through Vel Virazzo’s north gate a few hours later. Sunrise was a watery line of yellow on the eastern horizon, under scudding charcoal clouds. Purple-jacketed soldiers stared down in revulsion from atop the city’s fifteen-foot wall; the heavy wooden door of the small sally-port slammed shut behind them as though it too was glad to be quit of them.

Locke and Jean were both dressed in tattered cloaks, and wrapped in bandagelike fragments from a dozen torn-up sheets and pieces of clothing. A thin coating of boiled apple mash, still warm, soaked through some of the “bandages” on their arms and chests, and was plastered liberally over their faces. Sloshing around wearing a layer of the stuff under cloth was disgusting, but there was no better disguise to be had in all the world.

Slipskin was a painful, incurable disease, and those afflicted with it were even less tolerated than lepers. Had Locke and Jean approached from outside Vel Virazzo’s walls, they never would have been let in. As it was, the guards had no interest in how they’d entered the city in the first place; they’d nearly stumbled over themselves in their haste to see them gone.

The outer city was an unhappy-looking place: a few blocks of crumbling one- and two-story buildings, decorated here and there with the makeshift windmill towers favored in these parts for driving bellows over forges and ovens. Smoke sketched a few curling gray lines in the wet air overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Beyond the city, where the cobbles of the old Therin Throne road became a wet dirt track, Locke could see scrubland, interrupted here and there by rocky clefts and piles of debris.

Their coins—and all of their other small goods worth transporting—were tucked into a little bag tied under Jean’s clothes, where no guardsman would dare search, not even if a superior stood behind him with a drawn sword and ordered it on pain of death.

“Gods,” Locke muttered as they trudged along beside the road, “I’m getting too tired to think straight. I really have let myself slouch out of condition.”

“Well,” said Jean, “you’re going to get some exercise these next few days, whether you like it or not. How’re the wounds?”

“They itch,” said Locke. “This damn mush does them little good, I suspect. Still, it’s not as bad as it was. A few hours of motion seems to have had some benefit.”

“Wise in the ways of all such things is Jean Tannen,” said Jean. “Wiser by far than most; especially most named Lamora.”

“Shut your fat, ugly, inarguably wiser face,” said Locke. “Mmmm. Look at those idiots scamper away from us.”

“Would you do otherwise, if you saw a pair of real slipskinners by the side of the road?”

“Eh. I suppose not. Damn these aching feet, too.”

“Let’s get a mile or two outside town, then find a place to rest. Once we’ve put some leagues under our heels, we can ditch this mush and pose as respectable travelers again. Any idea where you want to strike out for?”

“I should’ve thought it was obvious,” said Locke. “These little towns are for pikers. We’re after gold and white iron, not clipped coppers. Let’s make for Tal Verrar. Something’s bound to present itself there.”

“Mmm. Tal Verrar. Well, it is close.”

“Camorri have a long and glorious history of kicking the piss out of our poor Verrari cousins, so I say, on to Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “And glory.” They walked on a ways under the tickling mist of the morning drizzle. “And baths.”

CHAPTER TWO

REQUIN

1

THOUGH LOCKE SAW that Jean remained as unsettled by their experience in the Night Market as he was, they spoke no further of the matter. There was a job to be done, and they were up at the crack of dusk the next day.

The close of the working day for honest men and women in Tal Verrar was just the beginning of theirs. It had been strange at first, getting used to the rhythm of a city where the sun simply fell beneath the horizon like a quiescent murder victim each night, without the glow of Falselight to mark its passing. But Tal Verrar had been built to different tastes or needs than Camorr, and its Elderglass simply mirrored the sky, raising no light of its own.

Their suite at the Villa Candessa was high-ceilinged and opulent; at five silver volani a night nothing less was to be expected. Their fourth-floor window overlooked a cobbled courtyard in which carriages, studded with lanterns and outriding mercenary guards, came and went with echoing clatters.

“Bondsmagi,” muttered Jean as he tied on his neck-cloths before a looking glass. “I’ll never hire one of the bastards to do so much as heat my tea, not if I live to be richer than the duke of Camorr.”

“Now there’s a thought,” said Locke, who was already dressed and sipping coffee. A full day of sleep had done wonders for his head. “If we were richer than the duke of Camorr, we could hire a whole pack of them and give them instructions to go lose themselves on a desolate fucking island somewhere.”

“Mmm. I don’t think the gods made any islands desolate enough for my tastes.”

Jean finished his neck-cloths with one hand and reached for his breakfast with the other. One of the odder services the Villa Candessa provided for its long-term guests was its “likeness cakes”—little frosted simulacra fashioned after the guests by the inn’s Camorr-trained pastry sculptor. On a silver tray beside the looking glass, a little sweetbread Locke (with raisin eyes and almond-butter blond hair) sat beside a rounder Jean with dark chocolate hair and beard. The baked Jean’s legs were already missing.

A few moments later, Jean was brushing the last buttery crumbs from the front of his coat. “Alas, poor Locke and Jean.”

“They died of consumption,” said Locke.

“I do wish I could be there to see it when you talk to Requin and Selendri, you know.”

“Hmmm. Can I trust you to still be in Tal Verrar by the time I get finished?” He tried to leaven the question with a smile, only partially succeeding.

“You know I won’t go anywhere,” said Jean. “I’m still not sure it’s wise. But you know I won’t.”

“I do. I’m sorry.” He finished his coffee and set the cup down. “And my chat with Requin isn’t going to be that terribly interesting.”

“Nonsense. I heard a smirk in your voice. Other people smirk when their work is finished; you grin like an idiot just before yours really begins.”

“Smirking? I’m as slack-cheeked as a corpse. I’m just looking forward to being done with it. Tedious business. I anticipate a dull meeting.”

“Dull meeting, my ass. Not after you walk straight up to the lady with the brass bloody hand and say, ‘Excuse me, madam, but …’ ”

2

“I HAVE been cheating,” said Locke. “Steadily. At every single game I’ve played since my partner and I first came to the Sinspire, two years ago.”

Receiving a piercing stare from Selendri was a curious thing; her left eye was nothing but a dark hollow, half-covered with a translucent awning that had once been a lid. Her single good eye did the work of two, and damned if it wasn’t unnerving.

“Are you deaf, madam? Every single one. Cheating. All the way up and down this precious Sinspire, cheating floor after floor, taking your other guests for a very merry ride.”

“I wonder,” she said in her slow, witchy whisper, “if you truly understand what it means to say that to me, Master Kosta. Are you drunk?”

“I’m as sober as a suckling infant.”

“Is this something you’ve been put up to?”

“I am completely serious,” said Locke. “And it’s your master I would speak to about my motivations. Privately.”

The sixth floor of the Sinspire was quiet. Locke and Selendri were alone, with four of Requin’s uniformed attendants waiting about twenty feet away. It was still too early in the evening for this level’s rarefied crowd to have finished their slow, carousing migration up through the livelier levels.

At the heart of the sixth floor was a tall sculpture within a cylinder of transparent Elderglass. Though the glass could not be worked by human arts, there were literally millions of cast-off fragments and shaped pieces scattered around the world, some of which could be conveniently fitted to human use. There were Elderglass scavenging guilds in several cities, capable of filling special needs in exchange for exorbitant fees.

Within the cylinder was something Locke could only describe as a copperfall—it was a sculpture of a rocky waterfall, taller than a man, in which the rocks were shaped entirely from silver volani coins, and the “water” was a constant heavy stream of copper centira, thousands upon thousands of them. The clatter within the soundproof glass enclosure must have been tremendous, but for those on the outside the show proceeded in absolute silence. Some mechanism in the floor was catching the stream of coins and recirculating it up the back of the silver “rocks.” It was eccentric and hypnotic.… Locke had never before known anyone to decorate a room with a literal pile of money.

“Master? You presume that I have one.”

“You know I mean Requin.”

“He would be the first to correct your presumption. Violently.”

“A private audience would give us a chance to clear up several misunderstandings, then.”

“Oh, Requin will certainly speak to you—very privately.” Selendri snapped the fingers of her right hand twice and the four attendants converged on Locke. Selendri pointed up; two of them took firm hold of his arms, and together they began to lead him up the stairs. Selendri followed a few steps behind.

The seventh floor was dominated by another sculpture within an even wider Elderglass enclosure. This one seemed to be a circle of volcanic islands, again built from silver volani, floating in a sea of solid-gold solari. Each of the silver peaks had a stream of gold coins bubbling from its top, to fall back down into the churning, gleaming “ocean.” Requin’s guards maintained a pace too vigorous for Locke to catch many more details of the sculpture or the room; they passed another pair of uniformed attendants beside the stairwell and continued up.

At the heart of the eighth floor was a third spectacle within glass, the largest yet. Locke blinked several times and suppressed an appreciative chuckle.

It was a stylized sculpture of Tal Verrar, silver islands nestled in a sea of gold coins. Standing over the model city, bestriding it like a god, was a life-sized marble sculpture of a man Locke recognized immediately. The statue, like the man, had prominent curving cheekbones that lent the narrow face a sense of mirth—plus a round protruding chin, wide eyes, and large ears that seemed to have been jammed into the head at right angles. Requin, whose features bore a fair resemblance to a marionette put together in haste by a somewhat irate puppeteer.

The statue’s hands were held outward at the waist, spread forward, and from the flaring stone cuffs around them two solid streams of gold coins were continually gushing onto the city below.

Locke, staring, only avoided tripping over his own feet because the attendants holding him chose that moment to tighten their grip. Atop the eighth-floor stairs was a pair of lacquered wooden doors. Selendri strode past Locke and the attendants. To the left of the door was a small silver panel in the wall; Selendri slid her brass hand into it, let it settle into some sort of mechanism, and then gave it a half-turn to the left. There was a clatter of clockwork devices within the wall, and the doors cracked open.

“Search him,” she said as she vanished through the doors without turning around.

Locke was rapidly stripped of his coat; he was then poked, prodded, sifted, and patted down more thoroughly than he’d been during his last visit to a brothel. His sleeve-stiletto (a perfectly ordinary thing for a man of consequence to carry) was confiscated, his purse was shaken out, his shoes were slipped off, and one attendant even ran his hands through Locke’s hair. When this process was finished, Locke (shoeless, coatless, and somewhat disheveled) was given a less-than-gentle shove toward the doors Selendri had vanished through.

Past them was a dark space not much larger than a wardrobe closet. A winding black iron staircase, wide enough for one person, rose up from the floor toward a square of soft yellow light. Locke padded up the stairs and emerged into Requin’s office.

This place took up the whole of the ninth floor of the Sinspire; an area against the far wall, curtained off with silk drapes, probably served as a bedroom. There was a balcony door on the right-hand wall, covered by a sliding mesh screen. Locke could see a wide, darkened sweep of Tal Verrar through it, so he presumed it looked east.

Every other wall of the office, as he’d heard, was liberally decorated with oil paintings—nearly twenty of them around the visible periphery of the room, in elaborate frames of gilded wood—masterworks of the late Therin Throne years, when nearly every noble at the emperor’s court had kept a painter or sculptor on the leash of patronage, showing them off like pets. Locke hadn’t the training to tell one from another by sight, but rumor had it that there were two Morestras and a Ventathis on Requin’s walls. Those two artists—along with all their sketches, books of theory, and apprentices—had died centuries before, in the firestorm that had consumed the imperial city of Therim Pel.

Selendri stood beside a wide wooden desk the color of a fine coffee, cluttered with books and papers and miniature clockwork devices. A chair was pushed out behind it, and Locke could see the remnants of a dinner—some sort of fish on a white iron plate, paired with a half-empty bottle of pale golden wine.

Selendri touched her flesh hand to her brass simulacrum, and there was a clicking noise. The hand folded apart like the petals of a gleaming flower. The fingers locked into place along the wrist and revealed a pair of blackened-steel blades, six inches long, previously concealed at the heart of the hand. Selendri waved these like a claw and gestured for Locke to stand before the desk, facing it.

“Master Kosta.” The voice came from somewhere behind him, within the silk-curtained enclosure. “What a pleasure! Selendri tells me you’ve expressed an interest in getting killed.”

“Hardly, sir. All I told your assistant was that I had been cheating steadily, along with my partner, at the games we’ve been playing in your Sinspire. For nearly the last two years.”

“Every game,” said Selendri. “You said every single game.”

“Ah, well,” said Locke with a shrug, “it just sounded more dramatic that way. It was more like nearly every game.”

“This man is a clown,” whispered Selendri.

“Oh, no,” said Locke. “Well, maybe occasionally. But not now.”

Locke heard footsteps moving toward his back across the room’s hardwood floor. “You’re here on a bet,” said Requin, much closer.

“Not in the way that you mean, no.”

Requin stepped around Locke and stood before him, hands behind his back, peering at Locke very intently. The man was a virtual twin of his statue on the floor below; perhaps a few pounds heavier, with the bristling curls of steel-gray hair atop his head receding more sharply. His narrow frock coat was crushed black velvet, and his hands were covered with brown leather gloves. He wore optics, and Locke was surprised to see that the glimmer he had taken for reflected light the night before was actually imbued within the glass. They glowed a translucent orange, giving a demonic cast to the wide eyes behind them. Some fresh, expensive alchemy Locke had never heard of, no doubt.

“Did you drink anything unusual tonight, Master Kosta? An unfamiliar wine, perhaps?”

“Unless the water of Tal Verrar itself intoxicates, I’m as dry as baked sand.”

Requin moved behind his desk, picked up a small silver fork, speared a white morsel of fish, and pointed at Locke with it.

“So, if I’m to believe you, you’ve been successfully cheating here for two years, and aside from the sheer impossibility of that claim, now you just want to give yourself up to me. Case of conscience?”

“Not even remotely.”

“An earnest wish for an elaborate suicide?”

“I aim to leave this office alive.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t necessarily be dead until you hit the cobblestones nine stories below.”

“Perhaps I can convince you I’m worth more to you intact.”

Requin chewed his fish before speaking again.

“Just how have you been cheating, Master Kosta?”

“Fast-fingers work, mostly.”

“Really? I can tell a cardsharp’s fingers at a glance. Let’s see that right hand of yours.” Requin held out his gloved left hand, and Locke hesitantly put his own forward, as though they might shake.

Requin snatched Locke’s right hand above the wrist and slammed it down atop his desk—but rather than the sharp rap Locke expected, his hand tipped aside some sort of disguised panel and slid into an aperture just beneath the surface of the desk. There was a loud clack of clockwork, and a cold pressure pinched his wrist. Locke jerked back, but the desk had swallowed his hand like the unyielding maw of a beast. Selendri’s twin steel claws turned casually toward him, and he froze.

“There now. Hands, hands, hands. They get their owners into such trouble, Master Kosta. Selendri and I are two who would know.” Requin turned to the wall behind his desk and slid back a lacquered wood panel, revealing a long, shallow shelf set into the wall.

Within were dozens of sealed glass jars, each holding something dark and withered. Dead spiders? No, Locke corrected himself—human hands. Severed, dried, and stored as trophies, with rings still gleaming on many of their curled and desiccated fingers.

“Before we proceed to the inevitable, that’s what we usually do,” Requin said in a lightly conversational tone. “Right hand, ta-ta. I’ve got it down to a pretty process. Used to have carpets in here, but the damn blood made for such a mess.”

“Very prudent of you.” Locke felt a single bead of sweat start its slow slide down his forehead. “I am as awed and chastised as you no doubt hoped. Might I have my hand back?”

“In its original condition? I doubt it. But answer some questions, and we’ll see. Now, fast-fingers work, you say. But forgive me—my attendants are extremely adept at spotting cardsharps.”

“I’m sure your attendants mean well.” Locke knelt down before the desk, the most comfortable position possible, and smiled. “But I can fingerdance a live cat into a standard deck of fifty-six, and slip it back out at leisure. Other players might complain about the noise, but they’d never spot the source.”

“Set a live cat on my desk, then.”

“It was, ah, a colorful figure of speech. Live cats, unfortunately, aren’t in fashion as evening accessories for gentlemen of Tal Verrar this season.”

“Pity. But hardly a surprise. I’ve had quite a few dead men kneeling where you are now, offering colorful figures of speech and little else.”

Locke sighed. “Your boys removed my coat and my shoes, and if they’d patted me down any more thoroughly they would have been fingering my liver. But what’s this?”

He shook out his left sleeve, and held up his left hand to show that a deck of cards had somehow fallen into it.

Selendri shoved her blades toward Locke’s throat, but Requin waved her back with a smile on his face. “He can hardly kill me with a pack of cards, darling. Not bad, Master Kosta.”

“Now,” said Locke, “let’s see.” He held his arm straight out to the side, with the deck held firmly upright between his thumb and all four fingers. A twist of the wrist, a flick of his thumb, and the deck was cut. He began to flex and splay his fingers, steadily increasing his tempo until they moved like a spider taking fencing lessons. Cut and shuffle, cut and shuffle—he sliced the deck apart and slid it back together no fewer than a dozen times. Then, with one smooth flourish, he slapped it down on the desk and spread it in a long arc, displacing several of Requin’s knickknacks.

“Pick one,” said Locke. “Any one you like. Look at it, but don’t show it to me.”

Requin did as instructed. While he peeked at the card he’d drawn, Locke gathered the rest of the deck with a reverse slide across Requin’s desktop; he shuffled and cut once more, then split the deck and left half on top of the desk. “Go ahead and place your chosen card atop that half of the deck. Remember it, now.”

When Requin returned the card, Locke slapped the other half of the deck down on top of it. Taking the full deck in his left hand, he did his one-handed cut-and-shuffle another five times. Then, he slid the top card from the deck—the four of Chalices—onto Requin’s desk and smiled. “This, master of the Sinspire, is your card.”

“No,” said Requin with a smirk.

“Shit.” Locke flicked out the next card from the top, the Sigil of the Sun. “Aha—I knew it was around there, somewhere.”

“No,” said Requin.

“Damn me,” said Locke, and he rapidly went through the next half dozen from the top of the deck. “Eight of Spires? Three of Spires? Three of Chalices? Sigil of the Twelve Gods? Five of Sabers? Shit. Mistress of Flowers?” Requin shook his head for each one.

“Huh. Excuse me.” Locke set the deck of cards down on Requin’s desk, then fumbled at the clasp of his right sleeve with his left hand. After a few seconds, he slid the sleeve back above his elbow and reset the clasp. Suddenly, there was another deck of cards in his left hand.

“Let’s see Seven of Sabers? Three of Spires? No, we already did that One.… Two of Chalices? Six of Chalices? Master of Sabers? Three of Flowers? Damn, damn. That deck wasn’t so good after all.”

Locke set the second deck down beside the first on Requin’s desk, appeared to scratch an itch near the slender black sash above his breeches, and then held up a third deck of cards. He grinned at Requin and raised his eyebrows.

“This trick might work even better if I could have the use of my right hand.”

“Why, when you seem to be doing so well without it?”

Locke sighed and flicked the top card from the new deck onto the growing pile atop the desk. “Nine of Chalices! Look familiar?”

Requin laughed and shook his head. Locke set the third deck down beside the ones already on Requin’s desk, stood up, and conjured another from somewhere in the vicinity of his breeches.

“But your attendants would of course know,” said Locke, “if I were loaded down with four concealed decks of cards, they being so adept at spotting something like that on a man with no jacket or shoes … wait, four? I may have miscounted.…”

He produced a fifth deck from somewhere within his silk tunic, which joined the little tower of cards perched ever more precariously on the edge of the desk.

“Surely I couldn’t have hidden five decks of cards from your guards, Master Requin. Five would be quite ridiculous. Yet there they are—though I’m afraid that’s as good as it gets. To conjure more, I would have to begin producing them from somewhere disagreeable.

“And, I’m sorry to say, I don’t seem to have the card you took. But wait.… I do know where it might be found.…”

He reached across Requin’s desk, nudged the wine bottle at its base, and seemed to pluck a facedown card from underneath it.

“Your card,” he said, twirling it in the fingers of his left hand. “Ten of Sabers.”

“Well,” laughed Requin, showing a wide arc of yellowing teeth below the fire-orange circles of his optics. “Very fine, very fine. And one-handed, too. But even if I grant that you could perform such tricks, continuously, in front of my attendants and my other guests … you and Master de Ferra have spent a great deal of time at games that are more rigorously controlled than the open card tables.”

“I can tell you how we beat those, too. Simply free me.”

“Why relinquish a clear advantage?”

“Then trade it to gain another. Free my right hand,” said Locke, mustering every last bit of passionate sincerity he could pour into his words, “and I shall tell you exactly why you must never again trust the security of your Sinspire as it stands.”

Requin stared down at him, laced his gloved fingers together, and finally nodded to Selendri. She withdrew her blades—though she kept them pointed at Locke—and pressed a switch behind the desk. Locke was suddenly free to stumble back to his feet, rubbing his right wrist.

“Most kind,” said Locke with a breeziness that was pure conjuring. “Now, yes, we have played at quite a bit more than the open tables. But which games have we scrupulously avoided? Reds-and-Blacks. Count to Twenty. Fair Maiden’s Wish. All the games in which a guest plays against the Sinspire, rather than against another guest. Games mathematically contrived to give the house a substantial edge.”

“Hard to make a profit otherwise, Master Kosta.”

“Yes. And useless for the purposes of a cheat like myself; I need flesh and blood to fool. I don’t care how much clockwork and how many attendants you throw in. In a game between guests, larceny always finds a way, sure as water pushes through a ship’s seams.”

“More bold speech,” said Requin. “I admire glibness in the doomed, Master Kosta. But you and I both know that there is no way to cheat at, say, Carousel Hazard, barring four-way complicity between the participants, which would render the game absolutely pointless.”

“True. There is no way to cheat the carousel or the cards, at least not here in your spire. But when one cannot cheat the game, one must cheat the players. Do you know what bela paranella is?”

“A soporific. Expensive alchemy.”

“Yes. Colorless, tasteless, and doubly effective when taken with liquor. Jerome and I were dusting our fingers with it before we handled our cards during each hand last night. Madam Corvaleur has a well-known habit of eating and licking her fingers while playing. Sooner or later, she was bound to take in enough of the drug to pass out.”

“Well!” Requin looked genuinely taken aback. “Selendri, do you know anything about this?”

“I can vouch for Corvaleur’s habits, at least,” she whispered. “It seemed to be her preferred method of irritating her opponents.”

“That it did,” said Locke. “It was quite a pleasure to see her do herself in.”

“I’ll grant your story is remotely plausible,” said Requin. “I had been … curious about Izmila’s strange incapacity.”

“Indeed. The woman’s built like an Elderglass boathouse. Jerome and I had more empty vials than her side did; what she’d had wouldn’t have gotten her eyelashes alone drunk, if not for the powder.”

“Perhaps. But let’s discuss other games. What of Blind Alliances?”

A game of Blind Alliances was played at a circular table with tall, specially designed barriers before each player’s hands so that everyone but the person directly across from them (their partner) could see at least some of their cards. Each silent participant set his or her right foot atop the left foot of the person on their right, all around the table, so no player could tap signals to a partner below the table. Partners therefore had to play by instinct and desperate inference, cut off from each other’s sight, voice, and touch.

“A child’s stratagem. Jerome and I had special boots constructed, with iron-shod toes beneath the leather. We could slide our feet carefully out the backs of them, and the iron would continue to provide the sensation of a full boot to the person beside us. We could tap entire books to one another with the code we’ve got. Have you ever known anyone to dominate that game as thoroughly as we did?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I can show you the boots.”

“Well. You did seem to have an extraordinary run of luck.… But what about billiards? You scored a rather famous victory against Lord Landreval. How could you have finessed that? My house provides all the balls, the sticks, and the handling.”

“Yes, so naturally those three things couldn’t be fiddled. I paid Lord Landreval’s consulting physiker ten solari for insight into his medical complaints. Turns out he’s allergic to lemons. Jerome and I rubbed our necks, cheeks, and hands with sliced lemons each night before we played him, and used other oils to mostly cover up the scent. Half an hour in our presence and he’d be so puffed up he could barely see. I’m not sure he ever realized what the problem was.”

“You say you won a thousand solari with a few slices of lemon? Nonsense.”

“Of course you’re right. I asked politely if he’d lend me a thousand solari, and he offered to let us publicly humiliate him at his favorite game out of the kindness of his heart.”

“Hmmmph.”

“How often did Landreval lose before he met Jerome and myself? Once in fifty games?”

“Lemons. I’ll be damned.”

“Yes. When you can’t cheat the game, you’d best find a means to cheat the player. Given information and preparation, there’s not a player in your spire Jerome and I can’t dance along like a finger-puppet. Hell, someone with my talents who knew enough about me could probably string me right along, too.”

“It’s a good story, Master Kosta.” Requin reached across his desk and took a sip of his wine. “I suppose I can charitably believe at least some of what you claim. I suspected that you and your friend were no more merchant speculators than I am, but at my tower you may claim to be a duke or a three-headed dragon provided you have solid credit. You certainly did before you stepped into my office this evening. Which brings us only to the most important question of all—why the hell are you telling me this?”

“I needed your attention.”

“You already had it.”

“I needed more than that. I needed you to understand my skills and my inclinations.”

“And now you have that as well, inasmuch as I accept your story. What exactly do you think that gets you?”

“A chance that what I’m going to say next will actually sink in.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not really here to take your guests for a few thousand solari here and a few thousand solari there, Requin. It’s been fun, but it’s secondary to my actual goal.”

Locke spread his hands and smiled apologetically.

“I’ve been hired to break into your vault, just as soon as I find a way to haul everything in it from right out under your nose.”

3

REQUIN BLINKED.

“Impossible!”

“Inevitable.”

“This isn’t legerdemain or lemons we’re talking about now, Master Kosta. Explain yourself.”

“My feet are beginning to hurt,” said Locke. “And my throat is somewhat dry.”

Requin stared at him, then shrugged. “Selendri. A chair for Master Kosta. And a glass.”

Frowning, Selendri turned and took a finely wrought dark wood chair with a thin leather cushion from its place on the wall. She placed it behind Locke, and he settled into it with a smile on his face. She then bustled about behind him for a few moments, and returned with a crystal goblet, which she passed to Requin. He picked up the wine bottle and poured a generous stream of red liquid into the goblet. Red liquid? Locke blinked—and then relaxed. Kameleona, the shifting wine, of course. One of the hundreds of Tal Verrar’s famous alchemical vintages. Requin passed him the goblet, then sat down atop his desk with his arms folded.

“To your health,” said Requin. “It needs all the assistance it can get.”

Locke took a long sip of the warm wine and allowed himself a few seconds of contemplation. He marveled at the way the taste of apricots transmuted to the sharper flavor of slightly tart apple in midswallow. That sip had been worth twenty volani, if his knowledge of the liquor market was still accurate. He gave a genuinely appreciative nod to Requin, who waved a hand nonchalantly.

“It cannot have escaped your attention, Master Kosta, that my vault is the most secure in Tal Verrar—the single most redundantly protected space in the entire city, in fact, not excepting the private chambers of the archon himself.” Requin tugged at the skintight leather of his right glove with the fingers of his left hand. “Or that it is encased within a structure of pristine Elderglass, and accessible only through several layers of metallurgical and clockwork artifice that are, if I may be permitted to stroke my own breechclout, peerless. Or that half the Priori council regards it so highly that they entrust much of their personal fortunes to it.”

“Of course,” said Locke. “I congratulate you on a very flattering clientele. But your vault doors are guarded by gears, and gears are shaped by men. What one man locks another will sooner or later unlock.”

“I say again, impossible.”

“And I correct you again. Difficult. ‘Difficult’ and ‘impossible’ are cousins often mistaken for one another, with very little in common.”

“You have more chance of giving birth to a live hippopotamus,” said Requin, “than the best thief alive has of making it past the cordon drawn around my vault. But this is silly—we could sit here all night contrasting cock-lengths. I say mine is five feet long, you say yours is six, and shoots fire upon command. Let’s hurry back to significant conversation. You admit that cheating the mechanisms of my games is out of the question. My vault is the most secure of all mechanisms; am I therefore the flesh and blood you were presuming to fool?”

“It’s possible this conversation represents me giving up that hope.”

“What does cheating my guests have to do with plotting entry into my vault?”

“Originally,” said Locke, “we gamed merely to blend in and cover our observance of your operations. Time passed and we made no progress. The cheating was a lark to make the games more interesting.”

“My house bores you?”

“Jerome and I are thieves. We’ve been sharping cards and lifting goods east and west, here to Camorr and back again, for years. Spinning carousels with the well-heeled is only amusing for so long, and we weren’t getting far with our job, so we had to stay amused somehow.”

“Job. Yes, you said you were hired to come here. Elaborate.”

“My partner and I were sent here as the point men of something very elaborate. Someone out there wants your vault emptied. Not merely penetrated, but pillaged. Plucked and left behind like an empty honeycomb.”

“Someone?”

“Someone. I haven’t the faintest notion who; Jerome and I are dealt with through fronts. All of our efforts to penetrate them have been in vain. Our employer is as anonymous to us now as he was two years ago.”

“Do you frequently work for anonymous employers, Master Kosta?”

“Only the ones that pay me large piles of good, cold metal. And I can assure you—this one has been paying us very well.”

Requin sat down behind his desk, removed his optics, and rubbed his eyes with his gloved hands. “What’s this new game, Master Kosta? Why favor me with all of this?”

“I tire of our employer. I tire of Jerome’s company. I find Tal Verrar much to my taste, and I wish to arrange a new situation for myself.”

“You wish to turn your coat?”

“If you must put it that way, yes.”

“What do you suggest I have to gain from this?”

“First, a means to work against my current employer. Jerome and I aren’t the only agents set against you. Our job is the vault, and nothing else. All the information we gather on your operations is being passed to someone else. They’re waiting for us to come up with a means to crack your money-box, and then they’ve got further plans for you.”

“Go on.”

“The other benefit would be mutual. I want a job. I’m tired of running from city to city chasing after work. I want to settle in Tal Verrar, find a home, maybe a woman. After I help you deal with my current employer, I want to work for you, here.”

“As an entertainer, perhaps?”

“You need a floor boss, Requin. Tell me truly, are you as complacent about your security as you were before I came up your stairs? I know how to cheat every single game that can be cheated here, and if I weren’t sharper than your attendants I’d already be dead. Who better to keep your guests playing fairly?”

“Your request is … logical. Your willingness to shrug off your employer isn’t. Don’t you fear their retribution?”

“Not if I can help you put us both beyond it. Identification is the problem. Once identified, any man or woman in the world can be dealt with. You have every gang in Tal Verrar under your thumb, and you have the ear of the Priori. Surely you could make the arrangements if we could come up with names.”

“And your partner, Master de Ferra?”

“We’ve worked well together,” said Locke. “But we quarreled, not long ago, over an intensely personal matter. He believes his insult is forgiven; I assure you it is anything but. I want to be quits with him when our current employer is dealt with. I want him to know before he dies that I’ve had the best of him. If possible, I’d like to kill him myself. That and the job are my only requests.”

“Mmm. What do you think of all this, Selendri?”

“Some mysteries are better off with their throats slit,” she whispered.

“You might fear that I’m trying to displace you,” said Locke. “I assure you, when I said floor boss I meant floor boss. I don’t want your job.”

“And you could never have it, Master Kosta, even if you did want it.” Requin ran his fingers down Selendri’s right forearm and squeezed her undamaged hand. “I admire your boldness only to a point.”

“Forgive me, both of you. I had no intention of presuming too much. Selendri, for what it’s worth, I agree with you. In your position, getting rid of me might seem like wisdom. Mysteries are dangerous to people in our profession. I am no longer pleased with the mystery of my employment. I want a more predictable life. What I ask and what I offer are straightforward.”

“And in return,” said Requin, “I receive possible insight into an alleged threat against a vault I have enhanced by my own design to be impenetrable.”

“A few minutes ago, you expressed the same confidence concerning your attendants and their ability to spot cardsharps.”

“Have you penetrated my vault security as thoroughly as you say you’ve danced around my attendants, Master Kosta? Have you penetrated it at all?”

“All I need is time,” said Locke. “Give it to me and a way will make itself plain, sooner or later. I’m not giving up because it’s too hard; I’m giving up because it pleases me. But don’t just take my word on my sincerity; look into the activities of Jerome and myself. Make inquiries about everything we’ve been doing in your city for the past two years. We have made some progress that might open your eyes.”

“I shall,” said Requin. “And in the meantime, what am I to do with you?”

“Nothing extraordinary,” said Locke. “Make your inquiries. Keep your eyes on Jerome and myself. Continue to let us play at your spire—I promise to play more fairly, at least for the coming few days. Allow me to think on my plans and gather whatever information I can about my anonymous employer.”

“Let you walk out of here, unscathed? Why not hold you somewhere secure, while I exercise my curiosity about your background?”

“If you take me seriously enough to consider any part of my offer,” said Locke, “then you must take the possible threat of my employer seriously as well. Any tip-off to them that I’ve been compromised, and Jerome and I might be cast loose. So much for your opportunity.”

“So much for your usefulness, you mean. I am to take a great deal on faith, from a man offering to betray and kill his business partner.”

“You hold my purse, as surely as your desk held my hand. All the coin I have in Tal Verrar, I keep here with your Sinspire. You may look for my name at any countinghouse in the city, and you will not find it. I give you that leverage over me, willingly.”

“A man with a grudge, a genuine grudge, might piss on all the white iron in the world for one chance at his real target, Master Kosta. I have been that target too many times to forget this.”

“I am not crass,” said Locke, taking back one of his decks of cards from Requin’s desktop. He shuffled it a few times without looking at it. “Jerome insulted me without good cause. Pay me well and treat me well, and I will never give you any reason for displeasure.”

Locke whisked the top card off his desk, flipped it, and set it down faceup beside the remnants of Requin’s dinner. It was the Master of Spires.

“I deliberately choose to throw in with you, if you’ll have me. Place a bet, Master Requin. The odds are favorable.”

Requin pulled his optics out of his coat pocket and slipped them back on. He seemed to brood over the card; nothing was said by anyone for some time. Locke sipped quietly from his glass of wine, which had turned pale blue and now tasted of juniper.

“Why,” said Requin at last, “all other considerations aside, should I allow you to violate the cardinal rule of my spire on your own initiative and suffer nothing in exchange?”

“Only because I imagine that cheaters are ordinarily discovered by your attendants while other guests are watching,” said Locke, attempting to sound as sincere and contrite as possible. “Nobody knows about my confession, outside this office. Selendri didn’t even tell your attendants why they were hauling me up here.”

Requin sighed, then drew a gold solari from within his scarlet coat and set it down atop Locke’s Master of Spires.

“I shall hold fast with a small wager for now,” said Requin. “Do anything unusual or alarming, and you will not survive long enough to reconsider. At the slightest hint that anything you’ve told me has been a lie, I will have molten glass poured down your throat.”

“Uh … that seems fair.”

“How much money do you currently have on the ledger here?”

“Just over three thousand solari.”

“Two thousand of that is no longer yours. It will remain on the ledger so Master de Ferra doesn’t get suspicious, but I’m going to issue instructions that it is not to be released to you. Consider it a reminder that my rules are not to be broken on anyone’s recognition but my own.”

“Ouch. I suppose I should be grateful. I mean, I am. Thank you.”

“You walk on eggshells with me, Master Kosta. Step delicately.”

“Then I may go? And I may think of myself as in your service?”

“You may go. And you may consider yourself on my sufferance. We will speak again when I know more about your recent past. Selendri will accompany you back down to the first floor. Get out of my sight.”

With an air of faint disappointment, Selendri folded the brass fingers of her artificial hand up, until it was whole once again and the blades were hidden. She gestured toward the stairs with that hand, and with the look in her good eye she told him precisely how much patience she had to spare for him if Requin’s should start to wane.

4

JEAN TANNEN sat reading in a private booth at the Gilded Cloister, a club on the second tier of the Savrola, just a few blocks down from the Villa Candessa. The Cloister was a labyrinth of dark wood enclosures, well padded with leather and quilting, for the benefit of diners wishing an unusual degree of solitude. The waitstaff, in their leather aprons and drooping red caps, were forbidden to speak, answering all customer requests with either a nod or a shake of the head.

Jean’s dinner, smoked rock eel in caramel brandy sauce, lay chopped into fragments and scattered like debris from a battle. He was making his way slowly through dessert, a cluster of marzipan dragonflies with crystallized sugar wings that glimmered by the steady glow of the booth’s candles. He was absorbed in a leather-bound copy of Lucarno’s Tragedy of the Ten Honest Turncoats, and he didn’t notice Locke until the smaller man was already seated across from him in the booth.

“Leocanto! You gave me a start.”

“Jerome.” They both spoke in a near whisper. “You really were nervous, weren’t you? Nose buried in a book to keep you from going mad. Some things never change.”

“I wasn’t nervous. I was merely reasonably concerned.”

“You needn’t have been.”

“Is it done, then? Am I successfully betrayed?”

“Quite betrayed. Absolutely sold out. A dead man walking.”

“Wonderful! And his attitude?”

“Guarded. Ideal, I’d say. Had he been too enthusiastic, I would be worried. And had he not been enthusiastic at all, well …” Locke mimicked shoving a knife into his chest and wiggling it several times. “Is this smoked eel?”

“Help yourself. It’s stuffed with apricots and soft yellow onions. Not entirely to my taste.”

Locke took up Jean’s fork and helped himself to a few bites of the eel; he was more partial to the stuffing than Jean had been. “We’re going to lose two-thirds of my account, it seems,” he said after making some progress on the dish. “A tax on cheating to remind me not to presume too much on Requin’s patience.”

“Well, it’s not as though we expected to get out of the city with the money in those accounts. Might’ve been nice to have it for a few more weeks, at least.”

“True. But I think the alternative would have been desktop surgery, whether I needed a hand amputated or not. What’re you reading?”

Jean showed him the title and Locke feigned choking. “Lucarno? Why is it always Lucarno? You drag him everywhere we go, his damn romances. Your brains will go soft with that mush. You’ll end up more fit for tending flower gardens than for running confidence games.”

“Well,” said Jean, “I shall be sure to criticize your reading habits, Master Kosta, should I ever see you develop any.”

“I’ve read quite a bit!”

“History and biography, mostly what Chains prescribed for you.”

“What could possibly be wrong with those subjects?”

“As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It’s not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination.”

“But romances aren’t real, and surely never were. Doesn’t that take away some of the savor?”

“What an interesting choice of words. ‘Not real, and never were.’ Could there be any more appropriate literature for men of our profession? Why are you always so averse to fiction, when we’ve made it our meal ticket?”

“I live in the real world,” said Locke, “and my methods are of the real world. They are, just as you say, a profession. A practicality, not some romantic whim.”

Jean set the book down before him and tapped its cover. “This is where we’re headed, Thorn—or at least you are. Look for us in history books and you’ll find us in the margins. Look for us in legends, and you might just find us celebrated.”

“Exaggerated, you mean. Lied about. Trumped up, or stamped down. The truth of anything we do will die with us and nobody else will ever have a bloody clue.”

“Better that than obscurity! I recall you once had quite a taste for drama. For plays, if nothing else.”

“Yes.” Locke folded his hands on the table and lowered his voice even further. “And you know what happened to it.”

“Forgive me,” said Jean with a sigh. “I should have known better than to bring up that particular redheaded subject once again.”

A waiter appeared at the entrance to the little booth, looking attentively at Locke.

“Oh, no,” said Locke, and set Jean’s fork back on the eel plate. “Nothing for me, I’m afraid. I’m just here waiting for my friend to finish his little candy wasps.”

“Dragonflies.” Jean popped the last one into his mouth, swallowed it nearly whole, and tucked his book away within his coat. “Give over the bill, and I’ll settle up with you.”

The waiter nodded, cleared away the used dishes, and left a scrap of paper pinned to a small wooden tablet.

“Well,” said Locke as Jean counted copper coins from his purse, “We’ve no responsibilities for the rest of the evening. Requin is no doubt setting eyes on us as we speak. I think a night or two of light relaxation would be in order, to avoid upsetting him.”

“Great,” said Jean. “Why don’t we wander around a bit, and maybe catch a boat over to the Emerald Galleries? They’ve got coffeehouses there, and music. Would it be in character for Leo and Jerome to get a bit tipsy and chase tavern dancers?”

“Jerome can murder as much ale as he likes, and bother tavern dancers until the sun chases us home to bed. Leo will sit and watch the festivities.”

“Maybe play spot-the-shadow with Requin’s people?”

“Maybe. Damn, I wish we had Bug to lurk on a few rooftops for us. We could use a pair of top-eyes; there’s not a trustworthy one in this damn city.”

“I wish we still had Bug, period,” said Jean with a sigh.

They made their way to the foyer of the club, chatting quietly of imaginary business between Masters Kosta and de Ferra, batting little improvisations back and forth for the sake of any prying ears. It was just after midnight when they stepped out into the familiar quiet order and high walls of the Savrola. The place was artificially clean—no knackers here, no blood in the alleys, no piss in the gutters. The gray brick streets were well lit by silvery lanterns in swaying iron frames; the whole district seemed framed in bright moonlight, though the sky tonight was occluded by a high ceiling of dark clouds.

The woman was waiting for them in the shadows on Locke’s left.

She matched pace with him as he and Jean moved down the street. One of Locke’s sleeve-stilettos fell into the palm of his hand before he could control the reflex, but she stayed a full yard away, with her hands folded behind her back. She was youngish, short and slender with dark hair pulled back into a long tail. She wore a vaguely fashionable dark coat and a four-cornered hat with a long gray silk scarf that trailed behind her like a ship’s pennant as she walked.

“Leocanto Kosta,” she said in a pleasant, even voice. “I know you and your friend are armed. Let’s not be difficult.”

“I beg your pardon, madam?”

“Move that blade in your hand, and it’s a shaft through the neck for you. Tell your friend to keep his hatchets under his coat. Let’s just keep walking.”

Jean began to move his left hand beneath his coat; Locke caught him with his right hand and swiftly shook his head. They were not alone on the street; people hurried here and there on business or pleasure, but some of them were staring at him and Jean. Some of them were standing in alleys and shadows, wearing unseasonably heavy cloaks, unmoving.

“Shit,” Jean muttered. “Rooftops.”

Locke glanced up briefly. Across the street, atop the three- and fourstory stone buildings, he could see the silhouettes of at least two men moving slowly along with them, carrying thin, curved objects in their hands. Longbows.

“You appear to have us at a disadvantage, madam,” said Locke, slipping his stiletto into a coat pocket and showing her his empty hand. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your attention?”

“Someone wants to have a conversation with you.”

“Clearly they knew where to find us. Why not simply join us for dinner?”

“Conversation should be private, don’t you think?”

“Did a man in a rather tall tower send you?”

She smiled but said nothing. A moment later, she gestured ahead of them. “At the next corner, take a left. You’ll see an open door, first building on your right. Go there. Follow directions.”

Sure enough, the promised open door was waiting just past the next crossroads, a rectangle of yellow light casting a pale twin across the ground. The woman went in first. Locke, conscious of the presence of at least four or five nearby lurkers in addition to the rooftop archers, sighed and passed Jean a quick hand signal—easy, easy.

The place looked like a shop, disused but otherwise in good repair. There were six more people inside the room, men and women in silver-banded leather doublets with their backs up against the walls. Four of them held loaded crossbows, which neatly quashed any thoughts of resistance Locke might have been teasing around inside his head. Even Jean couldn’t balance those odds.

One of the crossbowmen quietly closed the door, and the woman who’d led Locke and Jean in turned. The front of her coat fell open and Locke could see that she, too, was wearing reinforced leather armor. She held out her hands.

“Weapons,” she said, politely but firmly. “Smartly, now.”

When Locke and Jean glanced at each other, she laughed.

“Don’t be dense, gentlemen. If we wanted you dead you’d already be pinned to the wall. I’ll take good care of your property for you.”

Slowly, resignedly, Locke shook his two stilettos out of his coat, and Jean followed suit with his matched pair of hatchets and no fewer than three daggers of his own.

“I do like men who travel prepared,” said the woman. She passed their weapons to one of the men behind her and drew two lightweight cloth hoods out of her coat. She tossed one to Locke and one to Jean.

“On over your heads, please. Then we can get on with our business.”

“Why?” Jean sniffed at his hood suspiciously, and Locke followed suit. The cloth seemed to be clean.

“For your own protection. Do you really want your faces out in the open if we drag you through the streets under guard?”

“I suppose not,” said Locke. Frowning, he slipped the hood on and found that it put him in total darkness.

There was a sound of footsteps and the swirl of moving coats. Strong hands seized Locke’s arms and forced them together behind his back. A moment later, he felt something being woven tightly around his wrists. There was a louder tumult and a number of irritated grunts from beside him; presumably they had ganged up on Jean in heavy numbers.

“There,” came the voice of the woman, now behind Locke. “Now, step lively. Don’t worry about falling over—you’ll be assisted.”

By “assisted” she clearly meant that they’d be seized and carried along by the arms. Locke felt hands close around his biceps, and he cleared his throat.

“Where are we going?”

“For a boat ride, Master Kosta,” said the woman. “Don’t ask any more questions, because I won’t answer them. Let’s be on our way.”

There was a creak as the door was thrown open once again, and a brief whirling sensation as he was pushed around and reoriented by the people holding him. Then they were moving back out into the muggy Verrari night, and Locke could feel heavy beads of sweat begin to slide their ticklish paths down his forehead.

REMINISCENCE

Best-Laid Plans

1

“Shit,” said Locke as the deck of cards exploded outward from his sore left hand. Jean flinched back from the blizzard of paper that fluttered around the compartment of the carriage.

“Try again,” said Jean. “Perhaps the eighteenth time’s the charm.”

“I used to be so damned good at this one-handed shuffle.” Locke began plucking up cards and reorganizing them into a neat pile. “I bet I could do it better than Calo and Galdo, even. Damn, my hand aches.”

“Well, I know I pushed you to exercise,” said Jean, “but you were a little out of practice even before you got hurt. Give it time.”

A hard rain was falling around the jouncing black luxury carriage as it threaded its way along the old Therin Throne road through the foothills just east of the Tal Verrar coast. A hunched middle-aged woman worked the reins of the six-horse team from her open box atop the cabin, with the cowl of her oilcloak pulled forward to protect the smoldering bowl of her pipe. Two outrider guards huddled in misery on the rear footboard, secured by wide leather straps around their waists.

Jean was peering over a sheaf of notes, flipping parchment pages back and forth, muttering to himself. The rain was beating hard against the right side of the closed cabin, but they were able to keep the left-hand window open, with its mesh screens and leather shutters drawn back to admit muggy air that smelled of manured fields and salt marshes. A little yellow alchemical globe on the padded seat beside Jean provided reading light.

They were two weeks out from Vel Virazzo, a good hundred miles to the northwest, and well past the need to paint themselves up with apple mash to move freely.

“Here’s what all my sources say,” said Jean when Locke had finished recovering all of his cards. “Requin’s somewhere in his forties. Native Verrari, but he speaks a bit of Vadran and supposedly he’s a genius at Throne Therin. He’s an art collector, mad about the painters and sculptors from the very last years of the empire. Nobody knows what he did prior to twenty years ago. Apparently he won the Sinspire on a bet and threw the previous owner out a window.”

“And he’s tight with the Priori?”

“Most of them, it seems.”

“Any idea how much he keeps in his vaults?”

“Conservative estimate,” said Jean, “at least enough to pay out any debts the house might incur. He could never allow himself to be embarrassed in that respect—so let’s say fifty thousand solari, at least. Plus his personal fortune, plus the combined goods and fortunes of a great many people. He doesn’t pay interest like the best countinghouses, but he doesn’t keep transaction ledgers for the taxmen, either. Supposedly he has one book, hidden gods know where, amended only by his own hand. This is mostly hearsay, of course.”

“That fifty thousand doesn’t cover anything but the house’s operating funds, right? So how much do you presume the total contents of his vault would be worth?”

“It’s pure entrail-reading, without the entrails, even, but … three hundred thousand? Three hundred fifty?”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Yes, well, the details on the vault itself are much more solid. Apparently, Requin doesn’t mind letting some of the facts get out. Thinks it dissuades thieves.”

“They always do, don’t they?”

“In this case, they may be onto something. Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know about those; you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Requin’s got at least four attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at a minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them iron-shod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the doors a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week, under siege.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need them both to get anywhere.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“And the traps … they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders … One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twist-match falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.”

“You’re just making that up, Jean.”

“I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.”

“Right.”

“Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?”

“No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.” He attempted a complicated manipulation of the cards, and they erupted out of his hand yet again, scattering against the opposite seat. “Fuck me with a poleax!”

“Then if I might persist, Lord of Legerdemain, perhaps there’s some other target in Tal Verrar we might consider—”

“I’m not sure that’d be wise. Tal Verrar’s got no twit-riddled aristocracy for us to fool around with. The archon’s a military tyrant on a long leash—he can bend the laws as he sees fit, so I’d rather not yank his breechclout. The Priori council is all merchants from common stock, and they’ll be damned hard to cheat. There’s plenty of likely subjects for small-time games, but if we want a big game, Requin’s the best one to hit. He’s got what we want, right there for the taking.”

“Yet his vault …”

“Let me tell you,” said Locke, “exactly what we’re going to do about his vault.”

Locke spoke for a few minutes while he put his deck of cards together, outlining the barest details of his scheme. Jean’s eyebrows strained upward, attempting to take to the air above his head.

“… so that’s that. Now what do you say, Jean?”

“I’ll be damned. That might just work. If …”

“If?”

“Are you sure you remember how to work a climbing harness? I’m a bit rusty myself.”

“We’ll have quite a while to practice, won’t we?”

“Hopefully. Hmmm. And we’ll need a carpenter. One outside Tal Verrar itself, obviously.”

“We can go looking into that as well, once we’ve got a bit of coin back in our pockets.”

Jean sighed, and all the banter went out of him like wine from a punctured skin. “I suppose … that just leaves … damn.”

“What?”

“I, ah … well, hell. Are you going to break down on me again? Are you going to stay reliable?”

“Stay reliable? Jean, you can … Damn it, look for yourself! What have I been doing? Exercising, planning—and apologizing all the damn time!

I’m sorry, Jean, I really am. Vel Virazzo was a bad time. I miss Calo, Galdo, and Bug.”

“As do I, but …”

“I know. I let my sorrow get the best of me. It was damned selfish, and I know you must ache like I do. I said some stupid things. But I thought I’d been forgiven.… Did I misunderstand?” Locke’s voice hardened. “Shall I now understand that forgiveness is something prone to going in and out like the tide?”

“Now that’s hardly fair. Just—”

“Just what? Am I special, Jean? Am I our only liability? When have I ever doubted your skills? When have I ever treated you like a child? You’re not my fucking mother, and you’re certainly not Chains. We can’t work as partners if you’re going to sit in judgment of me like this.”

The two of them stared at each other, each trying to muster an attitude of cold indignation, and each failing. The mood within the little cabin turned morose, and Jean turned to stare sullenly out the window for a few moments while Locke dejectedly shuffled his cards. He attempted another one-handed cut, and neither he nor Jean seemed surprised when a little blizzard of paper chits settled into the seat beside Jean.

“I’m sorry,” Locke said as his cards fluttered down. “That was another shitty thing to say. Gods, when did we discover how easy it is to be cruel to one another?”

“You’re right,” Jean said softly. “I’m not Chains and I’m certainly not your mother. I shouldn’t push you.”

“No, you should. You pushed me off that galleon and you pushed me out of Vel Virazzo. You were right. I behaved terribly, and I can understand if you’re still … nervous about me. I was so wrapped up in what I’d lost, I forgot what I still had. I’m glad you still worry enough about me to kick my ass when I need it.”

“I, ah, look—I apologize as well. I just—”

“Damn it, don’t interrupt me when I’m feeling virtuously self-critical. I’m ashamed of how I behaved in Vel Virazzo. It was a slight to everything we’ve been through together. I promise to do better. Does that put you at ease?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” Jean began to pick up the scattered cards, and the ghost of a smile reappeared on his face. Locke settled back in his seat and rubbed his eyes.

“Gods. We need a target, Jean. We need a game. We need someone to go to work on, as a team. Don’t you see? It’s not just about what we can charm out of Requin. I want it to be us against the world, lively and dangerous, just like it used to be. Where there’s no room for this sort of second-guessing, you know?”

“Because we’re constantly inches from a horrible bloody death, you mean.”

“Right. The good times.”

“This plan might take a year,” said Jean, slowly. “Maybe two.”

“For a game this interesting, I’m willing to spend a year or two. You have any other pressing engagements?”

Jean shook his head, passed the collected cards back to Locke, and went back to his sheaf of notes, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. Locke slowly traced the outline of the deck of cards with the fingers of his left hand, which felt slightly less useful than a crab claw. He could feel the still-fresh scars itching beneath his cotton tunic—scars so extensive it looked as though most of his left side had been sewn together from rag parts. Gods damn it, he was ready to be healed now. He was ready to have his old careless agility back. He imagined that he felt like a man of twice his years.

He tried another one-handed shuffle, and the deck fell apart in his hands. At least it hadn’t shot apart in all directions. Was that improvement?

He and Jean were silent for several minutes.

Eventually, the carriage rattled around a final small hill and suddenly Locke was looking across a green checkerboard land, sloping downward to sea-cliffs perhaps five or six miles distant. Specks of gray and white and black dotted the landscape, thickening toward the horizon, where the landside of Tal Verrar crowded against the cliff edges. The coastal section of the city seemed pressed down beneath the rain; great silvery curtains were sweeping past behind it, blotting out the islands of Tal Verrar proper. Lightning crackled blue and white in the distance, and soft peals of thunder rolled toward them across the fields.

“We’re here,” said Locke.

“Landside,” said Jean without looking up. “Might as well find an inn when we get there; we’ll be hard pressed to find a boat to the islands in weather like this.”

“Who shall we be, when we get there?”

Jean looked up and chewed his lip before taking the bait of their old game. “Let’s be something other than Camorri for a while. Camorr’s brought us nothing good of late.”

“Talishani?”

“Seems good to me.” Jean adjusted his voice slightly, adopting the faint but characteristic accent of the city of Talisham. “Anonymous Unknown of Talisham, and his associate Unknown Anonymous, also of Talisham.”

“What names did we leave on the books at Meraggio’s?”

“Well, Lukas Fehrwight and Evante Eccari are right out. Even if those accounts haven’t been confiscated by the state, they’ll be watched. You trust the Spider not to get a burr up her ass if she finds out we’re active in Tal Verrar?”

“No,” said Locke. “I seem to recall … Jerome de Ferra, Leocanto Kosta, and Milo Voralin.”

“I opened the Milo Voralin account myself. He’s supposed to be Vadran. I think we might leave him in reserve.”

“And that’s what we have left? Three useful accounts?”

“Sadly, yes. But it’s more than most thieves get. I’ll be Jerome.”

“I suppose I’ll be Leocanto, then. What are we doing in Tal Verrar, Jerome?”

“We’re … hired men for a Lashani countess. She’s thinking of buying a summer home in Tal Verrar and we’re there to hunt one down for her.”

“Hmmm. That might be good for a few months, but after we’ve looked at all the available properties, then what? And there’s lots of actual work involved, if we don’t want everyone to know right away that we’re lying through our teeth. What if we call ourselves … merchant speculators?”

“Merchant speculators. That’s good. It doesn’t have to mean a damn thing.”

“Exactly. If we spend all our time lounging around the chance houses cutting cards, well, we’re just passing time waiting for market conditions to ripen.”

“Or we’re so good at our jobs we hardly need to work at all.”

“Our lines write themselves. How did we meet, and how long have we been together?”

“We met five years ago.” Jean scratched his beard. “On a sea voyage. We became business partners out of sheer boredom. Since then we’ve been inseparable.”

“Except that my plan calls for me to be plotting your death.”

“Yes, but I don’t know that, do I? Boon companion! I suspect nothing.”

“Chump! I can hardly wait to see you get yours.”

“And the loot? Assuming we do manage to work our way into Requin’s confidence, and we do manage to call the dance properly, and we do manage to get out of his city with everything intact … we haven’t really talked about what comes after that.”

“We’ll be old thieves, Jean.” Locke squinted and tried to pick out details of the rain-swept landscape as the carriage made its final turn down the long, straight road into Tal Verrar. “Old thieves of seven-and-twenty, or perhaps eight-and-twenty, when we finish this. I don’t know. How would you feel about becoming a viscount?”

“Lashain,” Jean mused. “Buy a pair of titles, you mean? Settle there for good?”

“Not sure if I’d go that far. But last I heard, poor titles were running about ten thousand solari, and better ones fifteen to twenty. It’d give us a home and some clout. We could do whatever we wanted from there. Plot more games. Grow old in comfort.”

“Retirement?”

“We can’t run around false-facing forever, Jean. I think we both realize that. Sooner or later we’ll need to favor another style of crime. Let’s tease a nice big score out of this place and then sink it into something useful. Build something again. Whatever comes after … well, we can charm that lock when we come to it.”

“Viscount Anonymous Unknown of Lashain—and his neighbor, Viscount Unknown Anonymous. There are worse fates, I suppose.”

“There certainly are—Jerome. So are you with me?”

“Of course, Leocanto. You know that. Maybe another two years of honest thieving will leave me ready to retire. I could get back into silks and shipping, like mother and father—perhaps look up some of their old contacts, if I can remember them right.”

“I think Tal Verrar will be good for us,” said Locke. “It’s a pristine city. We’ve never worked out of it and it’s never seen our like. Nobody knows us; nobody expects us. We’ll have total freedom of movement.”

The carriage clattered along under the rain, jostling against patches where the weathered stones of the Therin Throne road had been washed clean of their protective layers of dirt. Lightning lit the sky in the distance, but the gray veil swirled thick between land and sea, and the great mass of Tal Verrar was hidden from their eyes as they rode down into it for the first time.

“You’re almost certainly right, Locke. I think we do need a game.” Jean set his notes on his lap and cracked his knuckles. “Gods, but it’ll be good to be out and around. It’ll be good to be the predators again.”

CHAPTER THREE

WARM HOSPITALITY

1

THE CHAMBER WAS a rough brick cube about eight feet on a side. It was completely dark, and an arid sauna heat was radiating from the walls, which were too hot to touch for more than a few seconds. Locke and Jean had been sweltering inside it for only the gods knew how long—probably hours.

“Agh.” Locke’s voice was cracked. He and Jean were seated back to back in the blackness, leaning against each other for support, with their folded coats beneath them. Locke beat his heels against the stones of the floor, not for the first time.

“Gods damn it!” Locke yelled. “Let us out. You’ve made your point!”

“What point,” rasped Jean, “could that possibly be?”

“I don’t know.” Locke coughed. “I don’t care. Whatever it is, they’ve damn well made it, don’t you think?”

2

THE REMOVAL of their hoods had been a relief, for about two heartbeats.

First had come an interminable interval spent stumbling around in stifling darkness, pulled and prodded along by captors who seemed to be in some haste. Next, there was indeed a boat ride; Locke could smell the warm salt mists rising off the city’s harbor, while the deck swayed gently beneath him and oars creaked rhythmically in their locks.

Eventually, that too came to an end; the boat rocked as someone rose and moved about. The oars were drawn in and an unfamiliar voice called for poles. A few moments later, the boat bumped against something, and strong hands again hoisted Locke to his feet. When he’d been helped from the boat to a firm stone surface, the hood was suddenly whisked off his head. He looked around, blinked at the sudden light, and said, “Oh, shit.”

At the heart of Tal Verrar, between the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds, lay the Castellana, fortified estate of the dukes of Tal Verrar centuries earlier. Now that the city had dispensed with titled nobility, the mansion-covered Castellana was home to a new breed of well-heeled gentry—the Priori councilors, the independently rich, and those guild-masters whose social positions required the most ostentatious displays of spending power.

At the very heart of the Castellana, guarded by a moat of empty air like a circular Elderglass canyon, was the Mon Magisteria, the palace of the archon—a towering human achievement springing upward from alien grandeur. An elegant stone weed growing in a glass garden.

Locke and Jean had been brought to a point directly beneath it. Locke guessed that they stood within the hollow space that separated the Mon Magisteria from the surrounding island; a million-faceted cavern of darkened Elderglass soared upward around them, and the open air of the upper island lay fifty or sixty feet above their heads. The channel that the boat had traveled through wound away to his left, and the sound of the lapping water was drowned out by a distant rumbling noise with no visible cause.

There was a wide stone landing at the base of the Mon Magisteria’s private island, with several boats tied up alongside it, including an enclosed ceremonial barge with silk awnings and gilded woodwork. Soft blue alchemical lamps in iron posts filled the space with light, and behind those posts a dozen soldiers stood at attention. Even if a quick glance upward hadn’t told Locke the identity of their captor, those soldiers would have revealed everything.

They wore dark blue doublets and breeches, with black leather bracers, vests, and boots all chased with raised designs in gleaming brass. Blue hoods were drawn up around the backs of their heads, and their faces were covered with featureless oval masks of polished bronze. Grids of tiny pinholes permitted them to see and breathe, but from a distance every impression of humanity was erased—the soldiers were faceless sculptures brought to life.

The Eyes of the Archon.

“Here you are then, Master Kosta, Master de Ferra.” The woman who’d waylaid Locke and Jean stepped up onto the landing between them and took them by the elbows, smiling as though they were out for a night on the town. “Is this not a more private place for a conversation?”

“What,” said Jean, “have we done to warrant our transport here?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask,” said the woman as she pushed them gently forward. “My job is to retrieve, and deliver.”

She released Locke and Jean just before the front rank of the archon’s soldiers. Their own disquieted expressions were reflected back at them in a dozen gleaming bronze masks.

“And sometimes,” said the woman as she returned to the boat, “when guests don’t come back out again, my job is to forget that I ever saw them at all.”

The Eyes of the Archon moved without apparent signal; Locke and Jean were enveloped and secured by several soldiers apiece. One of them spoke—another woman, her voice echoing ominously. “We will go up. You must not struggle and you must not speak.”

“Or what?” said Locke.

The Eye who’d spoken stepped over to Jean without hesitation and punched him in the stomach. The big man exhaled in surprise and grimaced while the female Eye turned back to Locke. “If either of you causes any trouble, I’m instructed to punish the other one. Do I make myself clear?”

Locke ground his teeth together and nodded.

A wide set of switchback stairs led upward from the landing; the glass underfoot was rough as brick. Flight by flight the archon’s soldiers led Locke and Jean up past gleaming walls, until the moist night breeze of the city was on their faces once again.

They emerged within the perimeter defined by the glass chasm. A guardhouse stood just this side of the thirty-foot gap, beside a drawbridge currently hauled straight up into the air and set inside a heavy wood frame. Locke presumed that was the usual means of entrance to the archon’s domain.

The Mon Magisteria was a ducal fortress in the true Therin Throne style, easily fifteen stories high at its peak and three or four times as wide. Layer after layer of crenellated battlements rose up, formed from flat black stones that seemed to absorb the fountains of light thrown up by dozens of lanterns burning on the castle’s grounds. Columned aqueducts circled the walls and towers at every level, and decorative streams of water cascaded down from sculptures of dragons and sea monsters set at the fortress’ corners.

The Eyes of the Archon led Locke and Jean toward the front of the palace, down a wide path dusted with white gravel. There were lush green lawns on either side of the path, set behind decorative stone borders that made the lawns seem like islands. More blue-robed and black-armored guards in bronze masks stood unmoving along the path, holding up blackened-steel halberds with alchemical lights built into their wooden shafts.

Where most castles would have a front gate the Mon Magisteria had a rushing waterfall wider than the path on which they stood; this was the source of the noise Locke had heard echoing at the boat landing below. Multiple torrents of water crashed out of huge, dark apertures set in a line running straight up the castle wall. These joined and fell into a churning moat at the very base of the structure, a moat even wider than the glass-sided canyon that cut the castle grounds off from the rest of the Castellana.

A bridge, slightly arched, vanished into the pounding white waterfall about halfway over the moat. Warm mist wafted up around them as their party approached the edge of this bridge, which Locke could now see had some sort of niche cut into it, running right down its center for its full visible length. Beside the bridge was an iron pull-chain hanging from the top of a narrow stone pillar. The Eye officer reached up for this and gave it three swift tugs.

A moment later there came a metallic rattling noise from the direction of the bridge. A dark shape loomed within the waterfall, grew, and then burst out toward them with mist and water exploding off its roof. It was a giant box of iron-ribbed wood, fifteen feet high and as wide as the bridge. Rumbling, it slid along the track carved into the bridge until it halted with a squeal of metal on metal just before them. Doors popped open toward them, pushed from the inside by two attendants in dark blue coats with silver-braid trim.

Locke and Jean were ushered into the roomy conveyance, which had windows set into the end facing the castle. Through them, Locke could see nothing but rushing water. The waterfall pounded off the roof; the noise was like being in a carriage during a heavy storm.

When Locke and Jean and all the Eyes had stepped into the box, the attendants drew the doors closed. One of them pulled a chain set into the right-hand wall, and with a lurching rumble the box was drawn back to where it had come from. As they passed through it, Locke guessed that the waterfall was fifteen to twenty feet long. An unprotected man would never be able to pass it without being knocked into the moat, which he supposed was precisely the point.

That, and it was a hell of a way to show off.

They soon pushed through the other side of the falls. Locke could see that they were being drawn into a huge hemispherical hall, with a curved far wall and a ceiling about thirty feet high. Alchemical chandeliers shed light on the hall, silver and white and gold, so that the place gleamed like a treasure vault through the distortion of the water-covered windows. When the conveyor box ground to a halt, the attendants manipulated unseen latches to crack open the forward windows like a pair of giant doors.

Locke and Jean were prodded out of the box, but more gently than before. The stones at their feet were slick with water, and they followed the example of the guards in treading carefully. The waterfall roared at their back for a moment longer, and then two huge doors slammed together behind the conveyor box, and the deafening noise became a dull echo.

Some sort of water engine could be seen in a wall niche to Locke’s left. Several men and women stood before gleaming cylinders of brass, working levers attached to mechanical contrivances whose functions were well beyond Locke’s capability to guess. Heavy iron chains disappeared into dark holes in the floor, just beside the track the huge wooden box rode in. Jean, too, cocked his head for a closer look at this curiosity, but once past the danger of the slick stones, the soldiers’ brief spate of tolerance passed and they shoved the two thieves along at a good clip once again.

Through the entrance hall, wide and grand enough to host several balls at once, they passed at speed. The hall had no windows open to the outside, but rather, artificial panoramas of stained glass, lit from behind. Each window seemed to be a stylized view of what would be seen through a real hole cut in the stone—white buildings and mansions, dark skies, the tiers of islands across the harbor, dozens of sails in the main anchorage.

Locke and Jean were escorted down a side hall, up a flight of steps, and down another hall, past blue-coated guards standing stiffly at attention. Was it Locke’s imagination, or did something more than ordinary respect creep into their faces when the bronze masks of the Eyes swept past them? There was no more time to ponder, for they were suddenly halted before their evident destination. In a corridor full of wooden doorways, they stood before one made of metal.

An Eye stepped forward, unlocked the door, and pushed it open. The room beyond was small and dark. Soldiers rapidly undid the bonds on Locke and Jean’s hands, and then the two of them were shoved forward into the little room.

“Hey, wait just a damn—,” said Locke, but the door slammed shut behind them and the sudden blackness was absolute.

“Perelandro,” said Jean. He and Locke spent a few seconds stumbling into each other before they managed to regain some balance and dignity. “How on earth did we attract the attention of these bloody assholes?”

“I don’t know, Jerome.” Locke emphasized the pseudonym very slightly. “But maybe the walls have ears. Hey! Bloody assholes! No need to be coy! We’re perfectly well behaved when civilly incarcerated.”

Locke stumbled toward the remembered location of the nearest wall to pound his fists against it. He discovered for the first time that it was rough brick. “Damnation,” he muttered, and sucked at a scraped knuckle.

“Odd,” said Jean.

“What?”

“I can’t be sure.”

“What?”

“Is it just me, or does it seem to be getting warmer in here?”

3

TIME WENT by with all the speed of a sleepless night.

Locke was seeing colors flashing and wobbling in the darkness, and while part of him knew they weren’t real, that part of him was getting less and less assertive with every passing minute. The heat was like a weight pressing in on every inch of his skin. His tunic was wide open, and he’d slipped his neck-cloths off so he could wrap them around his hands to steady himself as he leaned back against Jean.

When the door clicked open, it took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn’t imagining things. The crack of white light grew into a square, and he flinched back with his hands over his eyes. The air from the corridor fell across him like a cool autumn breeze.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice from beyond the square of light, “there has been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Ungh gah ah,” was all the response Locke could muster as he tried to remember just how his knees worked. His mouth felt dryer than if it had been packed with cornmeal.

Strong, cool hands reached out to help him to his feet; the room swam around him as he and Jean were helped back out into the bliss of the corridor. They were surrounded once again by blue doublets and bronze masks, but Locke squinted against the light and felt more ashamed than afraid. He knew he was confused, almost as though he were drunk, and he was powerless to do anything more than grasp at the vague realization. He was carried along corridors and up stairs (Stairs! Gods! How many sets could there be in one bloody palace?), with his legs only sometimes bearing their fair share of his weight. He felt like a puppet in a cruel comedy with an unusually large stage set.

“Water,” he managed to gasp out.

“Soon,” said one of the soldiers carrying him. “Very soon.”

At last he and Jean were ushered through tall black doors into a softly lit office that seemed to have walls made up of thousands upon thousands of tiny glass cells filled with little flickering shadows. Locke blinked and cursed his condition; he’d heard sailors talk of “dry drunk”—the stupidity, weakness, and irritability that seized a man in great want of water—but he’d never imagined he’d experience it firsthand. It was making everything very strange indeed; no doubt it was embellishing the details of a perfectly ordinary room.

The office held a small table and three plain wooden chairs. Locke steered himself toward one of them gratefully, but was firmly restrained and held upright by the soldiers at his arms.

“You must wait,” said one of them.

Though not for long; a scant few heartbeats later, another door opened into the office. A man in long fur-trimmed robes of deepwater blue strode in, clearly agitated.

“Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar,” said the four soldiers in unison.

Maxilan Stragos, came Locke’s dazed realization, the gods-damned supreme warlord of Tal Verrar.

“For pity’s sake, let these men have their chairs,” said the archon. “We have already done them a grievous wrong, Sword Prefect. We shall now extend them every possible courtesy. After all … we are not Camorri.”

“Of course, Archon.”

Locke and Jean were quickly helped into their seats. When the soldiers were reasonably certain that they wouldn’t topple over immediately, they stepped back and stood at attention behind them. The archon waved his hand irritably.

“Dismissed, Sword Prefect.”

“But … Your Honor …”

“Out of my sight. You have already conjured a serious embarrassment from my very clear instructions for these men. As a result, they are in no shape to be any threat to me.”

“But … yes, Archon.”

The sword prefect gave a stiff bow, which the other three soldiers repeated. The four of them hurriedly left the office, closing the door behind them with the elaborate click-clack of a clockwork mechanism.

“Gentlemen,” said the archon, “you must accept my deepest apologies. My instructions were misconstrued. You were to be given every courtesy. Instead, you were shown to the sweltering chamber, which is reserved for criminals of the lowest sort. I would trust my Eyes to be the equal of ten times their number in any fight, yet in this simple matter they have dishonored me. I must take responsibility. You must forgive this misunderstanding, and allow me the honor of showing you a better sort of hospitality.”

Locke mustered his will to attempt a suitable response, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Crooked Warden when Jean spoke first.

“The honor is ours, Protector.” His voice was hoarse, but his wits seemed to be returning faster than Locke’s. “The chamber was a small price to pay for the pleasure of such an, an unexpected audience. There is nothing to forgive.”

“You are an uncommonly gracious man,” said Stragos. “Please, dispense with the superfluities. It will do to call me ‘Archon.’ ”

There was a soft knock at the door through which the archon had entered the office.

“Come,” he said, and in bustled a short, bald man in elaborate blue-and-silver livery. He carried a silver tray on which there were three crystal goblets and a large bottle of some pale amber liquid. Locke and Jean fixed their gazes on this bottle with the intensity of hunters about to fling their last javelins at some charging beast.

When the servant set the tray down and reached for the bottle, the archon gestured for him to withdraw and took up the bottle himself.

“Go,” he said, “I am perfectly capable of serving these poor gentlemen myself.”

The attendant bowed and vanished back through the door. Stragos withdrew the already loosened cork from the bottle and filled two goblets to their brims with its contents. That wet gurgle and splash brought an expectant ache to the insides of Locke’s cheeks.

“It is customary,” said Stragos, “for the host to drink first when serving in this city … to establish a basis for trust in what he happens to be serving.” He dashed two fingers of liquid into the third goblet, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed it at a gulp.

“Ahh,” he said as he passed the full goblets over to Locke and Jean without further hesitation. “There now. Drink up. No need to be delicate. I’m an old campaigner.”

Locke and Jean were anything but delicate; they gulped down the offered drinks with grateful abandon. Locke wouldn’t have cared if the offering had been squeezed earthworm juice, but it was in fact some sort of pear cider, with just the slightest bite. A child’s liquor, barely capable of intoxicating a sparrow, and an astute choice, given their condition. The tart, cold cider coated the inside of Locke’s tortured throat, and he shuddered with pleasure.

He and Jean thrust out their empty goblets without thinking, but Stragos was already waiting with the bottle in hand. He refilled their cups, smiling benevolently. Locke inhaled half of his new goblet, then forced himself to make the second half last. Already a new strength seemed to be radiating outward from his stomach, and he sighed with relief.

“Many thanks, Archon,” he said. “May I, ah, presume to ask how Jerome and I have offended you?”

“Offended me? Not at all.” Stragos, still smiling, set down the bottle and seated himself behind the little table. He reached toward the wall and pulled a silk cord; a shaft of pale amber light fell from the ceiling, illuminating the center of the table. “What you’ve done, young fellows, is catch my interest.”

Stragos sat framed by the shaft of light, and Locke studied him for the first time. A man of very late middle years, surely nearing sixty if not already past it. A strangely precise man, with squared-off features. His skin was pink and weathered, his hair a flat gray roof. In Locke’s experience, most powerful men were either ascetics or gluttons; Stragos seemed neither—a man of balance. And his eyes were shrewd, shrewd as a usurer with a client in need. Locke sipped at his pear cider and prayed for wit.

The golden light was caught and reflected by the glass cells that walled the room, and when Locke let his eyes wander for a moment he was startled to see their contents moving. The little fluttering shadows were butterflies, moths, beetles—hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Each one in its own little glass prison.… The archons study was walled in with the largest insect collection Locke had ever heard of, let alone seen with his own eyes. Beside him, Jean gasped, evidently having noticed the same thing. The archon chuckled indulgently.

“My collection. Is it not striking?”

He reached toward the wall again and pulled another silken cord; soft white light grew behind the glass walls, until the full details of each specimen became plainly visible. There were butterflies with scarlet wings, blue wings, green wings … some with multicolored patterns more intricate than tattoos. There were gray, black, and gold moths, with curled antennae. There were beetles with burnished carapaces that gleamed like precious metals, and wasps with translucent wings flickering above their sinister tapered bodies.

“It’s incredible,” said Locke. “How can it be possible?”

“Oh, it isn’t. They’re all artificial, the best artistry and artisanry can provide. A clockwork mechanism several floors below works a set of bellows, sending gusts of air up shafts behind the walls of this office. Each cell has a tiny aperture at the rear. The fluttering of the wings seems quite random and realistic.… In semidarkness, one might never realize the truth.”

“It’s no less incredible,” said Jean.

“Well, this is the City of Artifice,” said the archon. “Living creatures can require such tedious care. You might think of my Mon Magisteria as a repository of artificial things. Here, drink up, and let me pour you the last of the bottle.”

Locke and Jean obliged, and Stragos was able to give them each a few fingers more before the bottle was drained. He settled himself back down behind his table and pulled something off the silver tray—a slim file of some sort, wrapped in a brown cover with broken wax seals on three sides.

“Artificial things. Just as you are artificial things, Master Kosta and Master de Ferra. Or should I say, Master Lamora and Master Tannen?”

If Locke had possessed the strength to crush heavy Verrari crystal with his bare hands, the archon would have lost a goblet.

“I beg your pardon,” said Locke, adopting a helpful, slightly confused smile, “but I don’t know anyone by those names. Jerome?”

“There must be some mistake,” said Jean, picking up Locke’s exact tone of polite bewilderment.

“No mistake, gentlemen,” said the archon. He slipped the file open and briefly examined the contents, about a dozen pages of parchment covered in neat black script. “I received a very curious letter several days ago, through secure channels within my intelligence apparatus. A letter rich with the most singular collection of stories. From a personal acquaintance—a source within the hierarchy of the Bondsmagi of Karthain.”

Not even Jean’s hands could squeeze a Verrari crystal goblet to fragments, Locke thought, or that moment might have seen the archon’s office decorated with an exploding cloud of shards and blood.

Locke gamely raised an eyebrow, refusing to give in just yet. “The Bondsmagi? Gods, that sounds ominous. But, ah, what would Bondsmagi have to do with Jerome and myself?”

Stragos stroked his chin while he skimmed the documents in the file. “Apparently, you’re both thieves from some sort of secret enclave formerly operating out of the House of Perelandro in Camorr’s Temple District—cheeky, that. You operated without the permission of Capa Vencarlo Barsavi, no longer among the breathing. You stole tens of thousands of crowns from several dons of Camorr. You are jointly responsible for the death of one Luciano Anatolius, a buccaneer captain who hired a Bondsmage to aid his plans. Perhaps most importantly, you foiled those plans and crippled that Bondsmage. Overcame him, at close quarters. Extraordinary. You shipped him back to Karthain half-dead and quite mad. No fingers, no tongue.”

“Actually, Leocanto and I are from Talisham, and we’re—”

“You’re both from Camorr. Jean Estevan Tannen, which is your real name, and Locke Lamora—which isn’t yours. That’s emphasized for some reason. You’re in my city as part of a scheme against that scrub Requin—supposedly, you’ve been making preparations to break into his vault. Best of luck there. Need we continue with your charade? I have many more details. It seems that the Bondsmagi have it in for you.”

“Those assholes,” muttered Locke.

“I see you are personally acquainted with them,” said Stragos. “I’ve hired a few of them in the past. They’re a touchy bunch. So you’ll admit to the truth of this report? Come, Requin is no friend of mine. He’s in with the Priori; might as well be on their damn councils.”

Locke and Jean looked at each other, and Jean shrugged. “Very well,” said Locke. “You seem to have us at quite a disadvantage, Archon.”

“To be precise, I have you at three. I have this report extensively documenting your activities. I have you here at the center of all my power. And now, for the sake of my own comfort, I have you on a leash.”

“Meaning what?” said Locke.

“Perhaps my Eyes did not embarrass me, gentlemen. Perhaps you two were intended to spend a few hours in the sweltering chamber, to help you work up a thirst that needed quenching.” He gestured at Locke and Jean’s goblets, which now held only dregs.

“You put something else in the cider,” said Jean.

“Of course,” said Stragos. “An excellent little poison.”

4

FOR A moment, the room was utterly silent, save for the soft fluttering of artificial insect wings. Then Locke and Jean stumbled up from their chairs in unison, but Stragos didn’t so much as twitch. “Sit down. Unless you’d prefer not to hear exactly what’s going on.”

“You drank from the same bottle,” said Locke, still standing.

“Of course I did. It wasn’t actually in the cider. It was in your goblets, painted into the bottoms. Colorless and tasteless. A proprietary alchemical substance, quite expensive. You should be flattered. I’ve increased your net personal worth, heh.”

“I know a thing or two about poisons. What is it?”

“What would be the sense in telling you anything more? You might attempt to have someone assemble an antidote. As it stands, your only possible source for your antidote is me.” He smiled, every pretense of contrite gentility shed from his features like a molted insect’s husk. A very different Stragos was with them now, and there was a lash in his voice. “Sit down. You’re at my disposal now, obviously. You’re not what I might have wanted, by the gods, but perhaps just what I can best put to use.”

Locke and Jean settled back into their chairs uneasily. Locke threw his goblet down onto the carpet, where it bounced and rolled to a halt beside Stragos’ table.

“You might as well know,” said Locke, “that I’ve been poisoned for coercive purposes before.”

“Have you? How convenient. Then surely you’ll agree it’s better than being poisoned for murderous ones.”

“What would you have us do?”

“Something useful,” said Stragos. “Something grand. According to this report, you’re the Thorn of Camorr. My agents brought me stories of you … the most ridiculous rumors, which now turn out to have been true. I thought you were a myth.”

“The Thorn of Camorr is a myth,” said Locke. “And it was never just me. We’ve always worked as a group, as a team.”

“Of course. No need to stress Master Tannen’s importance to me. It’s all here, in this file. I shall keep you both alive while I prepare for the task I have in mind for you. I’m not ready to discuss it yet, so let us say that I’m keeping you on retainer in the meantime. Go about your business. When I call, you will come.”

“Will we?” spat Locke.

“Oh, it’s well within your power to leave the city—and if you do, you will both die rather slow and miserable deaths before another season passes. And that would disappoint us all.”

“You could be bluffing,” said Jean.

“Yes, yes, but if you’re rational men, a bluff would hold you as surely as a real poison, would it not? But come now, Tannen. I have the resources not to bluff.”

“And what’s to keep us from running after we’ve received the antidote?”

“The poison is latent, Lamora. It slumbers within the body for many, many months, if not years. I will dole out your antidote at intervals so long as you please me.”

“And what guarantee do we have that you’ll continue to give us the antidote once we’ve done whatever task you’d set us to?”

“You have none.”

“And no better alternatives.”

“Of course not.”

Locke closed his eyes and gently massaged them with the knuckles of his index fingers. “Your alleged poison. Will it interfere with our daily lives in any way? Will it complicate matters of judgment, agility, or health?”

“Not at all,” said Stragos. “You won’t notice a thing until the time for the antidote is well past, and then you’ll notice a great deal all at once. Until then, your affairs will be unimpeded.”

“But you have already impeded our affairs,” said Jean. “We’re at a very delicate point in our dealings with Requin.”

“He gave us strict orders,” said Locke, “to do nothing suspicious while he sniffs around our recent activities. Disappearing from the streets in the care of the archon’s people would probably qualify as suspicious.”

“Already taken into consideration,” said the archon. “Most of the people who pulled you two off the street are in one of Requin’s gangs. He just doesn’t know they work for me. They’ll report seeing you out and about, even if others do not.”

“Are you confident that Requin is blind to their true loyalty?”

“Gods bless your amusing insolence, Lamora, but I’m not going to justify my every order to you. You’ll accept them like my other soldiers, and if you must trust, trust in the judgment that has kept me seated as archon for fifteen years.”

“It’s our lives under Requin’s thumb if you’re wrong, Stragos.”

“It’s your lives under my thumb, regardless.”

“Requin is no fool!”

“Then why are you attempting to steal from him?”

“We flatter ourselves,” said Jean, “that we’re—”

“I’ll tell you why,” Stragos interrupted. He closed his file and folded his hands atop it. “You’re not just greedy. You two have an unhealthy lust for excitement. The contemplation of long odds must positively get you drunk. Or else why choose the life you have, when you could have obviously succeeded as thieves of a more mundane stripe, within the limits allowed by that Barsavi?”

“If you think that little pile of papers gives you enough knowledge to presume so much—”

“You two are risk-takers. Exceptional, professional risk-takers. I have just the risk for you to take. You might even enjoy it.”

“That might have been true,” said Locke, “before you told us about the cider.”

“Obviously I know that what I’ve done will give you cause to bear me malice. Appreciate my position. I’ve done this to you because I respect your abilities. I can’t afford to have you in my service without controls. You’re a lever and a fulcrum, you two, looking for a city to turn upside down.”

“Why the hell couldn’t you just hire us?”

“How would money be sufficient leverage for two men who can conjure it as easily as you?”

“So the fact that you’re screwing us like a Jeremite cot doxy is really a very sweet compliment?” said Jean. “You fucking—”

“Calm down, Tannen,” said Stragos.

“Why should he?” Locke straightened his sweat-rumpled tunic and began tying his wrinkled neck-cloths back on in an agitated huff. “You poison us, lay a mysterious task at our feet, and offer no pay. You complicate our lives as Kosta and de Ferra, and you expect to summon us at your leisure when you condescend to reveal this chore. Gods. What about expenses, should we incur them?”

“You shall have any funds and material you require to operate in my service. And before you get excited, remember that you’ll account for every last centira properly.”

“Oh, splendid. And what other perquisites does this job of yours entail? Complimentary luncheon at the barracks of your Eyes? Convalescent beds when Requin cuts our balls off and has them sewn into our eye sockets?”

“I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this—”

“Get accustomed to it,” snapped Locke, rising out of his chair and beginning to dust off his coat. “I have a counterproposal, one I urge you to entertain quite seriously.”

“Oh?”

“Forget about this, Stragos.” Locke drew on his coat, shook his shoulders to settle it properly, and gripped it by the lapels. “Forget about this whole ridiculous scheme. Give us enough antidote, if there is one, to settle us for the time being. Or let us know what it is and we’ll have our own alchemist see to it, with our own funds. Send us back to Requin, for whom you profess no love, and let us get on with robbing him. Bother us no further, and we’ll return the favor.”

“What could that possibly gain me?”

“My point is more that it would allow you to keep everything you have now.”

“My dear Lamora,” laughed Stragos with a soft, dry sound like an echo inside a coffin, “your bluster may be sufficient to convince some sponge-spined Camorri mongrel don to hand over his coin purse. It might even be enough to see you through the task I have in mind. But you’re mine now, and the Bondsmagi were rather clear on how you might be humbled.”

“Oh? How’s that, then?”

“Threaten me one more time and I shall have Jean returned to the sweltering room for the rest of the night. You may wait, chained outside in perfect comfort, imagining what it must be like for him. And the reverse, Jean, should you decide to wax rebellious.”

Locke clenched his jaw and looked down at his feet. Jean sighed, reached over, and patted him on the arm. Locke nodded very slightly.

“Good.” Stragos smiled without warmth. “Just as I respect your abilities, I respect your loyalty to one another. I respect it enough to use it, for good and for ill. So you will want to come at my summons, and accept the task I have for you It’s when I refuse to see you that you will begin to have cause for concern.”

“So be it,” said Locke. “But I want you to remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That I offered to let this go,” said Locke. “That I offered to simply walk away.”

“Gods, but you do think highly of yourself, don’t you, Master Lamora?”

“Just highly enough. No higher than the Bondsmagi, I’d say.”

“Are you suggesting that Karthain fears you, Master Lamora? Please. If that were so, they would have killed you already. No. They don’t fear you—they want to see you punished. Giving you over to me to suit my own purposes seems to accomplish that in their eyes. I daresay you’ve good reason to bear them malice.”

“Indeed,” said Locke.

“Consider for a moment,” said Stragos, “the possibility that I might not like them any more than you do. And that while I might use them, out of necessity, and freely accept windfalls they send in my direction … your service on my behalf might actually come to work against them. Doesn’t that intrigue you?”

“Nothing you say can be taken in good faith.” Locke glowered.

“Ahhh. That’s where you’re wrong, Lamora. With the benefit of time, you’ll see how little need I have to lie about anything. Now, this audience is over. Reflect on your situation, and don’t do anything rash. You may remove yourselves from the Mon Magisteria and return when summoned.”

“Wait,” said Locke. “Just—”

The archon rose, tucked the file under his arm, turned, and left the room through the same door he’d used to enter. It swung shut immediately behind him with the clatter of steel mechanisms.

“Hell,” said Jean.

“I’m sorry,” muttered Locke. “I was so keen to come to Tal fucking Verrar.”

“It’s not your fault. We were both eager to hop in bed with the wench; it’s just shit luck she turned out to have the clap.”

The main doors to the office creaked open, revealing a dozen Eyes waiting in the hall beyond.

Locke stared at the Eyes for several seconds, then grinned and cleared his throat. “Oh, good. Your master has left strict instructions placing you at our disposal. We’re to have a boat, eight rowers, a hot meal, five hundred solari, six women who know how to give a proper massage, and—”

One thing Locke would say for the Eyes was that when they seized him and Jean to “escort” them from the Mon Magisteria, they were firm without being needlessly cruel. Their clubs remained at their belts, and there were a minimal number of body blows to soften the resolve of their prisoners. All in all, a very efficient bunch to be manhandled by.

5

THEY WERE rowed back to the lower docks of the Savrola in a long gig with a covered gallery. It was nearly dawn, and a watery orange light was coming up over the landside of Tal Verrar, peeking over the islands and making their seaward faces seem darker by contrast. Surrounded by the archon’s oarsmen and watched by four Eyes with crossbows, Locke and Jean said nothing.

Their exit was quick; the boat simply drew up to the edge of one deserted quay and Locke and Jean hopped out. One of the archon’s soldiers threw a leather sack out onto the stones at their feet, and then the gig was backing away, and the whole damnable episode was over. Locke felt a strange daze and he rubbed his eyes, which felt dry within their sockets.

“Gods,” said Jean. “We must look as though we’ve been mugged.”

“We have been.” Locke reached down, picked up the sack, and examined its contents—Jean’s two hatchets and their assortment of daggers. He grunted. “Magi. Gods-damned Bondsmagi!”

“This must be what they had in mind.”

“I hope it’s all they have in mind.”

“They’re not all-knowing, Locke. They must have weaknesses.”

“Must they really? And do you know what they are? Might one of them be allergic to exotic foods, or suffer poor relations with his mother? Some good that does us, when they’re well beyond dagger reach! Crooked Warden, why don’t dog’s assholes like Stragos ever want to simply hire us for money? I’d be happy to work for fair pay.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Feh.”

“Quit scowling and think for a moment. You heard Stragos’ report. The Bondsmagi knew about the preparations we’ve made for going after Requin’s vault, but they didn’t know the whole story. The important part.”

“Right … but what need would there be for them to tell Stragos everything?”

“None, of course, but also … they knew where we were operating from in Camorr, but he didn’t mention our history. Stragos spoke of Barsavi, but not Chains. Perhaps because Chains died before the Falconer ever came to Camorr and started observing us? I don’t think the Bondsmagi can read our thoughts, Locke. I think they’re magnificent spies, but they’re not infallible. We still have some secrets.”

“Hmmm. Forgive me if I find that a cold comfort, Jean. You know who waxes philosophical about the tiniest weaknesses of enemies? The powerless.”

“You seem resigned to that without much of a—”

“I’m not resigned, Jean. I’m angry. We need to cease being powerless as soon as possible.”

“Right. So where do we start?”

“Well, I’m going to go back to the inn. I’m going to pour a gallon of cold water down my throat. I’m going to get into bed, put a pillow over my head, and stay there until sunset.”

“I approve.”

“Good. Then we’ll both be well rested when it comes time to get up and find a black alchemist. I want a second opinion on latent poisons. I want to know everything there is to know about the subject, and whether there are any antidotes we can start trying.”

“Agreed.”

“After that, we can add one more small item to our agenda for this Tal Verrar holiday of ours.”

“Kick the archon in the teeth?”

“Gods yes,” said Locke, smacking a fist into an open palm. “Whether or not we finish the Requin job first. Whether or not there really is a poison! I’m going to take his whole bloody palace and shove it so far up his ass he’ll have stone towers for tonsils!”

“Any plans to that effect?”

“No idea. I’ve no idea whatsoever. I’ll reflect on it, that’s for damn sure. But as for not being rash, well, no promises.”

Jean grunted. The two of them turned and began to plod along the quay, toward the stone steps that would lead laboriously to the island’s upper tier. Locke rubbed his stomach and felt his skin crawling … felt violated somehow, knowing that something lethal might be slipping unfelt into the darkest crevices of his own body, waiting to do mischief.

On their right the sun was a burning bronze medallion coming up over the city’s horizon, perched there like one of the archon’s faceless soldiers, gazing steadily down upon them.

REMINISCENCE

The Lady of the Glass Pylon

1

Azura Gallardine was not an easy woman to speak to. To be sure, hers was a well-known title (second mistress of the Great Guild of Artificers, Reckoners, and Minutiary Artisans), and her address was common knowledge (the intersection of Glassbender Street and the Avenue of the Cog-Scrapers, West Cantezzo, Fourth Tier, Artificers’ Crescent), but anyone approaching that home had to walk forty feet off the main pedestrian thoroughfare.

Those forty feet were one hell of a thing to contemplate.

Six months had passed since Locke and Jean had come to Tal Verrar; the personalities of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra had evolved from bare sketches to comfortable second skins. Summer had been dying when they’d clattered down the road toward the city for the first time, but now the hard, dry winds of winter had given way to the turbulent breezes of early spring. It was the month of Saris, in the seventy-eighth year of Nara, the Plaguebringer, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies.

Jean rode in a padded chair at the stern of a hired luxury scull, a low, sleek craft crewed by six rowers. It sliced across the choppy waters of Tal Verrar’s main anchorage like an insect in haste, ducking and weaving between larger vessels in accordance with the shouted directions of a teenage girl perched in its bow.

It was a windy day, with the milky light of the sun pouring down without warmth from behind high veils of clouds. Tal Verrar’s anchorage was crowded with cargo lighters, barges, small boats, and the great ships of a dozen nations. A squadron of galleons from Emberlain and Parlay rode low in the water with the aquamarine-and-gold banners of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows fluttering at their sterns. A few hundred yards away, Jean could see a brig flying the white flag of Lashain, and beyond that a galley with the banner of the Marrows over the smaller pennant of the Canton of Balinel, which was just a few hundred miles north up the coast from Tal Verrar.

Jean’s scull was rounding the southern tip of the Merchants’ Crescent, one of three sickle-shaped islands that surrounded the Castellana at the city’s center like the encompassing petals of a flower. His destination was the Artificers’ Crescent, home of the men and women who had raised the art of clockwork mechanics from an eccentric hobby to a vibrant industry. Verrari clockwork was more delicate, more subtle, more durable—more anything, as required—than that fashioned by all but a handful of masters anywhere else in the known world.

Strangely, the more familiar Jean grew with Tal Verrar, the odder the place seemed to him. Every city built on Eldren ruins acquired its own unique character, in many cases shaped directly by the nature of those ruins. Camorri lived on islands separated by nothing more than canals, or at most the Angevine River, and their existence was shoulder-to-shoulder compared to the great wealth of space Tal Verrar had to offer. The hundred-odd thousand souls on Tal Verrar’s seaward islands made full use of that space, dividing themselves into tribes with unusual precision.

In the west, the poor clung to spots in the Portable Quarter, where those willing to tolerate constant rearrangement of all their belongings by hard sea-weather could at least live free of rent. In the east, they crowded the Istrian District and provided labor for the tiered gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. There they grew luxury crops they could not afford, on plots of alchemically enriched soil they could never own.

Tal Verrar had only one graveyard, the ancient Midden of Souls, which took up most of the city’s eastern island, opposite the Blackhands Crescent. The Midden had six tiers, studded with memorial stones, sculptures, and mausoleums like miniature mansions. The dead were as strictly sifted in death as they’d been in life, with each successive tier claiming a better class of corpse. It was a morbid mirror of the Golden Steps across the bay.

The Midden itself was almost as large as the entire city of Vel Virazzo, and it sported its own strange society—priests and priestesses of Aza Guilla, gangs of mourners-for-hire (all of whom would loudly proclaim their ceremonial specialties or particular theatrical flourishes to anyone within shouting distance), mausoleum sculptors, and the oddest of all, the Midden Vigilants. The Vigilants were criminals convicted of grave robbery. In place of execution, they were locked into steel masks and clanking scale armor and forced to patrol the Midden of Souls as part of a sullen constabulary. Each would be freed only when another grave robber was captured to take his or her place. Some would have to wait years.

Tal Verrar had no hangings, no beheadings, and none of the fights between convicted criminals and wild animals that were popular virtually everywhere else. In Tal Verrar those convicted of capital crimes simply vanished, along with most of the city’s garbage, into the Midden Deep. This was an open square pit, forty feet on a side, located to the north of the Midden of Souls. Its Elderglass walls plunged into absolute darkness, giving no hint as to how far down they truly went. Popular lore held that it was bottomless, and criminals prodded off the execution planks usually went screaming and pleading. The worst rumor about the place, of course, was that those thrown down into the Deep did not die … but somehow continued falling. Forever.

“Hard larboard!” cried the girl at the bow of the scull. The rowers on Jean’s left yanked their oars out of the water and the ones on the right pulled hard, sliding the craft just out of the way of a cargo galley crammed with fairly alarmed cattle. A man at the side rail of the galley shook his fist down at the scull as it passed, perhaps ten feet beneath the level of his boots.

“Get the shit out of your eyes, you undergrown cunt!”

“Go back to pleasuring your cattle, you soft-dicked cur!”

“You bitch! You cheeky bitch! Heave- to and I’ll show you who’s soft-dicked! Begging your pardon, gracious sir.”

Seated in his thronelike chair, dressed in a velvet frock coat with enough gold fripperies to sparkle even in the weak light of an overcast day, Jean looked very much a man of consequence. It was important for the man on the galley to ensure that his verbal salvoes were accurately received; while they were an accepted part of life on the harbor in Tal Verrar, the moneyed class were always treated as though they were somehow levitating above the water, entirely independent of the vessels and laborers carrying them. Jean waved nonchalantly.

“I don’t need to get any closer to know it’s soft, lard-cock!” The girl made a rude gesture with both hands. “I can see how disappointed your fucking cows are from here!”

With that, the scull was out of range of any audible reply; the galley fell away to the stern, and the southwestern edge of the Artificers’ Crescent grew before them.

“For that,” said Jean, “an extra silver volani for everyone here.”

As the increasingly cheerful girl and her enthusiastic team pulled him steadily toward the docks of the Artificers’ Crescent, Jean’s eyes were drawn by a tumult on the water a few hundred yards to his left. A cargo lighter flagged with some sort of Verrari guild banner Jean didn’t recognize was surrounded by at least a dozen smaller craft. Men and women from the boats were trying to clamber aboard the cargo lighter while the outnumbered crew of the larger vessel attempted to fend them off with oars and a water pump. A boat full of constables seemed to be approaching, but was still several minutes off.

“Now, what the hell’s that?” Jean yelled to the girl.

“What? Where? Oh, that. That’s the Quill Pen Rebellion, up to business as usual.”

“Quill Pen Rebellion?”

“The Guild of Scribes. That cargo boat’s flying a Guild of Letter-Pressers’ flag. It must be carrying a printing press from the Artificers’ Crescent. You ever seen a press?”

“Heard of them. For the first time just a few months ago, in fact.”

“The scribes don’t like ’em. Think they’ll put their trade out of business. So they’ve been running ambushes when the Letter-Pressers try to get one across the bay. There must be six or seven of those new presses on the bottom of the water by now. Plus a few bodies. It’s a big fat weeping mess, you ask me.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

“Well, hopefully they won’t come up with anything that can replace a good team of honest rowers. Here’s your dock, sir, quite a bit ahead of schedule if I’m correct. You want us to wait around?”

“By all means,” said Jean. “Amusing help is so hard to find. I expect I won’t be but an hour.”

“At your service, then, Master de Ferra.”

2

THE CRESCENT was not exclusive to the Great Guild of Artificers, though it was where the majority of them chose to settle, and where their private halls and clubs loomed on virtually every street corner, and where they were most tolerated in their habit of leaving incomprehensible and occasionally hazardous devices out in plain sight.

Jean made his way up the steep steps of the Avenue of the Brass Cockatrice, past candle merchants and blade sharpeners and veniparsifers (mystics who claimed to be able to read the full sweep of someone’s destiny from the pattern of blood vessels visible on their hands and forearms). At the top of the avenue he dodged away from a slim young woman in a four-cornered hat and sun veil walking a valcona on a reinforced leather leash. Valcona were flightless attack birds, larger than hunting hounds. With their vestigial wings folded back along their stout bodies, they hopped about on claws that could tear out fist-sized chunks of human flesh. They bonded like affectionate babies to one person and were perfectly happy to kill anyone else in the entire world, at any time.

“Good killer bird,” muttered Jean. “Pretty threat to life and limb. What a lovely little girl or boy or thing you are.”

The creature chirruped a little warning at him and scampered after its mistress.

Huffing and sweating, Jean made his way up another set of switchback stairs and made an irritated mental note that a few hours of training would do his spreading gut some good. Jerome de Ferra was a man who viewed exercise solely as a means of getting from bed to the gambling tables and back again. Forty feet, sixty feet, eighty feet … up from the waterfront, up the second and third tiers of the island, up to the fourth and topmost, where the eccentric influence of the Artificers was at its strongest.

The shops and houses on the fourth tier of the Crescent were provided with water by an extremely elaborate network of aqueducts. Some of them were the stones and pillars of the Therin Throne era, while some were merely leather chutes supported by wooden struts. Waterwheels, windmills, gears, counterweights, and pendulums swung everywhere Jean looked. Rearranging the water supply was a game the Artificers played amongst themselves; the only rule was that nobody’s supply was to be cut off at the point of final delivery. Every few days, a new offshoot of some duct or a new pumping apparatus would appear, stealing water from an older duct or pumping apparatus. A few days later another artificer would divert water through another new channel and the battle would continue. Tropical storms would invariably litter the streets of the Crescent with cogs and mechanisms and ductwork, and the artificers would invariably rebuild their water channels twice as strangely as before.

Glassbender Street ran the full length of the topmost tier. Jean turned to his left and hurried along the cobbles. The strange smells of glassmaking wafted out at him from shop fronts; through open doors he could see artisans spinning glowing orange shapes at the ends of long poles. A small crowd of alchemists’ assistants brushed past him, hogging the street. They wore the trademark red skullcaps of their profession and displayed the chemical burns along their hands and faces that were their badges of pride.

He passed the Avenue of the Cog-Scrapers, where a small crowd of laborers were seated before their shops, cleaning and polishing pieces of metal. Some were under the direct scrutiny of impatient artificers, who grumbled unhelpful directions and stamped their feet nervously. This intersection was the southwestern end of the fourth tier; there was nowhere else to go except down—or out along the forty-foot walk to the home of Azura Gallardine.

At the cul-de-sac end to Glassbender Street was an arc of shop fronts with one gap like a tooth knocked out of a smile. Jutting beyond this gap was an Elderglass pylon, anchored to the stone of the fourth tier for some unfathomable Eldren reason. The pylon was about a foot and a half wide, flat-topped, and forty feet long. It speared out into the empty air, fifteen yards above the rooftops of a winding street down on the third tier.

The house of Azura Gallardine was perched at the far end of that pylon like a three-story bird’s nest on the tip of a branch. The second mistress of the Great Guild of Artificers had discovered an ideal means of assuring her privacy—only those with very serious business, or very sincere need of her skills, would be mad enough to scamper out along the pylon that led to her front door.

Jean swallowed, rubbed his hands together, and said a brief prayer to the Crooked Warden before stepping out onto the Elderglass. “It can’t be that hard,” he muttered. “I’ve been through worse. It’s just a short little walk. No need to look down. I’m as steady as a laden galleon.”

With his hands held out at his sides for balance, he began to make his way carefully across the pylon. It was curious, how the breeze seemed to pick up as he crossed, and how the sky seemed suddenly wider above him.… He fixed his eyes firmly on the door before him, and (unbeknownst to himself) ceased to breathe until his hands were planted firmly on that door. He gasped in a deep breath and wiped his brow, which had sprung an embarrassing quantity of sweat.

Azura Gallardine’s house was solidly crafted from white stone blocks. It had a high peaked roof crowned with a squeaking windmill and a large leather rain-collection bladder in a wooden frame. The door was decorated with relief carvings of gears and other clockwork mechanisms, and beside it a brass plate was set into the stone. Jean pressed the plate, and heard a gong echoing within the house. Smoke from cookfires below curled up past him while he stood there waiting for some response.

He was about to press the plate again when the door creaked open. A short, scowling woman appeared in the gap between the door and its frame, staring up at him. She had to be on the downside of sixty, Jean thought—her reddish skin was lined like the joints of an aged leather garment. She was heavyset, with a vaguely froglike bulge of flesh at her throat and jowly features drooping like sculptor’s putty from her high cheekbones. Her white hair was tightly braided with alternating rings of brass and black iron, and most of the visible flesh on her hands, forearms, and neck was covered in elaborate, slightly faded tattoos.

Jean set his right foot before his left and bowed at a forty-five-degree angle, with his left hand flung out and his right tucked beneath his stomach. He was about to start conjuring verbal flowers when Guildmistress Gallardine seized him by his collar and dragged him into her house.

“Ow! Madam, please! Allow me to introduce myself!”

“You’re too fat and well dressed to be an apprentice after patronage,” she replied, “so you must be here to beg a favor, and when your kind says hello, it tends to take a while. No, shut up.”

Her house smelled like oil, sweat, stone dust, and heated metal. The interior was one tall hollow, the strangest cluttered conglomeration Jean had ever seen. There were man-sized arched windows on the right-hand and left-hand walls, but every other inch of wall space was taken up with a sort of scaffolding that supported a hundred wooden shelves crammed with tools, materials, and junk. At the top of the scaffolding, set atop a makeshift floor of planks, Jean could see a sleeping pallet and a desk beneath a pair of hanging alchemical lamps. Ladders and leather cords hung down in several places; books and scrolls and half-empty corked bottles covered most of the floor.

“If I’ve come at a bad time …”

“It’s usually a bad time, Young Master Interloper. A client with an interesting request is about the only thing that ever changes that. So what’s it to be?”

“Guildmistress Gallardine, everyone I’ve asked has sworn that the most subtle, most accomplished, most imitated artificer in all of Tal Verrar is none other than y—”

“Quit bathing me with your flattery, boy,” said the old woman, waving her hands. “Look around you. Gears and levers, weights and chains. You don’t need to lick them with pretty words to make them work—nor me.”

“As you wish,” said Jean, straightening up and reaching within his coat. “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t extend one small courtesy, however.”

From within his coat he brought forth a small package wrapped in cloth-of-silver. The neat corners of the wrapping were drawn together beneath a red wax seal, stamped into a curled disc of shaved gold.

Jean’s informants had all mentioned Gallardine’s single human failing: a taste for presents as strong as her distaste for flattery and interruptions. She knitted her eyebrows, but did manage a ghost of an anticipatory smile as she took the package in her tattooed hands.

“Well,” she said, “well, we must all certainly be able to live with ourselves.…”

She popped the disc seal and pried the cloth-of silver apart with the eagerness of a little girl. The package contained a brass-stoppered rectangular bottle filled with milky white liquid. She sucked in her breath when she read the label.

“White Plum Austershalin,” she whispered. “Twelve gods. Who have you been speaking to?”

Brandy mixes were a Tal Verrar peculiarity; fine brandies from elsewhere (in this case, the peerless Austershalin of Emberlain) were mixed with local liquor from rare alchemical fruits (and there were none rarer than the heavenly white plum), then bottled and aged to produce cordials that could blast the tongue into numbness with the richness of their flavor. The bottle held perhaps two glasses of White Plum Austershalin, and it was worth forty-five solari.

“A few knowledgeable souls,” said Jean, “who said you might appreciate a modest draught.”

“This is hardly modest, Master …”

“De Ferra. Jerome de Ferra, at your service.”

“Quite the opposite, Master de Ferra. What did you want me to do for you?”

“Well—if you’d really prefer to get to the nub of the matter, I don’t have a specific need just yet. What I have are … questions.”

“About what?”

“Vaults.”

Guildmistress Gallardine cradled her brandy mix like a new baby and said, “Vaults, Master de Ferra? Simple storage vaults, with mechanical conveniences, or secure vaults, with mechanical defenses?”

“My taste, madam, runs more toward the latter.”

“What is it you wish to guard?”

“Nothing,” said Jean. “It is more a matter of something I wish to unguard.”

“Are you locked out of a vault? Needing someone to loosen it up a bit for you?”

“Yes, madam. It’s just …”

“Just what?”

Jean licked his lips again and smiled. “I had heard, well, credible rumors that you might be amenable to the sort of work I might suggest.”

She fixed him with a knowing stare. “Are you implying that you don’t necessarily own the vault that you’re locked out of?”

“Heh. Not necessarily, no.”

She paced around the floor of her house, stepping over books and bottles and mechanical devices.

“The law of the Great Guild,” she said at last, “forbids any one of us from directly interfering with the work of another, save by invitation, or at the need of the state.” There was another pause. “However … it’s not unknown for advice to be given, schematics to be examined … in the interest of advancing the craft, you understand. It’s a form of testing to destruction. It’s how we critique one another, as it were.”

“Advice would be all that I ask,” said Jean. “I don’t even need a locksmith; I just need information to arm a locksmith.”

“There are few who could better arm such a one than myself. Before we discuss the matter of compensation, tell me—do you know the designer of the vault you’ve got your eyes on?”

“I do.”

“And it is?”

“Azura Gallardine.”

The guildmistress took a step away from him, as though a forked tongue had suddenly flicked out between his lips.

“Help you circumvent my own work? Are you mad?”

“I had hoped,” said Jean, “that the identity of the vault owner might be one that wouldn’t raise any particular pangs of sympathy.”

“Who and where?”

“Requin. The Sinspire.”

“Twelve gods, you are mad!” Gallardine glanced around as though checking the room for spies before she continued. “That certainly does raise pangs of sympathy! Sympathy for myself!”

“My pockets are deep, Guildmistress. Surely there must be a sum which would alleviate your qualms?”

“There is no sum in this world,” said the old woman, “large enough to convince me to give you what you ask for. Your accent, Master de Ferra … I believe I place it. You’re from Talisham, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“And Requin—you’ve studied him, have you?”

“Thoroughly, of course.”

“Nonsense. If you’d studied him thoroughly, you wouldn’t be here. Let me tell you a little something about Requin, you poor rich Talishani simpleton. Do you know that woman of his, Selendri? The one with the brass hand?”

“I’ve heard that he keeps no other close to him.”

“And that’s all you know?”

“Ah, more or less.”

“Until several years ago,” said Gallardine, “it was Requin’s custom to host a grand masque at the Sinspire each Day of Changes. A mad revel, in thousand-solari costumes, of which his were always the grandest. Well, one year he and that beautiful young woman of his decided to switch costumes and masks. On a whim.

“An assassin,” she continued, “had dusted the inside of Requin’s costume with something devilish. The blackest sort of alchemy, a kind of aqua regia for human flesh. It was just a powder … it needed sweat and warmth to bring it to life. And so that woman wore it for nearly half an hour, until she’d just begun to sweat and enjoy herself. And that’s when she started to scream.

“I wasn’t there. But there were artificers of my acquaintance in the crowd, and they say she screamed and screamed until her voice broke. Until there was nothing coming from her throat but a hiss, and still she kept trying to scream. Only one side of the costume was doused with the stuff … a perverse gesture. Her skin bubbled and ran like hot tar. Her flesh steamed, Master de Ferra. No one had the courage to touch her, except Requin. He cut her costume off, demanded water, worked over her feverishly. He wiped her burning skin clean with his jacket, with scraps of cloth, with his bare hands. He was so badly burned himself that he wears gloves to this day, to hide his own scars.”

“Astonishing,” said Jean.

“He saved her life,” said Gallardine, “what was left of it to save. Surely you’ve seen her face. One eye evaporated, like a grape in a bonfire. Her toes required amputation. Her fingers were burnt twigs, her hand a blistered waste. It had to go as well. They had to cut off a breast, Master de Ferra. I assure you, you can have no conception of quite what that means—it would mean much to me now, and it has been many long years since I was last thought comely.

“When she was abed, Requin passed the word to all of his gangs, all of his thieves, all of his contacts, all of his friends among the rich and the powerful. He offered a thousand solari, no questions asked, for anyone who could give him the identity of the would-be poisoner. But there was quite a bit of fear concerning this particular assassin, and Requin was not nearly as respected then as he is now. He received no answer. The next night, he offered five thousand solari, no questions asked, and still received no answer. The third night, he repeated his offer, for ten thousand solari, fruitlessly. On the fourth night, he offered twenty thousand … and not one person came forward.

“And so the murders started the very next night. At random. Among the thieves, among the alchemists, among the servants of the Priori. Anyone who might have access to useful information. One a night, silent work, absolutely professional. Each victim had his or her skin peeled off with a knife, on their left side. As a reminder.

“And so his gangs, and his gamblers, and his associates begged him to stop. ‘Find me an assassin,’ he told them, ‘and I will.’ And they pleaded, and they made their inquiries, and came back with nothing. So he began to kill two people per night. He began to kill wives, husbands, children, friends. One of his gangs rebelled, and they were found dead the next morning. All of them. He tightened his grip on his gangs and purged them of the weak-hearted. He killed and killed and killed, until the entire city was in a frenzy to turn over every rock, to kick in every door for him. Until nothing could be worse than to keep disappointing him. At last, a man was brought before him who satisfied his questions.

“Requin,” said Gallardine with a long dry sigh, “set that man inside a wooden frame, chained there, on his left side. The frame was filled with alchemical cement, which was allowed to harden. The frame was tipped up—so you see, the man was half sealed into a stone wall, all along his left side, from his feet to the top of his head. He was tipped up and left standing in Requin’s vault to die. Requin would go in himself and force water down the man’s throat each day. His trapped limbs rotted, festered, made him sick. He died slowly, starving and gangrenous, sealed into the most perfectly hideous physical torture I have ever heard of in all my long years.

“So you will forgive me,” she said, taking Jean gently by the arm and leading him toward the left-hand window, “if Requin is one client with whom I intend to maintain absolute faith until the Lady Most Kind sweeps my soul out of this old sack of bones.”

“But surely, there’s no need for him to know?”

“And just as surely, Master de Ferra, there is the fact that I would never chance it. Never.”

“But surely, a small consideration—”

“Have you heard,” interrupted Gallardine, “of what happens to those caught cheating at his tower, Master de Ferra? He collects their hands, and then he drops them onto a stone courtyard and bills their families or business partners to have the bodies cleaned up. And what about the last man who started a fight inside the Sinspire, and drew blood? Requin had him tied to a table. His kneecaps were cut out by a dog-leech, and red ants were poured into the wounds. The kneecaps were lashed back down with twine. That man begged to have his throat slit. His request was not granted.

“Requin is a power unto himself. The archon can’t touch him for fear of aggravating the Priori, and the Priori find him far too useful to turn on him. Since Selendri nearly died, he’s become an artist of cruelty the likes of which this city has never seen. There is no mortal reward that I would consider worth provoking that man.”

“I take all that very seriously, madam. So can we not carefully minimize your involvement? Settle for a basic schematic of the vault mechanisms, the most general overview? The sort of thing that could never be specifically tied to you?”

“You haven’t really been listening.” She shook her head and gestured toward the left-hand window of her house. “Let me ask you something else, Master de Ferra. Can you see the view of Tal Verrar out this window?”

Jean stepped forward to gaze out through the pane of glass. The view was southward, over the western tip of the Artificers’ Crescent, across the anchorage and the glimmering silver-white water to the Sword Marina. There the archon’s navy rode at anchor, protected by high walls and catapults.

“It’s a … very lovely view,” he said.

“Isn’t it? Now, you must consider this my final statement on the matter. Do you know anything of counterweights?”

“I can’t say that I—”

At that moment, the guildmistress yanked on one of the leather cords that hung down from her ceiling.

The first notion Jean had that the floor had opened up beneath his feet was when the view of Tal Verrar suddenly seemed to move up toward the ceiling; his senses conferred hastily on just what this meant, and were stumped for a split second until his stomach weighed in with nauseous confirmation that the view wasn’t doing the moving.

He plunged through the floor and struck a hard square platform suspended just beneath Gallardine’s house by iron chains at the corners. His first thought was that it must be some sort of lift—and then it began to plummet toward the street forty-odd feet below.

The chains rattled and the sudden breeze washed over him; he fell prone and clung to the platform with white-knuckled alarm. Roofs and carts and cobblestones rushed up toward him and he braced himself for the sharp pain of impact—but it didn’t come. The platform was slowing down with impossible smoothness: sure death slowed to possible injury and then to mere embarrassment. The descent ended a bare few feet above the street, when the chains on Jean’s left stayed taut while the others went slack. The platform tilted with a lurch and dumped him in a heap on the cobbles.

He sat up and sucked in a grateful breath; the street was spinning slightly around him. He looked up and saw that the chain platform was rapidly ascending back to its former position. A split second before it drew home into the underside of Gallardine’s floor, something small and shiny tumbled out of the trap door above it. Jean managed to flinch away and cover his face just before glass shards and liquor from the exploding bottle of brandy mix sprayed over him.

He wiped a good few solari worth of White Plum Austershalin out of his hair as he stumbled to his feet, wide-eyed and cursing.

“A fine afternoon to you, sir. But wait, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Proposal not accepted by the guildmistress?”

Jean, befuddled, found a smiling beer seller not five feet to his right, leaning against the wall of a closed and unmarked two-story building. The man was a tanned scarecrow with a broad-brimmed leather hat that drooped with age until it nearly touched his bony shoulders. He drummed the fingers of one hand on a large wheeled cask, to which several wooden mugs were attached by long chains.

“Um, something like that,” said Jean. A hatchet slipped out of his coat and clattered against the cobblestones. Red-faced, he bent, retrieved it, and made it vanish again.

“You might call this self-serving, and I’d certainly be the first to agree with you, sir. But you look to me like a man in need of a drink. A drink that won’t bust open against the cobbles and damn near break your skull, that is.”

“Do I? What have you got?”

“Burgle, sir. Presuming you’ve heard of it, it’s a Verrari specialty, and if you’ve had it in Talisham you haven’t had it at all. Nothing at all against Talishani, of course. Why, I’ve got family in Talisham, you know.”

Burgle was a thick dark beer usually flavored with a few drops of almond oil. It had a kick comparable to many wines. Jean nodded. “A full mug, if you please.”

The beer seller opened the tap on his cask and filled one of the chained mugs with liquid that looked almost black. He passed this to Jean with one hand and tipped his cap with the other.

“She does it a few times a week, you know.”

Jean quaffed the warm beer and let the yeasty, nutty flavor flow down the back of his throat. “A few times a week?”

“She’s a mite impatient with some of her visitors. Doesn’t wait to terminate conversation with all the usual niceties. But then you knew that already.”

“Mmm-hmmm. This is pretty tolerable stuff.”

“Thank you kindly, sir. One centira the full mug … thank you, thank you kindly. I do a brisk business with folks falling out of Madam Gallardine’s floor. I usually try to stake this spot out just in case it rains a customer or two. I’m very sorry you didn’t find satisfaction in your meeting with her.”

“Satisfaction? Well, she might have gotten rid of me before I expected, but I think I did what I set out to do.” Jean poured the last of the beer down his throat, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and passed the mug back. “I’m really just planting a seed for the future, is all.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BLIND ALLIANCES

1

“MASTER KOSTA, please be reasonable. Why would I be holding anything back from you? If I had a treatment to suggest, it would mean a fair bit more gold in my pocket, now wouldn’t it?”

Pale Therese, the consulting poisoner, kept a rather comfortable parlor in which to discuss confidential business with her clients. Locke and Jean were seated cross-legged on soft, wide cushions, holding (but not sipping from) little porcelain cups of thick Jereshti coffee. Pale Therese—a serious, ice-eyed Vadran of about thirty—had hair the color of new sail canvas that bobbed against the collar of her black velvet coat as she paced the room across from her guests. Her bodyguard, a well-dressed Verrari woman with a basket-hilted rapier and a lacquered wooden club hanging from her belt, lounged against the wall beside the room’s single locked door, silent and watchful.

“Of course,” said Locke. “I beg your pardon, madam, if I’m a bit out of sorts. I hope you can appreciate our situation … possibly poisoned, with no means to tell in the first place, let alone begin securing an antidote.”

“Yes, Master Kosta. It’s certainly an anxious position you’re in.”

“This is the second time I’ve been poisoned for coercive purposes. I was lucky enough to escape the first.”

“Pity it’s such an effective means of keeping someone on a chain, isn’t it?”

“You needn’t sound so satisfied, madam.”

“Oh, come now, Master Kosta. You mustn’t think me unsympathetic.”

Pale Therese held up her left hand, showing off a collection of rings and alchemical scars, and Locke was surprised to see that the fourth finger of that hand was missing. “A careless accident, when I was an apprentice, working with something unforgiving. I had ten heartbeats to choose—my finger or my life. Fortunately there was a heavy knife very close at hand. I know what it means to taste the fruits of my art, gentlemen. I know what it is to feel sickly and anxious and desperate, waiting to see what happens next.”

“Of course,” said Jean. “Forgive my partner. It’s just … well, the artistry of our apparent poisoning surely left us hoping for some equally miraculous solution.”

“As a rule of thumb, it’s always easier to poison than it is to cure.” Therese idly rubbed the stump of her missing finger, a gesture that looked like an old familiar tic. “Antidotes are delicate things; in many cases, they’re poisons in their own right. There is no panacea, no cure-all, no cleansing that can blunt every venom known to my trade. And since the substance you describe does indeed seem to be proprietary, I’d sooner just cut your throats than attempt random antidote treatments. They could prolong your misery, or even enhance the effect of the substance already within you.”

Jean cupped his chin in one hand and gazed around the parlor. Therese had decorated one wall with a shrine to fat, sly Gandolo, Lord of Coin and Commerce, heavenly father of business transactions. On the opposite wall was a shrine to veiled Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence, Goddess of Death. “But you said there are known substances that linger on like the one we’re supposed to be afflicted with. Might they not narrow the field of worthwhile treatments?”

“There are such substances, yes. Twilight rose essence sleeps in the body for several months and deadens the nerves if the subject doesn’t take a regular antidote. Witherwhite steals the nourishment from all food and drink; the victims can gorge themselves all they like and still waste away to nothing. Anuella dust makes the victim bleed out through their skin weeks after they breathe it.… But don’t you see the problem? Three lingering poisons, three very different means of causing harm. An antidote for, say, a poison of the blood might well kill you if your poison works by some other means.”

“Damn,” said Locke. “All right, then. I feel silly bringing this up, but Jerome, you said there was one more possibility.…”

“Bezoars,” said Jean. “I read a great deal about them as a child.”

“Bezoars are, sadly, a myth.” Therese folded her hands in front of her and sighed. “Just a fairy story, like the Ten Honest Turncoats, the Heart-Eating Sword, the Clarion Horn of Therim Pel, and all that wonderful nonsense. I’m sure I read the same books, Master de Ferra. I’m sorry. In order to extract magic stones from the stomachs of dragons, we’d have to have living dragons somewhere, wouldn’t we?”

“They do seem to be in short supply.”

“If it’s miraculous and expensive you’re looking for,” said Therese, “there is one more course of action I could suggest.”

“Anything …,” said Locke.

“The Bondsmagi of Karthain. I have credible reports that they do have means to halt poisonings that we alchemists cannot. For those who can afford their fees, of course.”

“… except that,” muttered Locke.

“Well,” said Therese with a certain resigned finality. “Though it aids neither my pocketbook nor my conscience to set you back on the street without a solution, I fear I can do little else, given how thin our information is. You are absolutely confident the poisoning happened but recently?”

“Last night, madam, was the very first opportunity our … tormentor ever had.”

“Then take what little comfort I can give. Stay useful to this individual and you probably have weeks or months of safety ahead. In that time, some lucky stroke may bring you more information on the substance in question. Watch and listen keenly for whatever clues you may. Return with more solid information for me, and I will instruct my people to take you in at any hour, night or day, to see what I might do.”

“That’s quite gracious of you, madam,” said Locke.

“Poor gentlemen! I offer you my best prayers for good fortune. I know you shall live for some time with a weight on your shoulders … and should you eventually find no solution forthcoming, I can always offer you my other services. Turnabout, as they say, is fair play.”

“You’re our kind of businesswoman,” said Jean, rising to his feet. He set down his little cup of coffee, and beside it placed a gold solari coin. “We appreciate your time and hospitality.”

“No trouble, Master de Ferra. Are you ready to go out, then?”

Locke stood up and adjusted his long coat. He and Jean nodded in unison.

“Very well, then. Valista will see you back out the way you came. Apologies once again for the blindfolds, but … some precautions are for your benefit as well as mine.”

The actual location of Pale Therese’s parlor was a secret, tucked away somewhere amongst the hundreds of respectable businesses, coffeehouses, taverns, and homes in the wooden warrens of the Emerald Galleries, where sunlight and moonlight alike filtered down a soothing sea green through the mushrooming, intersecting Elderglass domes that roofed the district. Therese’s guards led prospective clients to her, blindfolded, along a lengthy series of passageways. The armed young woman stood away from the door, a pair of blindfolds in hand.

“We understand completely,” said Locke. “And never fear. We’re becoming quite accustomed to being led around by our noses in the dark.”

2

LOCKE AND Jean skulked about the Savrola for two nights after that, keeping their eyes on every rooftop and every alley, but neither Bondsmagi nor agents of the archon came forward and conveniently announced themselves. They were being followed and observed by several teams of men and women; that much was clear. Locke’s guess was that these were Requin’s people, given instructions to let just enough of their activities slip to keep him and Jean on their toes.

On the third night, they decided they might as well return to the Sinspire and put on their brave faces. Decked out in several hundred solari worth of finery apiece, they walked up the red velvet carpet and placed silver volani in the hands of the door-guards while a sizable crowd of well-dressed nobodies stood nearby hoping for a glimmer of social mercy.

Locke’s practiced eye picked out the ringers among them; men and women with worse teeth, leaner faces, and warier eyes than the rest of the crowd, dressed in evening clothes that didn’t look precisely tailored, or wearing the wrong accessories, or the wrong colors. Requin’s Right People, out for a night at his Sinspire as a reward for some job well done. They’d be let in in good time, but not allowed past the second floor. Their presence was just one more component of the tower’s mystique; a chance for the great and good to mingle with the dirty and dangerous.

“Masters Kosta and de Ferra,” said one of the doormen, “welcome back.”

When the wide doors swung open toward Locke and Jean, a wave of noise and heat and smells washed out over them into the night—the familiar exhalation of decadence.

The first floor was merely crowded, but the second floor was a wall-to-wall sea of flesh and fine clothes. The crowd began on the stairs, and Locke and Jean had to use elbows and threats to make their way up into the mess.

“What in Perelandro’s name is going on?” Locke asked of a man pressed against him. The man turned, grinning excitedly.

“It’s a cage spectacle!”

In the center of the second floor was a brass cage that could be lowered from the ceiling, locking into apertures in the floor to create a sturdy cube about twenty feet on a side. Tonight the cage was also covered with a very fine mesh—no, Locke corrected himself, two layers of mesh, one inside the cage and one outside. A lucky minority of the Sinspire patrons in the room were watching from elevated tables along the outer walls; it was standingroom only for at least a hundred others.

Locke and Jean made their way through the crowd counterclockwise, attempting to get close enough to see what the spectacle was. The excited murmur of conversation surrounded them, more frantic than Locke had ever heard it within these walls. But as he and Jean approached the cage, he suddenly realized that not all of the noise was coming from the crowd.

Something the size of a sparrow beat its wings against the mesh and buzzed angrily, a low thrumming sound that sent a shiver of pure animal dread up Locke’s spine. “That’s a fucking stiletto wasp,” he whispered to Jean, who nodded vigorously in agreement.

Locke had never been unfortunate enough to encounter one of the insects personally. They were the bane of several large tropical islands a few thousand miles to the east, far past Jerem and Jeresh and the lands detailed on most Therin maps. Years before, Jean had found a gruesome account of the creatures in one of his natural philosophy books and read it aloud to the other Gentlemen Bastards, ruining their sleep for several nights.

They were called stiletto wasps on account of descriptions the rare survivors gave of being stung by them. They were as heavy as songbirds, bright red in color, and their stinging abdomens were longer than a grown man’s middle finger. Possession of a stiletto wasp queen in any Therin city-state was punishable by death, lest the things should ever gain a foothold on Therin soil. Their hives were said to be the size of houses.

A young man ducked and wove inside the cage, dressed in nothing more protective than a silk tunic, cotton breeches, and short boots. Thick leather gauntlets were his weapons as well as his only armor; they were wedded to bracers buckled around his forearms, and he kept his hands up before his face like a boxer. With gloves like that a man could certainly contemplate swatting or crushing a stiletto wasp—but he would have to be very quick and very sure of himself.

On a table at the opposite side of the cage sat a heavy wooden cabinet fronted with dozens of mesh-covered cells, a few of which were already open. The rest, judging by the noise, were crammed full of highly agitated stiletto wasps just waiting to be released.

“Master Kosta! Master de Ferra!”

The shout carried across the noisy crowd but even so was hard to pinpoint. Locke had to look around several times before he could spot the source—Maracosa Durenna, waving to him and Jean from her place at one of the tables against a far wall.

Her black hair was pulled back into a sort of fantail around a gleaming silver ornament, and she was smoking from a curved silver pipe almost as long as her arm. Bands of white iron and jade slid against one another on her left wrist as she beckoned Locke and Jean across the room. They raised eyebrows at each other but pushed their way through the crowd toward her, and were soon standing beside her table.

“Where have you been these past few nights? Izmila has been indisposed, but I’ve been cruising the waters with other games in mind.”

“Our apologies, Madam Durenna,” said Jean. “Matters of business have kept us elsewhere. We occasionally consult on a freelance basis for very … demanding clients.”

“There was a brief trip over water,” added Locke.

“Negotiations concerning futures in pear cider,” said Jean.

“We came highly recommended by former associates,” said Locke.

“Pear cider futures? What a romantic and dangerous sort of trade you two must ply. And are you as accomplished at stake-placing in futures as you are at Carousel Hazard?”

“It stands to reason,” said Jean, “or else we wouldn’t have the funds to play Carousel Hazard.”

“Well then, how about a demonstration? The cage duel. Which participant do you believe to have a happier prospect for the future?”

In the cage, the free stiletto wasp darted toward the young man, who swatted it out of the air and crushed it beneath one of his boots with an audible juicy crack. Most of the crowd cheered.

“Apparently, it’s too late for our opinion to matter one way or the other,” said Locke. “Or is there more to the show?”

“The show’s only just started, Master Kosta. That hive has one hundred and twenty cells. There’s a clockwork device opening the doors, mostly at random. He might get one at a time; he might get six. Eye-catching, isn’t it? He can’t leave the cage until he’s got one hundred and twenty wasps dead at his feet, or …”

She punctuated the sentence with a deep intake of smoke from her pipe and a raising of both her eyebrows.

“I believe he’s killed eight so far,” she finished.

“Ah,” said Locke. “Well … if I had to choose, I’d be inclined to favor the boy. Call me an optimist.”

“I do.” She let two long streams of smoke fall out of her nose like faint gray waterfalls, and she smiled. “I would take the wasps. Shall we call it a wager? Two hundred solari from me, one hundred apiece from each of you?”

“I’m as fond of a small wager as the next man, but let’s ask the next man—Jerome?”

“If it’s your pleasure, madam, our coin purses are yours to command.”

“What a font of gracious untruths you two are.” She beckoned one of Requin’s attendants, and the three of them pledged their credit with the house for markers. They received four short wooden sticks engraved with ten rings apiece. The attendant recorded their names on a tablet and moved on; the tempo of the betting around the room was still rising.

In the cage, two more murderously annoyed insects wriggled out of their enclosures and took wing toward the young man.

“Did I mention,” said Durenna as she set her pair of markers down atop her little table, “that the death of nearby wasps seems to excite the others to a higher state of frenzy? That boy’s opponents will get angrier and angrier as the fight goes on.”

The pair currently free in the enclosure seemed angry enough; the boy was dancing a lively jig to keep them away from his back and flanks. “Fascinating,” said Jean, working a series of specific hand gestures into his mannerisms as he craned his neck to watch the duel. There were a few creative uses of fairly limited signals in Jean’s message, but Locke eventually sorted the gist of it out:

Do we really have to stay to watch this with her?

He was about to answer when a familiar hard weight fell on his left shoulder.

“Master Kosta,” said Selendri before Locke had even finished turning. “One of the Priori wishes to speak to you on the sixth floor. A small matter. Something concerning … card tricks. He said you’d understand.”

“Madam,” said Locke, “I, ah, would be only too happy to attend. Can you let him know that I’ll be with him shortly?”

“Better,” she said with a half-smile that didn’t move the devastated side of her face at all. “I can escort you myself, to greatly speed your passage.”

Locke smiled as though that were exactly what he would have wished, and he turned back to Madam Durenna with his hands spread out before him.

“You do move in interesting circles, Master Kosta. Best hurry; Jerome can tend your wager, and share a drink with me.”

“A most unlooked-for pleasure,” said Jean, already beckoning an attendant to order that drink.

Selendri didn’t waste another moment; she turned and stepped into the crowd, setting course for the stairs on the far side of the circular room. She moved quickly, with her brass hand cradled in her flesh hand before her like an offering, and the throng parted almost miraculously. Locke hurried along in her wake, keeping just ahead of the crowd as it closed up again behind him like some colony of scuttling creatures briefly disturbed in its chores. Glasses clinked, ragged layers of smoke twirled in the air, and wasps buzzed.

Up the stairs to the third floor; again the well-dressed masses melted away before Requin’s majordomo. On the south side of the third floor was a service area filled with attendants bustling about shelves of liquor bottles. At the rear of the service room was a narrow wooden door with a brass wall-plate beside it. Selendri slid her artificial hand into this plate, and the door cracked open on a dark space barely larger than a coffin. She stepped in first, put her back against the wall of the enclosure, and beckoned him in.

“The climbing closet,” she said. “Much easier than the stairs and the crowds.”

It was a tight fit; Jean would have been unable to share the compartment with her. Locke was crammed in against her left side, and he could feel the heavy weight of her brass hand against his upper back. She reached past him with her other hand and drew the compartment closed. They were locked in warm darkness, and Locke became intensely aware of their smells—his fresh sweat and her feminine musk, and something in her hair, like the smoke from a burning pine log. Woodsy, tingly, not at all unpleasant.

“Well,” he said softly, “this is where I’d have an accident, right? If I had an accident coming?”

“It wouldn’t be an accident, Master Kosta.” She spoke softly as well, as though it was some rule of the enclosure. “But no, you’re not to have it on the way up.”

She moved, and he heard the clicking of some mechanism from the wall on her right. A moment later, the walls of the compartment shuddered, and a faint creaking noise grew above them.

“You dislike me,” Locke said on a whim. There was a brief silence.

“I’ve known many traitors,” she said at last, “but perhaps none so glib.”

“Only those who initiate treachery are traitors,” said Locke, injecting a hurt tone into his voice. “What I desire is redress for a grievance.”

“You would have your rationalizations,” she whispered.

“I’ve offended you somehow.”

“Call it whatever you like.”

Locke concentrated furiously on the tone of his next few words. In darkness, facing away from her, his voice would be detached from all the cues of his face and his mannerisms. It would never have a more effective theater of use. Like an alchemist, he mingled long-practiced deceptions into the desired emotional compound—regret, abashedness, longing.

“If I have offended you, madam—I would unsay what I said, or undo what I did.” The briefest hesitation, just the thing for conveying sincerity. The trustiest tool in his verbal kit. “I would do it the moment you told me how, if you only gave me the chance.”

She shuffled ever so slightly against him; the brass hand pressed harder for a heartbeat. Locke closed his eyes and willed his ears, his skin, and his pure animal instincts to pluck whatever slightest clue they could out of the darkness. Would she scorn pity, or did she crave it? He could feel the shuddering beat of his own heart, hear the faint pulse in his own temples.

“There is nothing to unsay or undo,” she replied, faintly.

“I almost wish that there were. So that I could put you at ease.”

“You cannot.” She sighed. “You could not.”

“And you won’t even let me try?”

“You talk the way you perform card tricks, Master Kosta. Far too smoothly. I fear you may be even better at hiding things with words than you are with your hands. If you must know, it’s your possible usefulness against your employer—and that alone—that preserves my consent for letting you live.”

“I don’t want to be your enemy, Selendri. I don’t even want to be trouble.”

“Words are cheap. Cheap and meaningless.”

“I can’t …” Judicious pause again. Locke was as careful as a master sculptor placing crow’s-feet around the edges of a stone statue’s eye. “Look, maybe I am glib. I can’t speak otherwise, Selendri.” Repeated use of her proper name, a compulsion, almost a spell. More intimate and effective than titles. “I am who I am.”

“And you wonder that I distrust you for it?”

“I wonder more if there’s anything that you don’t distrust.”

“Distrust everyone,” she said, “and you can never be betrayed. Opposed, but never betrayed.”

“Hmmm.” Locke bit his tongue and thought rapidly. “But you don’t distrust him, do you, Selendri?”

“That’s no gods-damned business of yours, Master Kosta.”

There was a loud rattle from the ceiling of the climbing closet. The room gave a last heavy shudder, and then fell still.

“Forgive me, again,” said Locke. “Not the sixth floor, of course. The ninth?”

“The ninth.”

In a second she would push past him and open the door. They had one last moment alone in the intimate darkness. He weighed his options, hefted his last conversational dart. Something risky, but potentially disquieting.

“I used to think much less of him, you know. Before I found out that he was wise enough to really love you.” Another pause, and he lowered his voice to the barest edge of audibility. “I think you must be the bravest woman I’ve ever met.”

He counted his own heartbeats in the darkness until she responded.

“What a pretty presumption,” she whispered, and there was acid beneath her words. There was a click, and a line of yellow light split the blackness, stinging his eyes. She gave him a firm push with her artificial hand, against the door that opened out into the lamplit heart of Requin’s office.

Well, let her roll his words over in her thoughts for a while. Let her give him the signals that would tell him how to proceed. He had no specific goal in mind; it would be enough to keep her uncertain, simply less inclined to stick a knife in his back. And if some small part of him felt sour at twisting her emotions (gods damn it, that part of him had rarely spoken up before!), well—he reminded himself that he could do as he pleased and feel as he pleased while he was Leocanto Kosta. Leocanto Kosta wasn’t real.

He stepped out of the climbing closet, unsure if he was any more convinced by himself than Selendri was.

3

“MASTER KOSTA! My mysterious new associate. What a busy man you’ve been.”

Requin’s office was as cluttered as it had been on Locke’s last visit. Locke was gratified to see his decks of cards stacked haphazardly at various points on and near Requin’s desk. The climbing closet opened out of a wall niche between two paintings, a niche Locke certainly hadn’t noticed on his previous visit.

Requin was standing gazing out through the mesh screen that covered the door to his balcony, wearing a heavy maroon frock coat with black lapels. He scratched at his chin with one gloved hand and glanced sideways at Locke.

“Actually,” said Locke, “Jerome and I have had a quiet few days. As I believe I promised you.”

“I don’t mean just these past few days. I’ve been making those inquiries into your past two years in Tal Verrar.”

“As I’d hoped. Enlightening?”

“Most educational. Let’s be direct. Your associate tried to shake down Azura Gallardine for information concerning my vault. Something more than a year ago. You know who she is?”

Selendri was pacing the room to Locke’s left, slowly, watching him over her right shoulder.

“Of course. One of the high muck-a-shits of the Artificers’ Guild. I told Jerome where to find her.”

“And how did you know that she’d had a hand in the design of my vault?”

“It’s amazing, how much you can learn by buying drinks in artificer bars and pretending that every story you hear is incredibly fascinating.”

“I see.”

“The old bitch didn’t tell him anything, though.”

“She wouldn’t have. And she would have been content at that; she didn’t even tell me about the inquiry he’d made. But I put out the question a few nights ago, and it turns out that a beer-seller on my list of reliable eyes once saw someone answering your associate’s description fall out of the sky.”

“Yes. Jerome said the guildmistress had a unique method of interrupting conversations.”

“Well, Selendri had an uninterrupted conversation with her yesterday evening. She was enticed to remember everything she could about Jerome’s visit.”

“Enticed?”

“Financially, Master Kosta.”

“Ah.”

“I have also come to understand that you made inquiries with some of my gangs over in the Silver Marina. Starting around the time Jerome visited Guildmistress Gallardine.”

“Yes. I spoke to an older fellow named Drava, and a woman named … what was it …”

“Armania Cantazzi.”

“Yes, that was her. Thank you. Gorgeous woman; I tried to get past business and get a bit friendlier with her, but she didn’t seem to appreciate my charms.”

“Armania wouldn’t have; she prefers the company of other women.”

“Now there’s a relief. I thought I was losing my touch.”

“You were curious about shipping, the sort customs officials never get to hear about. You discussed a few terms with my people and never followed up. Why?”

“Jerome and I agreed, upon reflection, that securing shipping from outside Tal Verrar would be wisest. We could then simply hire a few small barges to move whatever we stole from you, and avoid the more complicated dealings involved in getting a lighter.”

“If I were planning to rob myself, I suppose I would agree. Now, the matter of alchemists. I have reliable information placing you at several over the past year. Reputable and otherwise.”

“Of course. I conducted a few experiments with fire oils and acids, on secondhand clockwork mechanisms. I thought it might save some tedious lock-picking.”

“Did these experiments bear fruit?”

“I’d share that information with an employer,” said Locke, grinning.

“Mmmm. Leave that for now. But it does indeed appear that you’ve been up to something. So many disparate activities that do add up to support your story. There’s just one thing more.”

“Which is?”

“I’m curious. How was old Maxilan doing when you saw him three nights ago?”

Locke was suddenly aware that Selendri was no longer pacing. She had placed herself just a few steps directly behind him, unmoving. Crooked Warden, give me a golden line of bullshit and the wisdom to know when to stop spinning it, he thought.

“Uh, well, he’s a prick.”

“That’s no secret. Any child on the street could tell me that. But you admit you were at the Mon Magisteria?”

“I was. I had a private audience with Stragos. Incidentally, he’s under the impression that his agents among your gangs are undetected.”

“As per my intentions. But you do get around, Leocanto. Just what would the archon of Tal Verrar want with you and Jerome? In the middle of the night, no less? On the very night we had such an interesting conversation ourselves?”

Locke sighed to buy himself a few seconds to think. “I can tell you,” he said when he’d hesitated as long as was prudent, “but I doubt you’re going to like it.”

“Of course I won’t like it. Let’s have it anyway.”

Locke sighed. Headfirst into a lie, or headfirst out the window.

“Stragos is the one who’s been paying Jerome and myself. The fronts we’ve been dealing with are his agents. He’s the man who’s so keen to see your vault looking like a larder after a banquet. He thought it was time to crack the whip on us.”

Faint lines appeared on Requin’s face as he ground his teeth together, and he put his hands behind his back. “You heard that from his own mouth?”

“Yes.”

“What an astonishing regard he must feel for you, to give you a personal briefing on his affairs. And your proof?”

“Well, you know, I did ask for a signed affidavit concerning his intentions to rake you over the coals, and he was happy to provide me with one, but clumsy me … I lost it on my way over here tonight!” Locke turned to his left and scowled. He could see that Selendri was watching him keenly, with her flesh hand resting on something under her jacket. “For fuck’s sake, if you don’t believe me I can jump out the window right now and save us all a great deal of time.”

“No … no need to paint the cobblestones with your brains just yet.” Requin held up one hand. “It is, however, unusual for someone in Stragos’ position to deal directly with agents that must be, ah, somewhat lowly placed within his hierarchy, and in his regard. No offense.”

“None taken. If I might hazard a guess, I think Stragos is impatient for some reason. I suspect he wants faster results. And … I’m fairly sure that Jerome and myself are no longer intended to outlive any success we achieve on his behalf. It’s the only reasonable presumption.”

“And it would save him a fair bit of money, I’d guess. Stragos’ sort are ever more parsimonious with gold than they are with lives.” Requin cracked his knuckles beneath his thin leather gloves. “The damnable thing is, this all makes a great deal of sense. I have a rule of thumb—if you have a puzzle and the answers are elegant and simple, it means someone is trying to fuck you over.”

“My only remaining question,” said Selendri, “is why Stragos would deal with you personally, knowing full well you could now implicate him if put to … persuasion.”

“There is one thing I hadn’t thought to mention,” said Locke, looking abashed. “It is … a matter of great embarrassment to Jerome and myself. Stragos gave us cider to drink during our audience. Not daring to be inhospitable, we drank quite a bit of it. He claims to have laced it with a poison, something subtle and latent. Something that will require Jerome and I to take an antidote from his hand at regular intervals, or else die unpleasantly. So now he has us by the hip, and if we want the antidote, we must be his good little creatures.”

“An old trick,” said Requin. “Old and reliable.”

“I said we were duly embarrassed. And so you see,” said Locke, “he already has a means to dispose of us when we’ve served his purpose. I’m sure he feels very confident of our loyalty for the time being.”

“And yet you still wish to turn against him?”

“Be honest, Requin. If you were Stragos, would you give us the antidote and send us on our merry way? We’re already dead to him. So now I have the burden of two revenges to carry out before I die. Even if I do succumb to Stragos’ damn cider, I want my last moment with Jerome. And I want the archon to suffer. You are still the best means I have to either end.”

“A reasonable presumption,” purred Requin, growing slightly warmer in his manner.

“I’m glad you think so, because apparently I know less about the politics of this city than I thought I did. What the hell is going on, Requin?”

“The archon and the Priori are gnashing their teeth at one another again. Now, half the Priori store large portions of their personal fortunes in my vault, making it impossible for the archon’s spies to know the true extent of their resources. Emptying my vault would not only strip them of funds, but put me in their bad graces. Right now, Stragos could never put me out of business without major provocation, for fear of initiating a civil war. But sponsoring an apparent third party to hit my vault … oh yes, that’d do the trick nicely. I’d be busy hunting you and Jerome, the Priori would be busy trying to have me drawn and quartered, and then Stragos could simply …”

Requin illustrated what the archon could do by placing a balled fist inside an open palm and squeezing hard.

“I was under the impression,” said Locke, “that the archon was subordinate to the Priori council.”

“Technically, he is. The Priori have a lovely piece of parchment that says so. Stragos has an army and a navy that afford him a dissenting opinion.”

“Great. So now what do we do?”

“Good question. No more suggestions from you, no more schemes, no more card tricks, Master Kosta?”

Locke decided it was a good time to make Leocanto Kosta a bit more human. “Look,” he said. “When my employer was just an anonymous someone who sent a bag of coins every month, I knew exactly what I was doing. But now something else is happening, knives are coming out, and you can see all the angles that I don’t. So tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Hmmmm. Stragos. Did he ask about the conversation you and I had?”

“He didn’t even mention it. I don’t think he knew about it. I think Jerome and I were scheduled to get picked up and brought in that night regardless.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m as sure as I can be.”

“Tell me something, Leocanto. If Stragos had revealed himself to you before you’d had a chance to perform your card tricks for me … if you’d known it was him you were betraying, would you still have done it?”

“Well …” Locke pretended to think. “I can’t say what I might think if I actually liked him, or trusted him. Maybe I’d just give Jerome a knife in the back and work for him if I did. But … we’re rats to Stragos, aren’t we? We’re fucking insects. Stragos is one presumptuous son of a bitch. He thinks he knows Jerome and me. I just … don’t like him, not a bit, even without the poison to consider.”

“He must have spoken to you at length, to inspire such distaste,” said Requin with a smile. “So be it. If you want to buy your way into my organization, there will be a price. That price is Stragos.”

“Oh, gods. What the hell does that mean?”

“When Stragos is either verifiably dead or in my custody, you may have what you ask. A place at the Sinspire assisting with my games. A salary. All the assistance I can offer you with his poison. And Jerome de Ferra crying under your knife. Is that agreeable?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t want you to do it all yourself. But Maxilan has clearly ruled long enough. Assist me in enabling his retirement by any means you can, or any means I order. Then I suppose I’ll have a new floor boss.”

“Best thing I’ve heard in a long while. And the, ah, money in my account, locked away by your command?”

“Will remain locked away, lost by your own actions. I am not a man of charity, Leocanto. Remember that, if you would serve me.”

“Of course. Of course. But now indulge me, please, in a question of my own. Why aren’t you worried that I might be double-timing you for Stragos? That I might run back and tell him all this?”

“Why do you presume that I’m not playing you falsely on that very presumption?” Requin smiled, broadly, in genuine amusement.

“All these possibilities make my head hurt,” said Locke. “I prefer cardsharping to intrigue. If you’re not on the up-and-up, logically, I might as well go home and hang myself tonight.”

“Yes. But I’ll give you a better answer. What could you possibly tell Stragos? That I dislike him, bank for his enemies, and wish him dead? So he’d have confirmation of my hostility? No point. He knows I’m hostile. He knows the underworld of Tal Verrar is an impediment to him if he wants to assert his power. My felantozzi prefer the rule of the guilds to the possibility of rule by uniforms and spears; there’s less money in dictatorship by arms.”

Felantozzi was a Throne Therin term for foot soldiers; Locke had heard it used to refer to criminals a few times before, but he’d never heard them using it among themselves.

“All that remains,” said Requin, “is for your other judge to concur that you are still a risk worth taking.”

“Other judge?”

Requin gestured toward Selendri. “You’ve heard everything, my dear. Do we put Leocanto out the window, or do we send him back down to where you fetched him from?”

Locke met her gaze, folded his arms, and smiled in what he hoped was his most agreeable harmless-puppy fashion. She scowled inscrutably for a few moments, then sighed.

“There’s so much to distrust here. But if there’s a chance to place a turncoat relatively close to the archon … I suppose it costs us little enough. We may as well take it.”

“There, Master Kosta.” Requin stepped over and placed a hand on Locke’s shoulder. “How’s that for a ringing endorsement of your character?”

“I’ll take what I can get.” Locke tried not to let too much of his genuine relief show.

“Then for the time being, your task will be to keep the archon happy. And, presumably, feeding you your antidote.”

“I shall, gods willing.” Locke scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to let him know that we’ve made our personal acquaintance; he must have other eyes in your spire who’ll figure it out sooner or later. Best have it explained sooner.”

“Of course. Is he likely to bring you back to the Mon Magisteria soon?”

“I don’t know how soon, but yes. Very much more than likely.”

“Good. That means he might blather on about his plans again. Now, let’s get you back down to Master de Ferra and your evening’s business. Cheating anyone tonight?”

“We’d only just arrived. We were taking in the cage spectacle.”

“Oh, the wasps. Quite a windfall, those monsters.”

“Dangerous property.”

“Yes, a Jeremite captain had a seed hive and a queen he was trying to sell. My people tipped off customs, had him executed, burnt the queen, and the rest vanished into my keeping after they were impounded. I knew I’d find some sort of use for them.”

“And the young man facing them?”

“Some eighth son of a titled nobody with sand for brains and debts to the ’Spire. He said he’d cover his markers or die trying, and I took him at his word.”

“Well. I’ve got a hundred solari on him, so I hope he lives to cover those markers.” He turned back toward Selendri. “The climbing closet again?”

“Only to the sixth floor. You can walk back down from there.” She smirked slightly. “By yourself.”

4

WHEN LOCKE managed to elbow his way back down to the second floor at last, the young man in the cage was limping, bleeding, and wobbling on his feet. Half a dozen stiletto wasps were free in the enclosure, hovering and darting around him. Locke sighed as he pushed through the crowd.

“Master Kosta! Returned to us just in time for the issue to be settled, I believe.”

Madam Durenna smiled over the top of her drink, some milky orange liquor in a slender glass vessel nearly a foot high. Jean was sipping from a smaller tumbler of something pale brown, and he passed an identical glass to Locke, who took it up with a grateful nod. Honeyed rum—hard enough to avoid Durenna’s scorn, but not quite powerful enough to start beating anyone’s better judgment down for the evening.

“Is it about that time? My apologies for my absence. Silly little business.”

“Silly? With one of the Priori involved?”

“I made the mistake of showing him a card trick last week,” said Locke. “Now he’s making arrangements for me to perform the same trick for, ah, a friend of his.”

“It must be an impressive trick, then. More impressive than what you usually do at a card table?”

“I doubt it, madam.” Locke took a long sip from his drink. “For one thing, I don’t have to worry about such excellent opposition when I’m performing a card trick.”

“Has anyone ever tried to cut out that disgustingly silver tongue of yours, Master Kosta?”

“It’s become a traditional pastime in several cities I could mention.”

In the cage, the mad buzzing of the wasps grew louder as more of them exploded from their cells: two, three, four.… Locke shuddered and watched helplessly as the blurry dark shapes hurtled around the meshed cage. The young man tried to stand his ground, then panicked and began to flail wildly. One wasp met his glove and was slapped to the floor, but another alighted on his lower back and drove its body down. The boy howled, slapped at it, and arched his back. The crowd grew deadly silent in mingled horror and anticipation.

It was fast, but Locke would never have called it merciful. The wasps swarmed the young man, darting and stinging, digging their clawed legs into his blood-soaked shirt. One on his chest, one on his arm, its abdomen pulsing madly up and down … one fluttered about his hair, and another drove its sting home into the nape of his neck. The boy’s wild screams became wet choking noises. Foam trickled from his mouth, blood ran in rivulets down his face and chest, and at last he fell over, twitching wildly. The wasps buzzed and stalked atop his body, looking horribly like blood-colored ants as they went about their business, still stinging and biting.

Locke’s stomach revolted against the small breakfast he’d eaten at the Villa Candessa, and he bit down hard on one of his curled fingers, using the pain to assert some self-control. When he turned back to Madam Durenna, his face was once again placid.

“Well,” she said, waving the four wooden sticks at him and Jean, “this is a tolerable salve for the wounds I still bear from our last meeting. But when shall we have the pleasure of full redress?”

“It can’t possibly come soon enough,” said Locke. “But if you’ll excuse us for the evening, we’ve got some … political difficulties to discuss. And before we leave I’m going to dispose of my drink on the body of the man who’s cost us two hundred solari.”

Madam Durenna waved airily, and was reloading her silver pipe from a leather pouch before Locke and Jean had taken two steps.

Locke’s queasiness rose again as he approached the cage. The crowd was breaking up around him, trading marker sticks and enthusiastic babble. The last few paces around the cage, though, were already clear. The noise and movement in the room around them was keeping the wasps agitated. As Locke approached the cage, a pair leapt back into the air and hovered menacingly, beating loudly against the inner layer of mesh and following him along. Their black eyes seemed to stare right into his. He cringed despite himself.

He knelt as close to the young man’s body as he could get, and in seconds half the free wasps in the enclosure were buzzing and batting against the mesh just a foot or two from his face. Locke threw the remaining half of his rum on the wasp-covered corpse. Behind him, there was an eruption of laughter.

“That’s the spirit, friend,” came a slurred voice. “Clumsy son of a bitch cost me five hundred solari. Take a piss on him while you’re down there!”

“Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered under his breath, speaking quickly. “A glass poured on the ground for a stranger without friends. Lord of gallants and fools, ease this man’s passage to the Lady of the Long Silence. This was a hell of a way to die. Do this for me and I’ll try not to ask for anything for a while. I really do mean that this time.”

Locke kissed the back of his left hand and stood up. With the blessing said, suddenly it seemed that he couldn’t be far enough away from the cage.

“Where now?” asked Jean quietly.

“The hell away from these gods-damned bugs.”

5

THE SKY was clear over the sea and roofed in by clouds to the east; a high pearlescent ceiling hung there like frozen smoke beneath the moons. A hard breeze was blowing past them as they trudged across the docks that fringed the inner side of the Great Gallery, whipping discarded papers and other bits of junk about their feet. A ship’s bell echoed across the lapping silver water.

On their left, a dark Elderglass wall rose story after story like a looming cliff, crossed here and there by rickety stairs with faint lanterns to guide the way of those stumbling up and down them. At the top of those heights was the Night Market, and the edge of the vast roof that covered the tiers of the island down to the waves on its other side.

“Oh, fantastic,” said Jean when Locke had finished his recounting of what had transpired in Requin’s office. “So now we’ve got Requin thinking that Stragos is out to get him. I’ve never helped precipitate a civil war before. This should be fun.”

“I didn’t have much choice,” said Locke. “Can you think of any other convincing reasons for Stragos to take a personal interest in us? Without a good explanation, I was going out that window, that much was clear.”

“If only you’d landed on your head, you’d have nothing to fear but the bill for damaged cobblestones. Do you think Stragos needs to know that Requin’s not as blind to his agents as he thought?”

“Oh, fuck the son of a bitch.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Besides, for all we know Stragos really is out to get Requin. They’re certainly not friends, and trouble’s brewing all over this damn city. On the assets side of the ledger,” said Locke, “I think Selendri can be sweet-talked, at least a little bit. And it seems that Requin really thinks of me as his.”

“Well, good on that. Do you think it’s time to give him the chairs?”

“Yeah, the chairs … the chairs. Yes. Let’s do it, before Stragos decides to push us around some more.”

“I’ll have them taken out of storage and brought round in a cart, whenever you like.”

“Good. I’ll deliver them later this week, then. You mind avoiding the Sinspire for a night or two?”

“Of course not. Any particular reason?”

“I just want to disappoint Durenna and Corvaleur for a bit. Until we’re a little more secure with our situation, I’d really prefer not to waste another night losing money and getting drunk. The bela paranella trick might rouse suspicion if we pull it again.”

“If you put it that way, I can’t say no. How about if I poke around in a few other places, and see if I can catch any whispers about the archon and the Priori? I think we might arm ourselves with a little more of this city’s history.”

“Lovely. What the hell’s this?”

They were not alone on the dockside; in addition to occasional strangers hurrying here and there on business, there were boatmen sleeping under cloaks beside their tied-up craft, and a fair number of drunks and derelicts curled up beneath any shelter they could claim. A pile of crates lay just a few paces to their left, and in its shadow sat a thin figure covered in layers of torn rags, near a tiny alchemical globe that shone a pale red. The figure clutched a small burlap sack and beckoned to them with one pale hand.

“Sirs, sirs!” The loud, croaking voice seemed to be a woman’s. “For pity’s sake, you fine gentlemen. For pity’s sake, for Perelandro’s sake. A coin, any coin, thin copper would do. Have pity, for Perelandro’s sake.”

Locke’s hand went to his purse, just inside his frock coat. Jean had taken his coat off and now carried it folded over his right arm; he seemed content to let Locke see to the evening’s act of charity.

“For Perelandro’s sake, madam, you may have more than just a centira.”

Temporarily distracted by the warm glow of his own affected gallantry, Locke was holding out three silver volani before the first little warning managed to register. The beggar would be happy to have one thin copper, and had a loud voice … why hadn’t they heard her speaking to any of the strangers who’d passed by just ahead of them?

And why was she reaching out with the burlap sack rather than an open hand?

Jean was faster than he was, and with no more elegant way to get Locke to safety, he raised his left arm and gave Locke a hard shove. A crossbow bolt punched a neat dark hole in the burlap sack and hissed through the air between them; Locke felt it tug at his coattails as he fell sideways. He toppled over a smaller crate and landed clumsily on his back.

He sat up just in time to see Jean kick the beggar in the face. The woman’s head snapped back, but she planted her hands on the ground and scissored her legs, sweeping Jean off his feet. As Jean hit the ground and tossed his folded coat away, the beggar drew her legs straight up, kicked them down, and seemed to fling herself forward in an arc. She was on her feet in a second, casting off her rags.

Ah, shit. She’s a foot-boxer—a bloody chassoneur, Locke thought, stumbling to his feet. Jean hates that. Locke twitched his coat-sleeves, and a stiletto fell into each hand. Moving warily, he skipped across the stones toward Jean’s attacker, who was kicking Jean in the ribs as the big man attempted to roll away. Locke was within three paces of the chassoneur when the slap of boot-leather against the ground warned of a presence close behind him. He raised the stiletto in his right hand as though to strike Jean’s assailant, then ducked and whirled, lunging blindly to his rear with the left-hand blade.

Locke was instantly glad he’d ducked; something whirled past his head close enough to tear painfully at his hair. His new attacker was another “beggar,” a man close to his own stature, and he’d just missed a swing with a long iron chain that would have opened Locke’s skull like an egg. The force of the man’s attack helped carry him onto the point of Locke’s stiletto, which plunged in up to the hilt just beneath the man’s right armpit. The man gasped, and Locke pressed his advantage ruthlessly, bringing his other blade down overhand and burying it in the man’s left clavicle.

Locke wrenched both of his blades as savagely as he could, and the man moaned. The chain slipped from his fingers and hit the stones with a clatter; a second later Locke worked his blades out of the man’s body as though he were pulling skewers from meat and let the poor fellow slump to the ground. He raised his bloody stilettos, turned, and with a sudden burst of ill-advised self-confidence, charged Jean’s assailant.

She kicked out from the hip, barely sparing him a glance. Her foot struck his sternum; it felt like walking into a brick wall. He stumbled back, and she took the opportunity to step away from Jean (who looked to have been rather pummeled) and advance on Locke.

Her rags were discarded. Locke saw that she was a young woman, probably younger than he was, wearing loose dark clothing and a thin, well-fashioned ribbed leather vest. She was Therin, relatively dark-skinned, with tightly braided black hair that circled her head like a crown. She had a poise that said she’d killed before.

No problem, thought Locke as he moved backward. So have I. That’s when he tripped over the body of the man he’d just stabbed.

She took instant advantage of his misstep. Just as he regained his balance, she snapped out in an arc with her right leg. Her foot landed like a hammer against Locke’s left forearm, and he swore as his stiletto flew from suddenly nerveless fingers. Incensed, he lunged with his right-hand blade.

Moving as deftly as Jean ever had, she grabbed his right wrist with her left hand, pulled him irresistibly forward, and slammed the heel of her right hand into his chin. His remaining stiletto whirled into the darkness like a man diving from a tall building, and suddenly the dark sky above him was replaced with looming gray stones. He made their acquaintance hard enough to rattle his teeth like dice in a cup.

She kicked him once to roll him over onto his back, then planted a foot on his chest to pin him down. She’d caught one of his blades, and he watched in a daze as she bent forward to put it to use. His hands were numb, traitorously slow, and he felt an unbearable itching sensation on his unprotected neck as his own stiletto dipped toward it.

Locke didn’t hear Jean’s hatchet sink into her back, but he saw its effect and guessed the cause. The woman jerked upright, arched backward, and let the stiletto slip. It clattered against the ground just beside Locke’s face, and he flinched. His assailant sank down to her knees just beside him, breathing in swift shallow gasps, and then twisted away. He could see one of Jean’s Wicked Sisters buried in a spreading dark stain on her lower back, just to the right of her spine.

Jean stepped over Locke, reached down, and yanked the hatchet from the woman’s back. She gasped, fell forward, and was viciously yanked back upright by Jean, who stood behind her and placed the blade of his hatchet against her throat.

“Lo … Leo! Leocanto. Are you all right?”

“With this much pain,” Locke gasped, “I know I can’t be dead.”

“Good enough.” Jean applied more force to the hatchet, which he was holding just behind its head, like a barber wielding a beard-scraper. “Start talking. I can help you die without further pain, or I can even help you live. You’re no simple bandit. Who put you here?”

“My back,” sobbed the woman, her voice trembling and utterly without threat. “Please, please, it hurts.”

“It’s supposed to. Who put you here? Who hired you?”

“Gold,” said Locke, coughing. “White iron. We can pay you. Double. Just give us a name.”

“Oh, gods, it hurts …”

Jean seized her by the hair with his free hand and pulled; she cried out and straightened up. Locke blinked as he saw what appeared to be a dark feathered shape burst out of her chest; the wet thud of the crossbow quarrel’s impact didn’t register until a split second later. Jean leapt back, dumbfounded, and dropped the woman to the ground. A moment later, he looked past Locke and gestured threateningly with his hatchet.

“You!”

“At your service, Master de Ferra.”

Locke craned his head back far enough to catch an upside-down glimpse of the woman who’d stolen them off the street and delivered them to the archon a few nights before. Her dark hair fluttered freely behind her in the breeze. She wore a tight black jacket over a gray waistcoat and a gray skirt, and held a discharged crossbow in her left hand. She was walking toward them at a leisurely pace, from the direction they’d come. Locke groaned and rolled over until she was right side up.

Beside him, the beggar-chassoneur gave one last wet cough and died.

“Gods damn it,” cried Jean, “I was about to get some answers from her!”

“No, you weren’t,” said the archon’s agent. “Take a look at her right hand.”

Locke, climbing shakily to his feet, and Jean both did so; a slender knife with a curved blade glistened there by the faint light of the moons and the few dockside lamps.

“I was assigned to watch over you two,” the woman said as she stepped up beside Locke, beaming contentedly.

“Fine fucking job,” said Jean, rubbing his ribs with his left hand.

“You seemed to be doing well enough until the end.” She looked down at the little knife and nodded. “Look, this knife has an extra groove right alongside the cutting edge. That usually means something nasty on the blade. She was buying time to slip it out and stick you with it.”

“I know what a groove along the blade means,” mumbled Jean petulantly. “Do you know who the hell these two work for?”

“I have some theories, yes.”

“And would you mind sharing them?” asked Locke.

“If I were given orders to that effect,” she said sweetly.

“Gods damn all Verrari, and give them more sores on their privates than hairs on their heads,” muttered Locke.

“I was born in Vel Virazzo,” said the woman.

“Do you have a name?” asked Jean.

“Lots. All of them lovely and none of them true,” she replied. “You two can call me Merrain.”

“Merrain. Ow.” Locke winced and massaged his left forearm with his right hand. Jean set a hand on his shoulder.

“Anything broken, Leo?

“Not much. Perhaps my dignity and my previous presumptions of divine benevolence.” Locke sighed. “We’ve seen people following us for the past few nights, Merrain. I suppose we must have seen you.”

“I doubt it. You gentlemen should collect your things and start walking. Same direction you were moving before. There’ll be constables here soon enough, and the constables don’t take orders from my employer.”

Locke retrieved his wet stilettos and wiped them on the trousers of the man he’d killed before returning them to his sleeves. Now that the anger of the fight had run cold, Locke felt his gorge rising at the sight of the corpse, and he scuttled away as fast as he could.

Jean gathered up his coat and slipped his hatchet into it. Soon enough the three of them were walking along, Merrain in the middle with her elbows linked in theirs.

“My employer,” she said after a few moments, “wished me to watch over you tonight, and when convenient show you down to a boat.”

“Wonderful,” said Locke. “Another private conversation.”

“I can’t say. But if I were to conjecture, I’d guess that he’s found a job for the pair of you.”

Jean spared a quick glance for the two bodies lying in the darkness far behind them, and he coughed into his clenched fist. “Splendid,” he growled. “This place has been so dull and uncomplicated so far.”

REMINISCENCE

The Amusement War

1

Six days north up the coast road from Tal Verrar, the demi-city of Salon Corbeau lies within an unusually verdant cleft in the black seaside rocks. More than a private estate, not quite a functional village, the demi-city clings to its peculiar life in the smoldering shadow of Mount Azar.

In the time of the Therin Throne Azar exploded to life, burying three living villages and ten thousand souls in a matter of minutes. These days it seems content merely to rumble and brood, sending twisting charcoal plumes out to sea, and flights of ravens wheel without concern beneath the tired old volcano’s smoke. Here begin the hot, dusty plains called the Adra Morcala, inhabited by few and loved by none. They roll like a cracked dry sea all the way to the southern boundaries of Balinel, most westerly and desolate canton of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows.

Locke Lamora rode into Salon Corbeau on the ninth day of Aurim, in the Seventy-eighth Year of Nara. A mild westerly winter. A fruitful year (and more) had passed since he and Jean had first set foot in Tal Verrar, and in the armored strongbox at the rear of Locke’s rented carriage rattled a thousand gold solari, stolen at billiards from a certain Lord Landreval of Espara who was unusually sensitive to lemons.

The little harbor that served the demi-city was thick with small craft—yachts and pleasure-barges and coasting galleys with square silk sails. Farther out, upon the open sea a galleon and a sloop rode at anchor, each flying the pennant of Lashain under family crests and colors Locke didn’t recognize. The breeze was slight and the sun was pale, more silver than gold behind the hazy exhalations of the mountain.

“Welcome to Salon Corbeau,” said a footman in livery of black and olive green, with a tall hat of pressed black felt. “How are you styled, and how must you be announced?”

A liveried woman placed a wooden block beneath the open door to Locke’s carriage and he stepped out, bracing his hands in the small of his back and stretching with relief before hopping to the ground. He wore a drooping black moustache beneath black-rimmed optics and slick black hair; his heavy black coat was tight in the chest and shoulders but flared out from waist to knees, fluttering behind him like a cape. He had eschewed the more refined hose and shoes for gray pantaloons tucked into knee-high field boots, dull black beneath a faint layer of road dust.

“I am Mordavi Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain,” he said. “I doubt that I shall require announcement, as I have no title of any consequence.”

“Very good, Master Fehrwight,” said the footman smoothly. “The Lady Saljesca appreciates your visit to Salon Corbeau and earnestly wishes you good fortune in your affairs.”

Appreciates your visit, noted Locke, rather than would be most pleased to receive your audience. Countess Vira Saljesca of Lashain was the absolute ruler of Salon Corbeau; the demi-city was built on one of her estates. Equally distant from Balinel, Tal Verrar, and Lashain, just out of convenient rulership by any of them, Salon Corbeau was more or less an autonomous resort state for the wealthy of the Brass Coast.

In addition to the constant arrival of carriages along the coast roads and pleasure-vessels from the sea, Salon Corbeau attracted one other noteworthy form of traffic, which Locke had meditated on in a melancholy fashion during his journey.

Ragged groups of peasants, urban poor and rural wretches alike, trudged wearily along the dusty roads to Lady Saljesca’s domain. They came in intermittent but ceaseless streams, flowing to the strange private city beneath the dark heights of the mountain.

Locke imagined that he already knew exactly what they were coming for, but his next few days in Salon Corbeau would prove that understanding to be woefully incomplete.

2

LOCKE HAD originally expected that a sea voyage to Lashain or even Issara might be necessary to secure the final pieces of his Sinspire scheme, but conversation with several wealthier Verrari had convinced him that Salon Corbeau might have exactly what he needed.

Picture a seaside valley carved from night-dark stone, perhaps three hundred yards in length and a hundred wide. Its little harbor lies on its western side, with a crescent beach of fine black sand. At its eastern end, an underground stream pours out of a fissure in the rocks, rushing down a stepped arrangement of stones. The headlands above this stream are commanded by Countess Saljesca’s residence, a stone manor house above two layers of crenellated walls—a minor fortress.

The valley walls of Salon Corbeau are perhaps twenty yards in height, and for nearly their full length they are terraced with gardens. Thick ferns, twisting vines, blossoming orchids, and fruit and olive trees flourish there, a healthy curtain of brown and green in vivid relief against the black, with little water ducts meandering throughout to keep Saljesca’s artificial paradise from growing thirsty.

In the very center of the valley is a circular stadium, and the gardens on both sides of this stone structure share the walls with several dozen sturdy buildings of polished stone and lacquered wood. A miniature city rests on stilts and platforms and terraces, charmingly enclosed by walkways and stairs at every level.

Locke strolled these walkways on the afternoon of his arrival, looking for his ultimate goal with a stately lack of haste—he expected to be here for many days, perhaps even weeks. Salon Corbeau, like the chance houses of Tal Verrar, drew the idle rich in large numbers. Locke walked among Verrari merchants and Lashani nobles, among scions of the western Marrows, past Nesse ladies-in-waiting (or perhaps more accurately, ladies-weighted-down, in more cloth-of-gold than Locke would have previously thought possible) and the landed families they served. Here and there he was sure he even spotted Camorri, olive-skinned and haughty, though thankfully none were important enough for him to recognize.

So many bodyguards, and so many bodies to guard! Rich bodies and faces; people who could afford proper alchemy and physik for their ailments. No weeping sores or sagging facial tumors, no crooked teeth lolling out of bleeding gums, no faces pinched by emaciation. The Sinspire crowd might be more exclusive, but these folk were even more refined, even more pampered. Hired musicians followed some of them, so that even little journeys of thirty or forty yards need not threaten a second of boredom. Rich men and women were hemorrhaging money all around Locke, to the strains of music. Even a man like Mordavi Fehrwight might spend less to eat for a month than some of them would throw away just to be noticed at breakfast each day.

He’d come to Salon Corbeau because of these folk; not to rob them, for once, but to make use of their privileged existence. Where the rich nested like bright-feathered birds, the providers of the luxuries and services they relied upon followed. Salon Corbeau had a permanent community of tailors, clothiers, instrument makers, glassbenders, alchemists, caterers, entertainers, and carpenters. A small community, to be sure, but one of the highest reputation, fit for aristocratic patronage and priced accordingly.

Almost in the middle of Salon Corbeau’s south gallery, Locke found the shop he had come all this way to visit—a rather long, two-story stone building without windows along its walkway face. The wooden sign above the single door said:

M. BAUMONDAIN AND DAUGHTERS HOUSEHOLD DEVICES AND FINE FURNITURE BY APPOINTMENT

On the door of the Baumondain shop was a scrollwork decoration, the crest of the Saljesca family (as Locke had glimpsed on banners fluttering here and there, and on the cross-belts of Salon Corbeau’s guards), implying Lady Vira’s personal approval of the work that went on there. Meaningless to Locke, since he knew too little of Saljesca’s taste to judge it … but the Baumondain reputation stretched all the way to Tal Verrar.

He would send a messenger first thing in the morning, as was appropriate, and request an appointment to discuss the matter of some peculiar chairs he needed built.

3

AT THE second hour of the next afternoon a warm soft rain was falling; a weak and wispy thing that hung in the air more like damp gauze than falling water. Vague columns of mist swirled among the plants and atop the valley, and the walkways were for once clear of most of their well-heeled traffic. Gray clouds necklaced the tall black mountain to the northwest. Locke stood outside the door to the Baumondain shop with water dripping down the back of his neck and rapped sharply three times.

The door swung inward immediately; a wiry man of about fifty peered out at Locke through round optics. He wore a simple cotton tunic cinched up above his elbows, revealing guild tattoos in faded green and black on his lean forearms, and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a gray kitten, with only its little head visible.

“Master Fehrwight? Mordavi Fehrwight?”

“So pleased you could make the time for me,” began Locke. He spoke with a faint Vadran accent, just enough to suggest an origin in the far north. He’d decided to be lazy, and let this Fehrwight be as fluent in Therin as possible. Locke stretched out his right hand to shake. In his left he carried a black leather satchel with an iron lock upon its flap. “Master Baumondain, I presume?”

“None other. Come in directly, sir, out of the rain. Will you take coffee? Allow me to trade you a cup for your coat.”

“With pleasure.” The foyer of the Baumondain shop was a high, cozily paneled room lit with little golden lanterns in wall sconces. A counter with one swinging door ran across the rear of the room, and behind it Locke could see shelves piled high with samples of wood, cloth, wax, and oils in glass jars. The placed smelled of sanded wood, a sharp and pleasant tang. There was a little sitting area before the counter, where two superbly wrought chairs with black velvet cushions stood upon a floor tapestry.

Locke set his satchel at his feet, turned to allow Baumondain to help him shrug out of his damp black coat, picked up his satchel once again, and settled himself in the chair nearest to the door. The carpenter hung Locke’s coat on a brass hook on the wall. “Just a moment, if you please,” he said, and went behind the counter. From his new vantage point, Locke could see that a canvas-covered door led from behind the counter to what he presumed must be the workshop. Baumondain pushed the canvas flap aside and yelled, “Lauris! The coffee!”

Some muffled reply that he evidently found satisfactory came back to him from the workshop, and he hurried around the counter to take his place in the chair across from Locke, crinkling his seamy face into a welcoming smile. A few moments later, the canvas flew aside once again and out from the workshop came a freckled girl of fifteen or sixteen years, chestnut-haired, slim in the manner of her father but more firmly muscled about the arms and shoulders. She carried a wooden tray before her set with cups and silver pots, and when she stepped through the door in the counter Locke saw the tray had legs like a very short table.

She placed the coffee service between Locke and her father, just to the side, and gave Locke a respectful nod.

“My oldest daughter, Lauris,” said Master Baumondain. “Lauris, this is Master Fehrwight, of the House of bel Sarethon, from Emberlain.”

“Charmed,” said Locke. Lauris was close enough for him to see that her hair was full of curly little wood shavings.

“Your servant, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris nodded again, prepared to withdraw, and then caught sight of the gray kitten sticking out of her father’s apron pocket. “Father, you’ve forgotten Lively. Surely you didn’t mean to have him sit in on the coffee?”

“Have I? Oh, dear, I see that I have.” Baumondain reached down and eased the kitten out of his apron. Locke was astonished to see how limply it hung in his hands, with its legs and tail drooping and its little head lolling; what self-respecting cat would sleep while plucked up and carried through the air? Then Locke saw the answer, as Lauris took Lively in her own hands and turned to go. The kitten’s little eyes were wide open, and stark white.

“That creature was Gentled,” said Locke in a low voice when Lauris had returned to the workshop.

“I’m afraid so,” said the carpenter.

“I’ve never seen such a thing. What purpose does it serve, in a cat?”

“None, Master Fehrwight, none.” Baumondain’s smile was gone, replaced by a wary and uncomfortable expression. “And it certainly wasn’t my doing. My youngest daughter, Parnella, found him abandoned behind the Villa Verdante.” Baumondain referred to the huge luxury inn where the intermediate class of Salon Corbeau’s visitors stayed, the wealthy who were not private guests of the Lady Saljesca. Locke himself was rooming there.

“Damned strange.”

“We call him Lively, as a sort of jest, though he does little. He must be coaxed to eat, and prodded to … to excrete, you see. Parnella thought it would be kinder to smash his skull, but Lauris would not hear of it and so I could not refuse. You must think me weak and doting.”

“Not at all,” said Locke, shaking his head. “The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all.”

“Master Fehrwight.” The carpenter licked his lips nervously. “You seem a humane man, and you must understand … our position here brings us a steady and lucrative business. My daughters will have quite an inheritance, when I turn this shop over to them. There are … there are things about Salon Corbeau, things that go on, that we artisans … do not pry into. Must not. If you take my meaning.”

“I do,” said Locke, eager to keep the man in a good humor. However, he made a mental note to perhaps poke around in pursuit of whatever was disturbing the carpenter. “I do indeed. So let us speak no more of the matter, and instead look to business.”

“Most kind,” said Baumondain, with obvious relief. “How do you take your coffee? I have honey and cream.”

“Honey, please.”

Baumondain poured steaming coffee from the silver pot into a thick glass cup, and spooned in honey until Locke nodded. Locke sipped at his cup while Baumondain bombarded his own with enough cream to turn it leather brown. It was quality brew, rich and very hot.

“My compliments,” Locke mumbled over a slightly scalded tongue.

“It’s from Issara. Lady Saljesca’s household has an endless thirst for the stuff,” said the carpenter. “The rest of us buy pecks and pinches from her sellers when they come around. Now, your messenger said that you wished to discuss a commission that was, in her words, very particular.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Locke. “Particular, to a design and an end that may strike you as eccentric. I assure you I am in grave earnest.”

Locke set down his coffee and lifted his satchel into his lap, then pulled a small key from his waistcoat pocket to open the lock. He reached inside and drew out a few pieces of folded parchment.

“You must be familiar,” Locke continued, “with the style of the last few years of the Therin Throne? The very last few, just before Talathri died in battle against the Bondsmagi?” He passed over one of his sheets of parchment, which Baumondain removed his optics to examine.

“Oh, yes,” the carpenter said slowly. “The Talathri Baroque, also called the Last Flowering. Yes, I’ve done pieces in this fashion before.… Lauris has as well. You have an interest in this style?”

“I require a suite of chairs,” said Locke. “Four of them, leather-backed, lacquered shear-crescent with real gold insets.”

“Shear-crescent is a somewhat delicate wood, fit only for occasional use. For more regular sitting I’m sure you’d want witchwood.”

“My master,” said Locke, “has very exact tastes, however peculiar. He insisted upon shear-crescent, several times, to ensure that his wishes were clear.”

“Well, if you wished them carved from marzipan, I suppose I should have to do it … with the clear understanding, of course, that I did warn you against hard use.”

“Naturally. I assure you, Master Baumondain, you won’t be held liable for anything that happens to these chairs after they leave your workshop.”

“Oh, I would never do less than vouch for our work, but I cannot make a soft wood hard, Master Fehrwight. Well, then, I do have some books with excellent illustrations of this style. Your artist has done well to start with, but I’d like to give you more variety to choose from.…”

“By all means,” said Locke, and he sipped his coffee contentedly as the carpenter rose and returned to the workshop door. “Lauris,” Baumondain cried, “my three volumes of Velonetta.… Yes, those.”

He returned a moment later cradling three heavy, leather-bound tomes that smelled of age and some spicy alchemical preservative. “Velonetta,” he said as he settled the books on his lap. “You are familiar with her? No? She was the foremost scholar of the Last Flowering. There are only six sets of her work in all the world, as far as I know. Most of these pages are on sculpture, painting, music, alchemy … but there are fine passages on furniture, gems worth mining. If you please …”

They spent half an hour poring over the sketches Locke had provided and the pages Baumondain wished to show him. Together, they hammered out an agreeable compromise on the design of the chairs that “Master Fehrwight” would receive. Baumondain fetched a stylus of his own and scrawled notes in an illegible chicken scratch. Locke had never before considered how many details might go into something as straightforward as a chair; by the time they had finished their discussion of legs, bracings, cushion filling, leathers, scrollwork, and joinery, Locke’s brain was in full revolt.

“Excellent, Master Baumondain, excellent,” is nonetheless what he said. “The very thing, in shear-crescent, lacquered black, with gold leaf to gild the incised decorations and the rivets. They must look as though they had been plucked from Emperor Talathri’s court just yesterday, new and unburnt.”

“Ah,” said the carpenter, “a delicate subject arises, then. Without meaning to give the slightest offense, I must make it clear that these will never pass for originals. They will be exact reconstructions of the style, perfect facsimiles, of a quality to match any furnishings in the world—but an expert could tell. They are few, and far between, but such a one would never confuse a brilliant reconstruction for even a modest original. They have had centuries to weather; these will be plainly new.”

“I take your meaning, Master Baumondain. Never fear; I am ordering these for eccentric purposes, not for deceptive ones. These chairs will never be alleged to be originals, on my word. And the man who will receive them is such an expert, in fact.”

“Very good, then, very good. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” said Locke, who had withheld two sketch-covered sheets of parchment and passed them over. “Now that we’ve settled on a design for the suite of chairs, this—or something very much like it, subject to your more expert adjustments—must be included in the plans.”

As Baumondain absorbed the implications of the sketches, his eyebrows rose steadily, until it seemed that they were being drawn up to the fullest possible extent of his forehead’s suppleness, and must be flung back down to the floor like crossbow bolts when they reached their zenith.

“This is a prodigious curiosity,” he said at last. “A very strange thing to incorporate.… I’m not at all sure—”

“It is essential,” said Locke. “That, or something very much like it, within the bounds of your own discretion. It is absolutely necessary. My master simply will not place an order for the chairs unless these features are built into them. Cost is no object.”

“It’s possible,” said the carpenter after a few seconds of further contemplation. “Possible, with some adjustments to these designs. I believe I see your intention, but I can improve upon this scheme … must, if the chairs are to function as chairs. May I ask why this is necessary?”

“My master is a dear old fellow, but as you must have gathered, quite eccentric, and morbidly afraid of fire. He fears to be trapped in his study or his library tower by flames. Surely you can see how these mechanisms might help set his mind at ease?”

“I suppose I can,” muttered Baumondain, his puzzled reluctance turning to interest in a professional challenge as he spoke.

After that, it was merely a matter of haggling, however politely, over finer and finer details, until Locke was finally able to coax a suggested price out of Baumondain.

“What coin would you wish to settle in, Master Fehrwight?”

“I presumed solari would be convenient.”

“Shall we say … six solari per chair?” Baumondain spoke with feigned nonchalance; that was a cheeky initial offer, even for luxury craftsmanship. Locke would be expected to haggle it down. Instead, he smiled and nodded.

“If six per chair is what you require, then six you will have.”

“Oh,” said Baumondain, almost too surprised to be pleased. “Oh. Well then! I should be only too happy to accept your note.”

“While that would be fine in ordinary circumstances, let’s do something more convenient for both of us.” Locke reached inside the satchel and drew out a coin purse, from which he counted twenty-four gold solari onto the little coffee table while Baumondain watched with growing excitement. “There you are, in advance. I prefer to carry hard coinage when I come to Salon Corbeau. This little city needs a moneylender.”

“Well, thank you, Master Fehrwight, thank you! I didn’t expect … well, let me get a work order and some papers for you to take with you, and we’ll be set.”

“Now, let me ask—do you have all the materials you need for my master’s order?”

“Oh yes! I know that off the top of my head.”

“Warehoused here, at your shop?”

“Yes indeed, Master Fehrwight.”

“About how long might I expect the construction to take?”

“Hmmm … given my other duties, and your requirements … six weeks, possibly seven. Will you be returning for them yourself, or will we need to arrange shipping?”

“In that, too, I was hoping for something a little more convenient.”

“Ah, well … you having been so very civil, I’m sure I could shift my schedule. Five weeks, perhaps?”

“Master Baumondain, if you and your daughters were to work on my master’s order more or less exclusively, starting this afternoon, at your best possible speed … how long then would you say it might take?”

“Oh, Master Fehrwight, Master Fehrwight, you must understand, I have other orders pending, for clients of some standing. Significant people, if you take my meaning.”

Locke set four more gold coins atop the coffee table.

“Master Fehrwight, be reasonable! These are just chairs! I will bend every effort to finishing your order as fast as possible, but I cannot simply displace my existing clients or their pieces—”

Locke set four more coins down, next to the previous pile.

“Master Fehrwight, please, we would give you our exclusive efforts for far less, if only we didn’t already have clients to satisfy! How could I possibly explain this to them?”

Locke set six more coins directly in the middle of the two stacks of four, building a little tower. “What is that now, Baumondain? Forty solari, when you were so pleased to get just twenty-four?”

“Sir, please, my sole consideration is that clients who placed their orders before your master’s must, in all courtesy, have precedence.”

Locke sighed, and dumped ten more solari onto the coffee table, upsetting his little tower and emptying the purse. “You can have a shortage of materials. Some essential wood or oil or leather. You need to send away for it; six days to Tal Verrar and six days back. Surely it’s happened before. Surely you can explain.”

“Oh, but the aggravation; they’ll be so annoyed.…”

Locke drew a second coin purse from his satchel and held it poised like a dagger in the air before him. “Refund some of their money. Here, have more of mine.” He shook out even more coins, haphazardly. The clink-clink-clink of metal falling upon metal echoed in the foyer.

“Master Fehrwight,” said the carpenter, “who are you?”

“A man who’s dead serious about chairs.” Locke dropped the half-full purse atop the pile of gold next to the coffeepot. “One hundred solari, even. Put off your other appointments, set aside your other jobs, make your excuses and your refunds. How long would it take?”

“Perhaps a week,” said Baumondain, in a defeated whisper.

“Then you agree? Until my four chairs are finished, this is the Fehrwight Furniture Shop? I have more gold in the Villa Verdante’s strongbox. You will have to kill me to stop forcing it upon you if you say no. So do we have a deal?”

“Gods help us both, yes!”

“Then shake on it. You get carving, and I’ll start wasting time back at my inn. Send messengers if you need me to inspect anything. I’ll stay until you’re finished.”

4

“AS YOU can see, my hands are empty, and it is unthinkable that anything should be concealed within the sleeves of such a finely tailored tunic.”

Locke stood before the full-length mirror in his suite at the Villa Verdante, wearing nothing but his breeches and a light tunic of fine silk. The cuffs of the tunic were drawn away from his wrists, and he stared intently at his own reflection.

“It would, of course, be impossible for me to produce a deck of cards from thin air … but what’s this?”

He moved his right hand toward the mirror, with a flourish, and a deck of cards slipped clumsily out of it, coming apart in a fluttering mess as it fell to the floor.

“Oh, fucking hell,” Locke muttered.

He had a week of empty time on his hands, and his legerdemain was improving with torturous slowness. Locke soon turned his attention to the curious institution at the heart of Salon Corbeau, the reason so many idle rich made pilgrimage to the place, and the reason so many desperate and downtrodden ate their carriage dust as they trudged to the same destination.

They called it the Amusement War.

Lady Saljesca’s stadium was a miniature of the legendary stadia ultra of Therim Pel, complete with twelve marble idols of the gods gracing the exterior in high stone niches. Ravens perched on their divine heads and shoulders, cawing halfheartedly down at the bustling crowd around the gates. As he made his way through the tumult Locke noted every species of attendant known to man. There were physikers clucking over the elderly, litter bearers hauling the infirm (or the unabashedly lazy), musicians and jugglers, guards, translators, and dozens of men and women waving fans or hoisting wide silk parasols, looking like nothing so much as fragile human-sized mushrooms as they chased their patrons under the growing morning sun.

While it was said that the floor of the Imperial Arena had been too wide for even the strongest archer to send an arrow across, the floor of Saljesca’s recreation was just fifty yards in diameter. There were no common seats; the smooth stone walls rose twenty feet above the smooth stone floor, and were topped with luxury galleries whose cloth sunscreens flapped gently in the breeze.

Three times per day, Lady Saljesca’s liveried guards would open the public gates to the better class of Salon Corbeau’s visitors. There was a single standing gallery (which even had a decent view) to which admission was free, but the vast majority of spectators at the stadium would take nothing less than the luxury seats and boxes, which needed to be reserved at some considerable expense. Unfashionable as it was, Locke elected to stand for his first visit to the Amusement War. A relative nonentity like Mordavi Fehrwight had no reputation to protect.

On the floor of the arena was a gleaming grid of black and white marble squares, each one yard on a side. The squares were set twenty by twenty, like a gigantic Catch-the-Duke board. Where little carved pieces of wood or ivory were used in that game, Saljesca’s playing field featured living pieces. The poor and destitute would man that field, forty to a side, wearing white or black tabards to distinguish themselves. This strange employment was the reason they risked the long, hard trudge to Salon Corbeau.

Locke had already discovered that there were two large barracks behind Lady Saljesca’s stadium, heavily guarded, where the poor were taken upon arrival in Salon Corbeau. There they were made to clean themselves up, and were given two simple meals a day for the duration of their stay, which could be indefinite. Each “aspirant,” as they were known, was assigned a number. Three times per day, random drawings were held to select two teams of forty for the coming Amusement War. The only rule of the war was that the living pieces had to be able to stand, move, and obey orders; children of eight or nine were about the youngest taken. Those who refused to participate when their number was drawn, even once, were thrown out of Saljesca’s demi-city immediately and barred from returning. Without supplies and preparation, being cast out onto the roads in this dry land could be a death sentence.

The aspirants were marched into the arena by two dozen of Saljesca’s guards, who were armed with curved shields and lacquered wooden sticks. They were robust men and women who moved with the easy assurance of hard experience; even a general uprising of the aspirants would stand no chance against them. The guards lined the aspirants up in their starting positions on the board, forty white “pieces” and forty black “pieces,” with sixteen squares separating each double-ranked army.

At opposite ends of the stadium were two special gallery boxes, one draped in black silk curtains and the other in white. These boxes were reserved far in advance by a waiting list, much as patrons of a chance house would lay claim to billiards tables or private rooms at certain hours. Whoever reserved a box gained the right to absolute command of that color for the duration of a war.

That morning’s White warmistress was a young Lashani viscountess whose retinue looked as nervous with the affair as she was enthusiastic; they appeared to be scribbling notes and consulting charts. The Black warmaster was a middle-aged Iridani with the well-fed, calculating look of a prosperous merchant. He had a young son and daughter with him in his gallery.

Although the living pieces could be hung (by the agreement of both players) with special tabards that gave them unusual privileges or movement allowances, the rules of this particular Amusement War seemed to be plain Catch-the-Duke with no variations. The controllers began calling orders and the game slowly developed, with white and black pieces trudging nervously toward one another, very gradually closing the distance between the opposing forces. Locke found himself puzzled by the reaction of the stadium crowd.

There were easily sixty or seventy spectators in the boxes, with twice as many servants, bodyguards, assistants, and messengers on hand, not to mention caterers in Saljesca’s livery hurrying to and fro to serve their wants. Their buzz of eager anticipation seemed totally incongruous given the plodding nature of the contest shaping up on the squares.

“What,” Locke muttered to himself in Vadran, “is so damn fascinating?”

Then the first piece was taken, and the Demons came out to the arena floor.

The White warmistress deliberately placed one of her “pieces,” a middle-aged man, in harm’s way. More of her army lurked behind him in an obvious trap, but the Black warmaster apparently decided it was a worthwhile exchange. Under the shouted orders of the Black adjutant, a teenaged girl in black stepped from a diagonal square and touched the middle-aged man on the shoulder. He hung his head, and the appreciative clapping of the crowd was drowned out a moment later by a wild shrieking that arose from the far left side of Locke’s view of the stadium.

Six men ran onto the arena floor from a side portal, dressed in elaborate leather costumes with black-and-orange fluting; their faces were covered with grotesque flame-orange masks trailing wild manes of black hair. They threw their arms in the air, screaming and hollering meaninglessly, and the crowd cheered back as they ran across the arena toward the cringing man in white. The Demons seized him by the arms and by the hair; he was thrust, sobbing, to the side of the game board and exhibited to the crowd like a sacrificial animal. One of the Demons, a man with a booming voice, pointed to the Black warmaster and shouted, “Cry the default!”

“I want to cry it,” said the little boy in the merchant’s gallery.

“We agreed that your sister would go first. Theodora, name the default.” The little girl peered down to the arena floor in concentration, then whispered up to her father. He cleared his throat and shouted, “She wants the guards to beat him with their clubs. On his legs!”

And so it was; the Demons held the writhing, screaming man with his limbs spread while two guards obligingly laid into him. The fall of their sticks echoed across the arena; they thoroughly bruised his thighs, shins, and calves until the chief Demon waved his hands to clear them off. The audience applauded politely (though not with particular enthusiasm, noted Locke), and the Demons hauled the quivering, bleeding man off the stadium floor.

They came back soon enough; one of the Whites removed a Black on the next move. “Cry the default!” echoed once again across the arena.

“I’ll sell the right for five solari,” shouted the Lashani viscountess. “First taker.”

“I’ll pay it,” cried an old man in the stands, dressed in layers of velvet and cloth-of-gold. The chief Demon pointed up at him, and he beckoned to a frock-coated attendant standing just behind him. The attendant threw a purse down to one of Saljesca’s guards, who carried it over to the White warmistress’ side of the field and threw it into her gallery. The Demons then hauled the young woman in black over for the old man’s examination. After a moment of exaggerated contemplation, he shouted, “Get rid of her dress!”

The young woman’s black tabard and dirty cotton dress were ripped apart by the grasping hands of the Demons; in seconds, she was naked. She seemed determined to give less of a demonstration than the man who’d gone before; she glared stonily up at the old man, be he minor lord or merchant prince, and said nothing.

“Is that all?” cried the chief Demon.

“Oh no,” said the old man. “Get rid of her hair, too!”

The crowd burst into applause and cheers at that, and the woman betrayed real fear for the first time. She had a thick mane of glossy black hair down to the small of her back, something to be proud of even among the penniless—perhaps all she had to be proud of in the world. The chief Demon played to the crowd, hoisting a gleaming, crooked dagger over his head and howling with glee. The woman attempted to struggle against the five pairs of arms that held her, to no avail. Swiftly, painfully, the chief Demon slashed at her long black locks—they fluttered down until the ground was thick with them and the woman’s scalp was covered with nothing but a chopped, irregular stubble. Trickles of blood ran down her face and neck as she was dragged, too numb for further struggle, out of the arena.

So it went, as Locke watched in growing unease, as the pitiless sun crept across the sky and the shadows shortened. The living pieces moved on the gleaming-hot squares, without water and without relief, until they were taken from the board and subjected to a default of the opposing warmaster’s choosing. It soon became apparent to Locke that the default could be virtually anything, short of death. The Demons would follow orders with frenzied enthusiasm, playing up each new injury or humiliation for the appreciative crowd.

Gods, Locke realized, barely any of them are here for the game at all. They’ve only come to see the defaults.

The rows of armored guards would dissuade all possibility of refusal or rebellion. Those “pieces” who refused to hurry along to their appointed places, or dared to step off their squares without instructions, were simply beaten until they obeyed. Obey they did, and the cruelty of the defaults did not wane as the game went on.

“Rotten fruit,” the little boy in the Black warmaster’s box yelled, and so it was; an elderly woman with a white tabard was thrown against the stadium wall and pelted with apples, pears, and tomatoes by four of the Demons. They knocked her off her feet and continued the barrage until the woman was a shuddering heap, curled up beneath her frail arms for protection, and great spatters of sour pulp and juice were dripping from the wall behind her.

The white player’s retaliation was swift. She took a stocky young man in black colors and for once reserved the choice of default to herself. “We must keep our hostess’ stadium clean. Take him to the wall with the fruit stains,” she shouted, “and let him clean it with his tongue!”

The crowd broke into wild applause at that; the man on the arena floor was pushed up to the wall by the chief Demon. “Start licking, scum!”

His first efforts were halfhearted. Another Demon produced a whip that ended in seven knotted cords and lashed the man across the shoulders, knocking him into the wall hard enough to bloody his nose. “Earn your fucking pay, worm,” screamed the Demon, whipping him once again. “Haven’t you ever had a lady tell you to get down and use your tongue before?”

The man ran his tongue desperately up and down the wall, gagging every few seconds, which would bring another crack of the Demon’s whip. The man was a bleeding, retching nervous wreck by the time he was finally hauled from the arena floor.

So it went, all morning long.

“Gods, why do they bear it? Why do they take this?” Locke stood in the free gallery, alone, staring out at the wealthy and powerful, at their guards and servants, and at the thinning ranks of the living pieces in the game beneath them. He brooded, sweating in his heavy black garments.

Here were the richest and freest people in the Therin world, those with positions and money but no political duties to constrict them, gathered together to do what law and custom forbade beyond Saljesca’s private fiefdom—to humiliate and brutalize their lessers however they saw fit, for their own gleeful amusement. The arena and the Amusement War itself were obviously just frames. Means to an end.

There was no order to it, no justice. Gladiators and prisoners fighting before a crowd were there for a reason, risking their lives for glory or paying the price for having been caught. Men and women hung from a gibbets because the Crooked Warden had only so much help to give to the foolish, the slow, and the unlucky. But this was wanton.

Locke felt his anger growing like a chancre in his guts.

They had no idea who he was or what he was really capable of. No idea what the Thorn of Camorr could do to them, unleashed on Salon Corbeau, with Jean to aid him! Given months to plan and observe, the Gentlemen Bastards could take the place apart, find ways to cheat the Amusement War, surely—rob the participants, rob the Lady Saljesca, embarrass and humiliate the bastards, blacken the demi-city’s reputation so thoroughly that nobody would ever want to visit again.

But …

“Crooked Warden,” Locke whispered, “why now? Why show me this now?”

Jean was waiting for him back in Tal Verrar, and they were already neckdeep in a game that had taken a year to put together. Jean didn’t know anything about what really went on at Salon Corbeau. He would be expecting Locke to return in short order with a set of chairs, so the two of them could carry on with the plan they’d agreed to, a plan that was already desperately delicate.

“Gods damn it,” said Locke. “Gods damn it all to hell.”

5

CAMORR, YEARS before. The wet, seeping mists enclosed Locke and Father Chains in curtains of midnight gray as the old man led the boy back home from his first meeting with Capa Vencarlo Barsavi. Locke, drunk and sweat-soaked, clung to the back of his Gentled goat for dear life.

“… you don’t belong to Barsavi,” Chains said. “He’s good enough for what he is, a good ally to have on your side, and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn’t own you. In the end, neither do I.”

“So I don’t have to—”

“Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less,” Chains confided through a feral grin, “than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo’s precious Secret Peace.”

“Uh …” Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. “Why?”

“Heh. It’s … complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you’ll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden.”

“Is the Capa doing something wrong?”

“Well,” said Chains, “well, lad, now there’s a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes—the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hung.

“Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates: laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is thieves prosper. Simple as that. We’re ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible, and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi’s got that mandate covered, never doubt that.

“But the second mandate,” said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, “is this—the rich remember.”

“Remember what?”

“That they’re not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We’re sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We’re the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their side, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgment. That’s our second mandate, and it’s as important as the first.”

“And … the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don’t like it?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. “Barsavi’s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He’s not sworn to the mandates like I am; he’s got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can’t just let it go. It’s my divine duty to see that the blue bloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what life hands the rest of us as a matter of routine—a nice, sharp jab in the ass every now and again.”

“And, Barsavi … doesn’t need to know about this?”

“Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this’ll be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden.”

6

“WHY DO they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods … er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled … to what end?”

Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family’s workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau.

“As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. “If you’re selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you’re given a default, you get a silver volani. There’s also a random drawing; one person per war, one in eighty, gets a gold solari.”

“They must be desperate,” said Locke.

“Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they’ve got nowhere else to come, they come here. There’s a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and … amuse them.”

“It’s perverse. It’s infamous.”

“You have a soft heart, for what you’re spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. “Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn.”

“Speak as you will. I’m not a rich man, Lauris. I’m just my master’s servant. But even he … We’re frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. We might be eccentric, but we’re not cruel.”

“I’ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight.”

“We’re not nobles. We’re merchants … merchants of Emberlain. I can’t speak for our nobles, and often don’t want to. Look, I’ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I’ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I’ve never seen anything like that—the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something … something so very wrong.”

“There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca’s laws,” said Lauris. “Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you’re seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? I saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I’m sorry it’s not the paradise it looks like from a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?”

“Yes,” said Locke slowly. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

“If I were to presume to give you advice,” said Lauris, “I’d suggest that you stay away from the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do. Ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind’s eye and pretend that it’s not there.”

“As you say, Madam Baumondain.” Locke sighed. “I might just do so.”

7

BUT LOCKE could not stay away. Morning, afternoon, and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, war after war, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants who were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.

“Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. “They don’t even have a priest … not a single one.…”

He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan.

He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.

The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he’d halfheartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.

Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.

“I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself!”

Locke was snapped out of his brooding by the appearance of another man in the free gallery. The stranger was tanned and fit-looking, perhaps five or six years older than Locke, with brown curls down to his collar and a precisely trimmed goatee. His long velvet coat was lined with cloth-of-silver, and he held a gold-topped cane behind his back with both hands.

“But forgive me. Fernand Genrusa, peer of the Third, of Lashain.”

Peer of the third order—a baron—a purchased Lashani patent of nobility, just as Locke and Jean had toyed with possibly acquiring. Locke bent slightly at the waist and inclined his head. “Mordavi Fehrwight, m’lord. Of Emberlain.”

“A merchant, then? You must be doing well for yourself, Master Fehrwight, to take your leisure here. So what’s behind your long face?”

“What makes you think I’m displeased?”

“You stand here alone, taking no refreshment, and you watch each new war with such an expression on your face … as though someone were slipping hot coals into your breechclout. I’ve seen you several times from my own gallery. Are you losing money? I might be able to share some insights I’ve cultivated on how to best place wagers at the Amusement War.”

“I have no wagers outstanding, m’lord. I am merely … unable to stop watching.”

“Curious. Yet it does not please you.”

“No.” Locke turned slightly toward Baron Genrusa and swallowed nervously. Etiquette demanded that a lowborn like Mordavi Fehrwight, and a Vadran at that, should defer even to a banknote baron like Genrusa and offer no unpleasant conversation, but Genrusa seemed to be inviting explanation. Locke wondered how much he might get away with. “Have you ever seen a carriage accident, m’lord, or a man run over by a team of horses? Seen the blood and wreckage and been completely unable to take your eyes off the spectacle?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“There I would beg to differ. You have a private gallery to see it three times a day if you wish. M’lord.”

“Ahhhh. So you find the Amusement War, what, undecorous?”

“Cruel, m’lord Genrusa. Most uncommonly cruel.”

“Cruel? Compared to what? War? Times of plague? Have you ever seen Camorr, by chance? Now there’s a basis for comparison that might have you thinking more soundly, Master Fehrwight.”

“Even in Camorr,” said Locke, “I don’t believe anyone is allowed to beat old women in broad daylight on a whim. Or tear their clothes off, stone them, rape them, slash their hair off, splash them with alchemical caustics.… It’s like … like children tearing off an insect’s wings. So they might watch and laugh.”

“Who forced them to come here, Fehrwight? Who put a sword to their backs and made them march all the way to Salon Corbeau along those hot, empty roads? That pilgrimage takes days from anywhere worthy of note.”

“What choice do they have, m’lord? They’re only here because they’re desperate. Because they could not sustain themselves where they were. Farms fail, businesses fail … it’s desperation, is all. They cannot simply decide not to eat.”

“Farms fail, businesses fail, ships sink, empires fall.” Genrusa brought his cane out from behind his back and punctuated his statements by gesturing at Locke with the gold head. “That’s life, under the gods, by the will of the gods. Perhaps if they’d prayed harder, or saved more, or been less thoughtless with what they had, they wouldn’t need to come crawling here for Saljesca’s charity. Seems only fair that she should require most of them to earn it.”

“Charity?”

“They have a roof over their heads, food to eat, and the chance of money. Those that earn the gold prizes seem to have no trouble taking their coin and leaving.”

“One in eighty wins a solari, m’lord. No doubt more money than they’ve ever seen at once in their lives. And for the other seventy-nine that gold is just a promise, holding them here day after day, week after week, default after default. And those that die because the Demons get out of hand? What good is gold or the promise of gold to them? Anywhere else, it would be plain murder.”

“It’s Aza Guilla that takes them from the arena floor, not you or I or anyone mortal, Fehrwight.” Genrusa’s brows were furrowed and his cheeks were reddening. “And yes, anywhere else, it might be plain murder. But this is Salon Corbeau, and they’re here of their own free will. As are you and I. They could simply choose not to come—”

“And starve and die elsewhere.”

“Please. I have seen the world, Master Fehrwight. I might recommend it to you for perspective. Certainly, some of them must be down on their luck. But I wager you’d find that most of them are just hungry for gold, hoping for an easy break. Look out at those on the arena floor now … quite a few young and healthy ones, aren’t there?”

“Who else might be expected to make the journey here on foot without extraordinary luck, m’lord Genrusa?”

“I can see there’s no talking sense to sentiment, Master Fehrwight. I’d thought you coin-kissers from Emberlain were a harder lot than this.”

“Hard perhaps, but not vulgar.”

“Now mind yourself, Master Fehrwight. I wanted a word because I was genuinely curious about your disposition; I think I can see now what it stems from. A bit of advice: Salon Corbeau might not be the healthiest place to harbor your sort of resentment.”

“My business here will be … shortly concluded.”

“All for the better, then. But perhaps your business at the Amusement War might be curtailed even sooner. I’m not the only one who’s taken an interest in you. Lady Saljesca’s guards are … sensitive about discontent. Above the arena floor as well as on it.”

I could leave you penniless and sobbing, whispered the voice in Locke’s head. I could have you pawning your piss-buckets to keep your creditors from slitting your throat.

“Forgive me, my lord. I will take what you say most seriously,” muttered Locke. “I doubt … that I shall trouble anyone here again.”

8

ON THE morning of Locke’s ninth day in Salon Corbeau, the Baumondains were finished with his chairs.

“They look magnificent,” said Locke, running his fingers lightly over the lacquered wood and padded leather. “Very fine, as fine as I had reason to hope. And the … additional features?”

“Built to your specifications, Master Fehrwight. Exactly to your specifications.” Lauris stood beside her father in the Baumondain workshop while ten-year-old Parnella was struggling to brew tea over an alchemical hearthstone, at a corner table covered in unidentifiable tools and half-empty jars of woodworking oils. Locke made a mental note to smell any tea offered to him very carefully before drinking.

“You have outdone yourselves, all of you.”

“We were, ah, financially inspired, Master Fehrwight,” said the elder Baumondain.

“I like building weird things,” Parnella added from the corner.

“Heh. Yes, I suppose these would qualify.” Locke stared at his suite of four matching chairs and sighed in mingled relief and aggravation. “Well, then. If you’d be so kind as to ready them for transport, I shall hire two carriages and take my leave this afternoon.”

“In that much of a hurry to leave?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that every unnecessary moment I spend in this place weighs on me. Salon Corbeau and I do not agree.” Locke removed a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to Master Baumondain. “An additional twenty solari. For your silence, and for these chairs to never have existed. Is this clear?”

“I … well, I’m sure we can accommodate your request.… I must say, your generosity is—”

“A subject that needs no further discussion. Humor me, now. I’ll be gone soon enough.”

So that’s all, said the voice in Locke’s head. Stick to the plan. Leave this all behind, and do nothing, and return to Tal Verrar with my tail between my legs.

While he and Jean enriched themselves at Requin’s expense and cheated their way up the luxurious floors of the Sinspire, on the stone floor of Lady Saljesca’s arena the defaults would go on, and the faces of the spectators would be the same, day after day. Children tearing the wings from insects to laugh at how they flailed and bled … and stepping on one every now and again.

“Thieves prosper,” muttered Locke under his breath. He tightened his neck-cloths and prepared to go summon his carriages, feeling sick to his stomach.

CHAPTER FIVE

ON A CLOCKWORK RIVER

1

THE GLASS-FRONTED TRANSPORT BOX erupted out of the Mon Magisteria’s waterfall once again and slid home with a lurch just inside the palace. Water hissed through iron pipes, the high gates behind the box slammed shut, and the attendants pushed the front doors open for Locke, Jean, and Merrain.

A dozen Eyes of the Archon were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They fell in wordlessly on either side of Locke and Jean as Merrain led them forward.

Though not to the same office as before, it seemed. Locke glanced around from time to time as they passed through dimly lit halls and up twisting staircases. The Mon Magisteria was truly more fortress than palace; the walls outside the grand hall were devoid of decoration, and the air smelled mainly of humidity, sweat, leather, and weapon oils. Water rumbled through unseen channels behind the walls. Occasionally they would troop past servants, who would stand with their backs to the wall and their heads bowed toward their feet until the Eyes were past.

Merrain led them to an iron-reinforced door in a nondescript corridor several floors up from the entrance. Faint silver moonlight could be seen rippling through an arched window at the far end of the hall.… Locke squinted and realized that a stream of water from the palace’s circling aqueducts was falling down the glass.

Merrain pounded on the door three times. When it opened with a click, allowing a crack of soft yellow light into the hall, she dismissed the Eyes with a wave of her hand. As they marched away down the corridor, she pushed the door open slightly and pointed toward it with her other hand.

“At last. I might have hoped to see you sooner. You must have been away from your usual haunts when Merrain found you.” Stragos looked up from where he sat, on one of only two chairs in the small, bare room, and shuffled the papers he’d been examining. His bald attendant sat on the other with several files in hand, saying nothing.

“They were having a bit of trouble on the inner docks of the Great Gallery,” said Merrain as she closed the door behind Locke and Jean. “A pair of fairly motivated assassins.”

“Really?” Stragos seemed genuinely annoyed. “What business might that be in relation to?”

“I only wish we knew,” said Locke. “Our chance for an interrogation took a crossbow bolt in the chest when Merrain showed up.”

“The woman was about to stick one of these two with a poisoned knife, Protector. I thought you’d prefer to have them both intact for the time being.”

“Hmmm. A pair of assassins. Were you at the Sinspire tonight?”

“Yes,” said Jean.

“Well, it wouldn’t be Requin, then. He’d simply have taken you while you were there. So it’s some other business. Something you should have told me about before, Kosta?”

“Oh, begging your pardon, Archon. I thought that between your little friends the Bondsmagi and all the spies you must have slinking about at our backsides, you’d know more than you do.”

“This is serious, Kosta. I aim to make use of you; it doesn’t suit my needs to have someone else’s vendetta on my hands. You don’t know who might have sent them?”

“Truthfully, we have no bloody clue.”

“You left the bodies of these assassins on the docks?”

“The constables have them by now, surely,” said Merrain.

“They’ll throw the bodies in the Midden Deep, but first they’ll inter them at the death-house for a day or two,” said Stragos. “I want someone down there to have a look at them. Note their descriptions, plus any tattoos or other markings that might be meaningful.”

“Of course,” said Merrain.

“Tell the officer of the watch to see to that now. You’ll know where to find me when you’re finished.”

“Your will … Archon.” Merrain looked as though she might say something else, then turned, opened the door, and hurried out.

“You called me Kosta,” said Locke when the door had slammed closed once again. “She doesn’t know our real names, does she? Curious. Don’t you trust your people, Stragos? Seems like it’d be easy enough to get your hooks into them the same way you got them into us.”

“I’ll wager,” said Jean, “that you never take up your master’s offer of a friendly drink when you’re off duty, eh, baldy?” Stragos’ attendant scowled but still said nothing.

“By all means,” said Stragos lightly, “taunt my personal alchemist, the very man responsible for me ‘getting my hooks into you,’ not to mention the preparation of your antidotes.”

The bald man smiled thinly. Locke and Jean cleared their throats and shuffled their feet in unison, a habit they’d synchronized as boys.

“You seem a reasonable fellow,” said Locke. “And I for one have always found a hairless brow to be a noble thing, sensible in every climate.…”

“Shut up, Lamora. Do we have the people we need, then?” Stragos passed his papers over to his attendant.

“Yes, Archon. Forty-four of them, all told. I’ll see that they’re moved by tomorrow evening.”

“Good. Leave us the vials and you may go.”

The man nodded and gathered his papers. He handed two small glass vials over to the archon, then left without another word, sliding the door respectfully closed behind him.

“Well, you two.” Stragos sighed. “You seem to attract attention, don’t you? You’re certain you’ve no idea who else might be trying to kill you? Some old score to settle from Camorr?”

“There are so many old scores to settle,” said Locke.

“There would be, wouldn’t there? Well, my people will continue to protect you as best they can. You two, however, will have to be more … circumspect.”

“That sentiment is not exactly unprecedented,” said Locke.

“Confine your movements to the Golden Steps and the Savrola until further notice. I’ll have extra people placed on the inner docks; use those when you must travel.”

“Gods damn it, we cannot operate like that! For a few days, perhaps, but not for the rest of our stay in Tal Verrar, however long it might be.”

“In that, you’re more right than you know, Locke. But if someone else is after you, I can’t let it interfere with my needs. Curtail your movements or I’ll have them curtailed for you.”

“You said there’d be no further complication of our game with Requin!”

“No, I said that the poison wouldn’t further complicate your game with Requin.”

“You seem pretty confident of our good behavior for a man who’s all alone with us in a little stone room,” said Jean, taking a step forward. “Your alchemist’s not coming back, is he? Nor Merrain?”

“Should I be worried? You’ve absolutely nothing to gain by harming me.”

“Except immense personal satisfaction,” said Locke. “You presume that we’re in our right minds. You presume that we give a shit about your precious poison, and that we wouldn’t tear you limb from limb on general principle and take the consequences afterward.”

“Must we do this?” Stragos remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, a mildly bored expression on his face. “It occurred to me that the two of you might be stubborn enough to nurse a bit of mutiny in your hearts. So listen carefully—if you leave this room without me, the Eyes in the hall outside will kill you on sight. And if you otherwise harm me in any way, I repeat my earlier promise. I’ll revisit the same harm on one of you, tenfold, while the other is forced to watch.”

“You,” said Locke, “are a goat-faced wad of slipskinner’s shit.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Stragos. “But if you’re thoroughly in my power, pray tell me, what does that make you?”

“Downright embarrassed,” muttered Locke.

“Very likely. Can you, both of you, set aside this childish need to avenge your self-regard and accept the mission I have for you? Will you hear the plan and keep civil tongues?”

“Yes.” Locke closed his eyes and sighed. “I suppose we truly have no choice. Jean?”

“I wish I didn’t have to agree.”

“Just so long as you do.” Stragos stood up, opened the door to the corridor, and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. “My Eyes will see you along to my gardens. I have something I want to show the two of you … while we speak more privately about your mission.”

“What exactly do you intend to do with us?” asked Jean.

“Simply put, I have a navy riding at anchor in the Sword Marina, accomplishing little. Inasmuch as I still depend on the Priori to help pay and provision it, I can’t send it out in force without a proper excuse.” Stragos smiled. “So I’m going to send you two out onto the sea to find that excuse for me.”

“Out to sea?” said Locke. “Are you out of your fu—”

“Take them to my garden,” said Stragos, spinning on his heel.

2

IT WAS less a garden than a forest, stretching for what must have been hundreds of yards on the northern side of the Mon Magisteria. Hedges entwined with softly glowing Silver Creeper vines marked the paths between the swaying blackness of the trees; by some natural alchemy the vines shed enough artificial moonlight for the two thieves and their guards to step easily along the gravel paths. The moons themselves were out, but had now fallen behind the looming fifteen-story darkness of the palace itself and could not be seen from Locke and Jean’s position.

The perfumed air was humid and heavy; there was rain lurking in the creeping arc of clouds enclosing the eastern sky. There was a buzzing flutter of unseen wings from the darkness of the trees, and here and there pale gold and scarlet lights seemed to drift around the trunks like some fairy mischief.

“Lantern beetles,” said Jean, mesmerized despite himself.

“Think on how much dirt they must have had to haul up here, to cover the Elderglass deeply enough to let these trees grow …,” whispered Locke.

“It’s good to be a duke,” said Jean. “Or an archon.”

At the center of the garden was a low structure like a boathouse, lit by hanging alchemical lanterns in the heraldic blue of Tal Verrar. Locke heard the faint lapping of water against stone, and soon enough saw that there was a dark channel perhaps twenty feet wide cut into the ground just beyond the little structure. It meandered into the darkness of the forest-garden like a miniature river. In fact, Locke realized, the lantern-lit structure was a boathouse.

More guards appeared out of the darkness, a team of four being half led and half dragged by two massive black dogs in armored harnesses. These creatures, waist-high at the shoulders and nearly as broad, bared their fangs and sniffed disdainfully at the two thieves, then snorted and pulled their handlers along into the archon’s garden.

“Very good,” said Stragos, appearing out of the darkness a few strides behind the dog team. “Everything’s prepared. You two, come with me. Sword-prefect, you and yours are dismissed.”

The Eyes turned as one and marched off toward the palace, their boots crunching faintly on the gravel underfoot. Stragos beckoned to Locke and Jean, then led them down to the water’s edge. There, a boat floated on the still water, lashed to a little post behind the boathouse. The craft seemed to be built for four, with a leather-padded bench up front and another at the stern. Stragos gestured again, for Locke and Jean to climb down into the forward bench.

Locke had to admit it was pleasant enough, settling against the cushions and resting his arm against the gunwale of the sturdy little craft. Stragos rocked the boat slightly as he stepped down behind them, untied the lashing, and settled on his own bench. He took up an oar and dipped it over the left gunwale. “Tannen,” he said, “be so kind as to light our bow lantern.”

Jean glanced over his shoulder and spotted a fist-sized alchemical lantern in a faceted glass hanging off his side of the boat. He fiddled with a brass dial atop the lantern until the vapors inside mingled and sputtered to life, like a sky-blue diamond casting ghosts of the lantern’s facets on the water below.

“This was here when the dukes of the Therin Throne built their palace,” said Stragos. “A channel cut down into the glass, eight yards deep, like a private river. These gardens were built around it. We archons inherited this place along with the Mon Magisteria. While my predecessor was content with still waters, I have made modifications.”

As he spoke, the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the channel became louder and more irregular. Locke realized that the rushing, gurgling noise slowly rising around them was the sound of a current flowing through the river. The bow lantern’s reflected light bobbed and shifted as the water beneath it undulated like dark silk.

“Sorcery?” asked Locke.

“Artifice, Lamora.” The boat began to slide gently away from the side of the channel, and Stragos used the oar to align them in the center of the miniature river. “There’s a strong breeze blowing from the east tonight, and windmills at the far side of my garden. They can be used to drive waterwheels beneath the surface of the channel. In still air, forty or fifty men can crank the mechanisms by hand. I can call the current up as I see fit.”

“Any man can fart in a closed room and say that he commands the wind,” said Locke. “Though I will admit, this whole garden is … more elegant than I would have given you credit for.”

“How pleasant, to have your good opinion of my aesthetic sense.” Stragos steered them in silence for a few minutes after that, around a wide turn, past hanging banks of silver creeper and the rustle of leaves on low-hanging branches. The smell of the artificial river rose up around them as the current strengthened—not unpleasant, but more stale and less green, somehow, than the scent of natural ponds and rivers Locke recalled.

“I presume this river is a closed circuit,” said Jean.

“A meandering one, but yes.”

“Then, ah … forgive me, but where exactly are you taking us?”

“All in good time,” said Stragos.

“Speaking of where you’re taking us,” said Locke, “would you care to return to our earlier subject? One of your guards must have struck me on the head; I thought I heard you say that you wanted us to go to sea.”

“So I do. And so you shall.”

“To what possible end?”

“Are you familiar,” said Stragos, “with the story of the Free Armada of the Ghostwind Isles?”

“Vaguely,” said Locke.”

“The pirate uprising on the Sea of Brass,” mused Jean. “Six or seven years ago. It was put down.”

“I put it down,” said the archon. “Seven years ago, those damn fools down in the Ghostwinds got it into their heads to make a bid for power. Claimed to have the right to levy taxes on shipping on the Sea of Brass, if by taxes you mean boarding and plundering anything with a hull. They had a dozen fit vessels, and a dozen more-or-less fit crews.”

“Bonaire,” said Jean. “That was the captain they all followed, wasn’t it? Laurella Bonaire?”

“It was,” said Stragos. “Bonaire and her Basilisk; she was one of my officers, and that was one of my ships, before she turned her coat.”

“And you such a pleasant, unassuming fellow to work for,” said Locke.

“That squadron of brigands hit Nicora and Vel Virazzo and just about every little village on the nearby coast; they took ships in sight of this palace and hauled sail for the horizon when my galleys went out to meet them. It was the greatest aggravation this city had faced since the war against Camorr, in my predecessor’s time.”

“I don’t recall it lasting long,” said Jean.

“Half a year, perhaps. That declaration was their downfall; freebooters can run and skulk well enough, but when you make declarations you usually end up in battle to uphold them. Pirates are no match for real naval men and women when it’s line against line on the open sea. We hammered them just off Nicora, sank half their fleet, and sent the rest pissing their breeches all the way back to the Ghostwinds. Bonaire wound up in a crow’s cage dangling over the Midden Deep. After she watched all of her crew go in, I cut the rope that held her up myself.”

Locke and Jean said nothing. There was a faint watery creak as Stragos adjusted the course of their boat. Another bend in the artificial river was looming ahead.

“Now, that little demonstration,” the archon continued, “made piracy a fairly unpopular trade on the Sea of Brass. It’s been a good time for honest merchants since then; of course there are still pirates in the Ghostwinds, but they don’t come within three hundred miles of Tal Verrar, nor anywhere near Nicora or the coast. My navy hasn’t had anything more serious than customs incidents and plague ships to deal with for nigh on three or four years. A quiet time … a prosperous time.”

“Isn’t it your job to provide just that?” said Jean.

“You seem a well-read man, Tannen. Surely, your readings must have taught you that when men and women of arms have bled to secure a time of peace, the very people who most benefit from that peace are also the most likely to forget the bleeding.”

“The Priori,” said Locke. “That victory made them nervous, didn’t it? People like victories. That’s what makes generals popular … and dictators.”

“Astute, Lamora. Just as it was in the interests of the merchant councils to send me out to deliver them from piracy,” said Stragos, “it was in their interest to wring my navy dry soon afterward. Dividends of peace … they paid off half the ships, put them up in ordinary, loosed a few hundred trained sailors from the muster rolls, and let the merchants snap them up. The taxes of Tal Verrar paid to train them, and the Priori and their partners were happy to steal them. So it was, and so it is, with the Sea of Brass at peace, the Marrows squabbling, Lashain without a navy and Karthain far beyond the need to even consider one. This corner of the world is calm.”

“If you and the Priori are so very unhappy with one another, why don’t they just run you out of funds completely?” Locke settled back against his corner of the boat and let his left hand hang far over the gunwale, trailing in the warm water.

“I’m sure they would if they could,” said Stragos. “But the charter of the city guarantees me a certain minimal budget, from general revenues. Though every finnicker and comptroller in the city is one of theirs, and they contrive some damned elaborate lies to trim even that. My own ledger-folk have their hands full chasing after them. But it’s discretionary funds they won’t cut loose. In a time of need they could swell my forces with gold and supplies at a moment’s notice. In a time of peace, they begrudge me every last centira. They have forgotten why the archonate was instituted in the first place.”

“It does occur to me,” said Locke, “that your predecessor was supposed to sort of … dissolve the office when Camorr agreed to stop kicking your ass.”

“A standing force is the only professional force, Lamora. There must be a continuity of experience and training in the ranks; a worthwhile army or navy cannot simply be conjured out of nothing. Tal Verrar might not have the luxury of three or four years to build a defense when the next crisis comes along. And the Priori, the ones who prattle the loudest about ‘opposing dictatorship’ and ‘civic guarantees,’ would be the first to slip away like rats, loaded down with their fortunes, to take ship for whatever corner of the world would give them refuge. They would never stand or die with the city. And so the enmity between us is more than personal, for my part.”

“While I’ve known too many grand merchants to dispute your general idea of their character,” said Locke, “I’ve had a sudden sharp realization about where this conversation has been going.”

“As have I,” said Jean, clearing his throat. “Seems to me that with your power on the wane, this would be a terribly convenient time for new trouble to surface somewhere out on the Sea of Brass, wouldn’t it?”

“Very good,” said Stragos. “Seven years ago, the pirates of the Ghostwinds rose up and gave the people of Tal Verrar reason to be glad of the navy I command. It would be convenient if they might be convinced to trouble us once again … and be crushed once again.”

“Send us out to sea to find an excuse for you, that’s what you said,” said Locke. “Send us out to sea. Has your brain swelled against the inside of your skull? How the screaming fucking hell do you expect the two of us to raise a bloody pirate armada in a place we’ve never been and convince it to come merrily die at the hands of the navy that bent it over the table and fucked it in the ass last time?”

“You convinced the nobles of Camorr to throw away a fortune on your schemes,” said Stragos without a hint of anger. “They love their money. Yet you shook it out of them like ripe fruit from a tree. You outwitted a Bondsmage. You outwitted Capa Barsavi to his very face. You evaded the trap that caught your Capa Barsavi and his entire court.”

“Only some of us,” whispered Locke. “Only some of us got away, asshole.”

“I need more than agents. I need provocateurs. You two fell into my hands at an ideal time. Your task, your mission, will be to raise hell on the Sea of Brass. I want ships sacked from here to Nicora. I want the Priori pounding on my door, pleading with me to take more gold, more ships, more responsibility. I want commerce south of Tal Verrar to set full sail and run for port. I want underwriters soiling their breeches. I know I might not get all that, but by the gods, I’ll take whatever you can give me. Raise me a pirate scare the likes of which we haven’t had in years.”

“You are cracked,” said Jean.

“We can rob nobles. We can do second-story work. We can slide down chimneys and slip locks and rob coaches and break vaults and do a fine spread of card tricks,” said Locke. “I could cut your balls off, if you had any, and replace them with marbles, and you wouldn’t notice for a week. But I hate to tell you that the one class of criminal we really haven’t associated with, ever, is fucking pirates!”

“We’re at a bit of a loss when it comes to the particulars of making their acquaintance,” added Jean.

“In this, as in so much, I’m well ahead of you,” said Stragos. “You should have no trouble making the acquaintance of the Ghostwind pirates, because you yourselves will become perfectly respectable pirates. Captain and first mate of a pirate sloop, as a matter of fact.”

3

“YOU ARE beyond mad,” said Locke after several moments of silent, furious thought. “Full-on barking madness is a state of rational bliss to which you may not aspire. Men living in gutters and drinking their own piss would shun your company. You are a prancing lunatic.”

“That’s not the sort of thing I’d expect to hear from a man who genuinely wants his antidote.”

“Well, what a magnificent choice you’ve given us—death by slow poison or death by insane misadventure!”

“Come now,” said Stragos. “That’s also not the sort of thing I’d expect to hear from a man with your proven ability for slipping out of extremely complicated situations.”

“I’m getting a bit annoyed,” said Locke, “with those who praise our previous escapades as an excuse for forcing us into even riskier ones. Look, if you want us to run a job, give us one within our field of experience. Isn’t it broad enough for you? All we’re saying is that we don’t know the first bloody thing about wind, weather, ships, pirates, the Sea of Brass, the Ghostwind Isles, sails, ropes, er … weather, ships …”

“Our sole experience with ships,” said Jean, “consists of getting on, getting seasick, and getting off.”

“I’d thought of that,” said Stragos. “The captain of a criminal crew must have, above all other things, charisma. Leadership. A sense of decision.

Rogues must be ruled. I believe you can do that, Lamora … by faking it, if necessary. That makes you the best possible choice in some respects. You can fake confidence when a sincere man might be inclined to panic. And your friend Jean can enforce your leadership; a good infighter is someone to be respected on a ship.”

“Sure, great,” said Locke. “I’m charming; Jean’s tough. That just leaves all the other things I named—”

“As for the nautical arts, I will provide you with an experienced sailing master. A man who can train you in the essentials and make the proper decisions for you once you’re at sea, all the while pretending the orders come from you. Don’t you see? All I’m doing is asking you to play a role; he’ll provide the knowledge to make that role convincing.”

“Sweet Venaportha,” said Locke. “You really intend for us to go out there, and you genuinely wish us to succeed?”

“Absolutely,” said Stragos.

“And the poison,” said Jean, “you’ll just put enough antidote in our hands to allow us to roam the Sea of Brass, as we will?”

“Hardly. You’ll need to call at Tal Verrar once every two months. My alchemist tells me that sixty-two to sixty-five days is really as far as you should push it.”

“Now, wait just a damn minute,” said Locke. “It’s not enough that we’ll be clueless sailors masquerading as hardened pirates, trusting another man to make us look competent. Or that we’re going to be out risking gods know what at sea, with our plans for Requin postponed. Now you expect us to be tied to Mother’s apron strings every two months?”

“It’s two or three weeks to the Ghostwinds, and the same time back. You’ll have ample time to do your business each trip, for however many months it takes. How closely you wish to shave your schedule is, of course, your own concern. Surely you see that it has to be this way.”

“No,” Locke laughed, “frankly, I don’t!”

“I’ll want progress reports. I may have new orders and information for you. You may have new requests or suggestions. It makes a great deal of sense to stay in regular contact.”

“And what if we chance across one of those patches of … damn, Jean, what are they called? No wind whatsoever?”

“Doldrums,” said Jean.

“Exactly,” said Locke. “Even we know that you can’t presume a constant speed with wind and sails; you get what the gods send you. We could be stuck on a flat ocean fifty miles from Tal Verrar, on day sixty-three, dying for no reason at all.”

“Remotely possible, but unlikely. I’m well aware that there’s a great element of risk in the task I’m handing you; the possibility of a vast return compels me to play the odds. Now … speak no more of this for the time being. Here’s what I’ve brought you out to see.”

There was a golden ripple on the black water ahead, and faint golden lines that seemed to sway in the air above it. As they drew closer, Locke saw that a wide, dark shape covered the artificial river completely, from one bank to the other. A building of some sort … and the golden lines appeared to be cracks in curtains that hung down to the water. The boat reached this barrier and pushed through with little trouble; Locke shoved heavy damp canvas away from his face, and as it fell aside the boat burst into broad daylight.

They were inside a walled and roofed garden, at least forty feet high, filled with willow, witchwood, olive, citrus, and amberthorn trees. Black, brown, and gray trunks stood in ranks beside one another, their vinetangled branches reaching up in vast constellations of bright leaves that entwined above the river like a roof beneath the roof.

As for the roof itself, it was scintillant, sky blue and bright as noon, with wisps of white clouds drifting past half-visible between the branches. The sun burned painfully bright on Locke’s right as he turned around to stare straight ahead, and it sent rays of golden light down through the silhouetted leaves … though surely it was still the middle of the night outside.

“This is alchemy, or sorcery, or both,” said Jean.

“Some alchemy,” said Stragos in a soft, enthusiastic voice. “The ceiling is glass, the clouds are smoke, the sun is a burning vessel of alchemical oils and mirrors.”

“Bright enough to keep this forest alive under a roof? Damn,” said Locke.

“It may indeed be bright enough, Lamora,” said the archon, “but if you’ll look closely, you’ll see that nothing under this roof besides ourselves is alive.”

As Locke and Jean glanced around in disbelief, Stragos steered the boat up against one of the garden’s riverbanks. The waterway narrowed here to a mere ten feet, to allow room for the trees and vines and bushes on either side. Stragos reached out to grasp a trunk and halt the boat, and he pointed into the air as he spoke.

“A clockwork garden for my clockwork river. There’s not a real plant in here. It’s wood and clay and wire and silk; paint and dye and alchemy. All of it engineered to my design; it took the artificers and their assistants six years to construct it all. My little glen of mechanisms.”

Incredulously, Locke realized that the archon was telling the truth. Other than the movement of white smoke clouds far overhead, the place was unnaturally still, almost eerie. And the air in the enclosed garden was inert, smelling of stale water and canvas. It should have been bursting with forest scents, with the rich odors of dirt and flowering and decay.

“Do I still strike you as a man farting in an enclosed room, Lamora? In here, I do command the wind.…”

Stragos raised his right arm high above his head, and a rustling noise filled the artificial garden. A current of air plucked at Locke’s scalp, and steadily rose until there was a firm breeze against his face. The leaves and branches around them swayed gently.

“And the rain,” cried Stragos. His voice echoed off the water and was lost in the depths of the suddenly lively forest. A moment later a faint warm mist began to descend, a ticklish haze of water that swirled in ghostly curves throughout the imaginary greenery and enveloped their boat. Then drops began to fall with a soft pitter-patter, rippling the surface of the clockwork river. Locke and Jean huddled beneath their coats as Stragos laughed.

“I can do more,” said Stragos. “Perhaps I can even call up a storm!” A stronger breath of air began to beat the rain and mist against them; the little river churned as a countercurrent surged from somewhere ahead of them. Little whitecaps burst beneath the boat as though the water were boiling; Stragos clung to his chosen tree trunk with both hands as the boat rocked nauseatingly. The raindrops grew heavier and harder; Locke had to shield his eyes to see. Clouds of thick dark mist boiled overhead, dimming the artificial sun. The forest had come to life, flailing at the misty air with branches and leaves as though the faux greenery was at war with unseen ghosts.

“But only after a fashion,” said Stragos, and without any apparent further signals from him the rain faded away. Gradually, the flailing of the forest died down to a soft rustling, and then to stillness; the surging currents of the river beneath them subsided, and in minutes the mechanical garden was restored to relative peace. Fingers of fading mist swirled around the trees, the sun peeked out from behind the thinning “clouds,” and the enclosure echoed with the not-unpleasant sound of water dripping from a thousand branches and fronds and trunks.

Locke shook himself and pushed his wet hair back out of his eyes. “It’s … it’s gods-damned singular, Archon. I’ll give it that. I’ve never even imagined anything like this.”

“A bottled garden with bottled weather,” mused Jean.

“Why?” Locke asked the question for both of them.

“As a reminder.” Stragos released his hold on the tree trunk and let the boat drift gently into the middle of the stream once again. “Of what the hands and minds of human beings can achieve. Of what this city, alone in all the world, is capable of producing. I told you my Mon Magisteria was a repository of artificial things. Think of them as the fruits of order … order I must secure and safeguard.”

“How the hell does interfering with Tal Verrar’s ocean commerce secure and safeguard order?”

“Short-term sacrifice for long-term gain. There is something latent in this city that will flower, Lamora. Something that will bloom. Can you imagine the wonders the Therin Throne might have produced, given centuries of peace, had it not been shattered into all our warring, scrabbling city-states? Something is preparing to emerge out of all our misfortune at last, and it will be here. The alchemists and artificers of Tal Verrar are peerless, and the scholars of the Therin Collegium are just a few days away.… It must be here!”

“Maxilan, darling.” Locke raised one eyebrow and smiled. “I knew you were driven, but I had no idea you could smolder. Come, take me now! Jean won’t mind; he’ll avert his eyes like a gentleman.”

“Mock me as you will, Lamora, but hear the words I speak. Comprehend, damn you. What you just witnessed,” said Stragos, “required sixty men and women to achieve. Spotters watching for my signals. Alchemists to tend the smoke-pots, and hidden crews to work the bellows and fans that produce the wind. There were several dozen merely pulling strings, as it were; the branches of my artificial trees are threaded with metal wire, like puppets, so that they may shake more convincingly. A small army of trained workers, straining to produce a five-minute spectacle for three men in a boat. And even that was not possible with the art and artifice of previous centuries.

“What more might we achieve, given time? What if thirty people could produce the same result? Or ten? Or one? What if better devices could give stronger winds, more driving rain, a harder current? What if our mechanisms of control grew so subtle and so powerful that they ceased to be a spectacle at all? What if we could harness them to change anything, control anything, even ourselves? Our bodies? Our souls? We cower in the ruins of the Eldren world, and cower in the shadow of the Magi of Karthain. But common men and women could equal their power. Given centuries, given the good grace of the gods, common men and women could eclipse their power.”

“And all of these grandiose notions,” said Jean, “somehow require the two of us to go out and pretend to be pirates on your behalf?”

“Tal Verrar will never be strong so long as its fate is vouchsafed by those who would squeeze gold from it like milk from a cow, then flee for the horizons at the first sign of danger. I need more power, and to speak plainly, I must seize or trick it out of my enemies, with the will of the people behind me. Your mission, if successful, would turn a key in the lock of a door that bars the way to greater things.” Stragos chuckled and spread his hands. “You are thieves. I am offering you a chance to help steal history itself.”

“Which is of little comfort,” said Locke, “compared to money in a countinghouse and a roof over one’s head.”

“You hate the magi of Karthain,” said Stragos flatly.

“I suppose I do,” said Locke.

“The last emperor of the Therin Throne tried to fight them with magic; sorcery against sorcery. He died for his failure. Karthain can never be conquered by the arts it commands; they have ensured that no power in our world will ever have sorcerers numerous or powerful enough to match them. They must be fought with this.” He set down his oar and spread his hands. “Machines. Artifice. Alchemy and engineering—the fruits of the mind.”

“All of this,” said Locke, “this whole ridiculous scheme … a more powerful Tal Verrar, conquering this corner of the world … all to hurt Karthain? I can’t say I find the idea unpleasant, but why? What did they do to you, to make you imagine this?”

“Do either of you know,” said Stragos, “of the ancient art of illusionism? Have you ever read about it in books of history?”

“A little,” said Locke. “Not very much.”

“Once upon a time the performance of illusions—imaginary magic, not real sorcery at all, just clever tricks—was widespread, popular, and lucrative. Commoners paid to see it on street corners; nobles of the Therin Throne paid to see it in their courts. But that culture is dead. The art no longer exists, except as trifles for cardsharps. The Bondsmagi haunt our city-states like wolves, ready to crush the slightest hint of competition. No sensible person would ever stand up in public and declare themselves to be capable of magic. Fear killed the entire tradition, hundreds of years ago.

“The Bondsmagi distort our world with their very presence. They rule us in many ways that have nothing to do with politics; the fact that we can hire them to do our bidding is immaterial. That little guild looms over everything we plan, everything we dream. Fear of the magi poisons our people to the very marrow of their ambitions. It prevents them from imagining a larger destiny … from the hope of reforging the empire we once had. I know that you consider what I’ve done to you unforgivable. But believe it or not, I admire you for standing up to the Bondsmagi. They turned you over to me as a means of punishment. Instead, I ask you to help me strike at them.”

“Grand abstracts,” said Jean. “You make it sound like this is some sort of incredible privilege for us, being pressed into service without our consent.”

“I don’t need an excuse to hate the Bondsmagi,” said Locke. “Not to hate them, nor to fight them. I’ve taunted them to their faces, more or less. Jean and I both. But you have to be some kind of madman, to think they’ll ever let you build anything openly powerful enough to knock them down.”

“I don’t expect to live to see it,” said Stragos. “I only expect to plant the seed. Look at the world around you, Lamora. Examine the clues they’ve given us. Alchemy is revered in every corner of our world, is it not? It lights our rooms, salves our injuries, preserves our food … enhances our cider.” He favored Locke and Jean with a self-satisfied smile. “Alchemy is a low-grade form of magic, but the Bondsmagi have never once tried to curtail or control it.”

“Because they just don’t give a damn,” said Locke.

“Wrong,” said Stragos. “Because it’s so necessary to so many things. It would be like trying to deny us the right to water, or fire. It would push us too far. No matter the cost, no matter the carnage, it would force us to fight back against them for the sake of our very existence. And they know it. Their power has limits. Someday, we’ll surpass those limits, if we’re only given a chance.”

“That’s a fine bedtime story,” said Locke. “If you wrote a book on that subject, I’d pay for ten copies to be scribed. But here and now, you’re interfering with our lives. You’re tearing us away from something we’ve worked long and hard to achieve.”

“I am prepared to expand on my earlier terms,” said Stragos, “and offer a financial reward for the successful completion of your task.”

“How much?” said Locke and Jean simultaneously.

“No promises,” said Stragos. “Your reward will be proportional to your achievement. I shall make you as happy as you make me. Is that understood?”

Locke stared at Stragos for several seconds, scratching his neck. Stragos was using a confidence trick—an appeal to high ideals, followed by an appeal to greed. And this was a classic fuck-the-agent situation; Stragos had no compulsion whatsoever to follow through on his promise, and nothing to lose by making it, and no reason at all to let him and Jean live once their task was finished. He made eye contact with Jean and stroked his chin several times, a simple hand signal:

Lying. Jean sighed, and tapped his fingers a few times against the gunwale on his side of the boat. He seemed to share Locke’s thought that elaborate signals would best be avoided with Stragos just a few feet away. His answer was equally simple:

Agreed.

“That’s good news,” said Locke, conjuring a note of guarded optimism in his voice. The knowledge that he and Jean were of one mind always gave him renewed energy for false-facing. “A pile of solari when this is all over would go a long way toward mitigating our distaste for the circumstances of our employment.”

“Good. My sole concern is that the mission may benefit from more enthusiasm on your part.”

“This mission, to be frank, is going to need all the help it can get.”

“Don’t dwell on the matter, Lamora. And look out behind—we’re coming to the far side of my little glen.”

The boat was sliding toward another curtain-barrier of hanging canvas; by Locke’s casual estimate, the entire artificial garden enclosure must have been about eighty yards long.

“Say farewell to the sun,” said the archon, and then they were slipping through the canvas, back out into the muggy black-and-silver night, with its flitting lantern-flies and genuine forest perfume. A guard dog barked nearby, growled, and went silent in response to a hushed command. Locke rubbed his eyes as they slowly adjusted once again to the darkness.

“You’ll begin training this week,” said Stragos.

“What do you mean, training? There’s a pile of questions you haven’t answered,” said Locke. “Where’s our ship? Where’s our crew? How do we make ourselves known as pirates? There’s a thousand damn details to go over.…”

“All in good time,” said Stragos. His voice had an air of unmistakable satisfaction now that Locke was speaking constructively of carrying out his plan. “I’m told you two frequently take meals at the Gilded Cloister. Spend a few days returning to a schedule of rising with the sun. On Throne’s Day, have breakfast at the Cloister. Wait for Merrain to find you. She’ll see you to your destination with her usual discretion, and you’ll begin your lessons. They’ll take up most of your days, so don’t make any plans.”

“Damn it,” said Jean, “why not let us finish our affair with Requin? It won’t take more than a few weeks. Then we can do whatever you like, without distraction.”

“I’ve thought about it,” said Stragos, “but no. Postpone it. I want you to have something to look forward to after you complete my mission. And I don’t have a few weeks to wait. I need you at sea in a month. Six weeks at the very latest.”

“A month to go from gratefully ignorant landlubbers to fucking professional pirates?” said Jean. “Gods.”

“It will be a busy month,” said Stragos.

Locke groaned.

“Are you up for the task? Or shall I simply deny you your antidote and give you a prison cell from which to observe the results?”

“Just see to it that that fucking antidote is ready and waiting each time we come back,” said Locke. “And give a serious ponder to just how much money would best send us away happy when this affair is concluded. I’m guessing that you’re likely to be the underestimating type in that regard, so I’d think big.”

“Rewards proportional to results, Lamora. That and your lives. When the red flag is seen again in my city’s waters, and the Priori are begging me to save them, you may turn your thoughts to the matter of reward. Then and no sooner. Understood?”

Lying, Locke signaled to Jean, sure it was unnecessary but equally sure Jean would appreciate a bit of cheek. “Your will then, I suppose. If the gods are kind we’ll poke a stick into whatever hornets’ nest is left to be stirred up down in the Ghostwinds. After all, we have no choice, do we?”

“As it should be,” said Stragos.

“You know, Locke,” said Jean in a lightly conversational tone of voice, “I like to imagine that there are thieves out there who only ever get caught up in perfectly ordinary, uncomplicated escapades. We should consider finding some and asking them what their secret is, one of these days.”

“It’s probably as simple as staying the hell away from assholes like this,” said Locke, gesturing at the archon.

4

A SQUAD of Eyes was waiting beside the boathouse when the little craft completed its circuit of the artificial river.

“Here,” said Stragos after one of his soldiers took the oar from him. He removed two glass vials from his pockets and held one out to each Camorri thief. “Your first stay of execution. The poison’s had time to work its way into you. I don’t want to have to worry about you for the next few weeks.”

Locke and Jean complied, each gagging as they drank. “Tastes like chalk,” said Locke, wiping his mouth.

“If only it were that inexpensive,” said the archon. “Now give the vials back. Caps, too.”

Locke sighed. “I suppose it was too much to hope you’d forget that part.”

The two thieves were being hauled back toward the Mon Magisteria as Stragos lashed the boat to the piling once again.

Stragos stood up, stretched, and felt the old familiar creaks, the twinges in his hips and knees and wrists. Damn rheumatism … by rights he was still outrunning his age, still ahead of most men nearing threescore years, but he knew deep in his heart that there would never be any way of running fast enough. Sooner or later, the Lady of the Long Silence would call a dance for Maxilan Stragos, whether or not his work here was done.

Merrain was waiting in the shadows of the unlit side of the boathouse, still and quiet as a hunting spider until she stepped out beside him. Long practice enabled him to avoid flinching.

“My thanks for saving those two, Merrain. You’ve been very useful to me, these past few weeks.”

“Just as I was instructed to be,” she said. “But are you sure they really suit the needs of this plan of yours?”

“They’re at every disadvantage in this city, my dear.” Stragos squinted at the blurry forms of Locke, Jean, and their escorts as they disappeared into the garden. “The Bondsmagi sewed them up for us, and we have them second-guessing their every step. I don’t believe those two are used to being controlled. Out on their own, I know they’ll perform as required.”

“Your reports give you that much confidence?”

“Not merely my reports,” said Stragos. “Requin certainly hasn’t killed them yet, has he?”

“I suppose not.”

“They’ll serve,” said Stragos. “I know their hearts. As the days go by, the resentment will fade and the novelty will gain on them. They’ll be enjoying themselves soon enough. And when they start to enjoy themselves … I honestly think they can do it. If they live. It’s for damn sure I’ve no other agents suitable to the task.”

“Then I may report to my masters that the plan is under way?”

“Yes, I suppose this commits us. You may do just that.” Stragos eyed the shadowed shape of the slender woman beside him and sighed. “Let them know that everything begins in a month or so. I hope for their sake they’re ready for the consequences.”

“Nobody’s ready for the consequences,” said Merrain. “It’s going to mean more blood than anyone’s seen in two hundred years. All we can do is hope that by setting things off we can ensure that others reap most of the trouble. By your leave, Archon, I’d like to go compose my messages to them now.”

“Of course,” said Stragos. “Send my regards along with your report, and my prayers that we might continue to prosper … together.”

LAST REMINISCENCE

By Their Own Rope

1

“Oh, this is a wonderful spot to fling ourselves to our deaths from,” said Locke.

Six months had passed since his return from Salon Corbeau; the suite of four exquisitely crafted chairs was safely locked away in a private storage room at the Villa Candessa. Tal Verrar’s version of late winter held the region in the grip of temperatures so brisk that folk had to engage in actual labor to break a sweat.

About an hour’s hard ride north of Tal Verrar, just past the village of Vo Sarmara and its surrounding fields, a scrubby forest of gnarled witchwood and amberthorn trees rose beside a wide, rocky vale. The walls of this vale were the grayish color of corpse-flesh, giving the place the look of a giant wound in the earth. The thin olive-colored grass abandoned the struggle for life about ten feet from the edge of the cliffs above this vale, where Locke and Jean stood contemplating the sheer hundred-foot drop to the gravel floor far below.

“I suppose we should’ve kept more in practice with this,” said Jean, starting to shrug his way out of the half dozen coils of rope draped from his right shoulder to his left hip. “But then, I don’t recall many opportunities to put it to use in the past few years.”

“Most places in Camorr, we could just hand-over-hand it, up and down,” said Locke. “I don’t think you were even with us that night we used ropes, to get up Lady de Marre’s tower at that horrible old estate of hers.…

Calo and Galdo and I nearly got pecked to bloody shreds by pigeons working that one. Must’ve been five, six years ago.”

“Oh, I was with you, remember? On the ground, keeping watch. I saw the bit with the pigeons. Hard to play sentry when you’re pissing yourself laughing.”

“Wasn’t funny at all from up top. Beaky little bastards were vicious!”

“The Death of a Thousand Pecks,” said Jean. “You would have been legends, dying so gruesomely. I’d have written a book on the man-eating pigeons of Camorr and joined the Therin Collegium. Gone respectable. Bug and I would’ve built a memorial statue to the Sanzas, with a nice plaque.”

“What about me?”

“Footnote on the plaque. Space permitting.”

“Hand over some rope or I’ll show you the edge of the cliff, space permitting.”

Jean tossed a coil to Locke, who plucked it out of the air and walked back toward the edge of the forest, about thirty feet from the cliff. The rope was tightly woven demi-silk, much lighter than hemp and much more expensive. At the rim of the forest, Locke selected a tall old witchwood, about as broad around as Jean’s shoulders. He pulled a goodly length of his line free, passed it around the tree trunk, and stared at the slightly frayed end for a few seconds, trying to rekindle his memories of knot-tying.

As his fingers slipped into hesitant motion, he took a quick glance around at the melancholy state of the world. A stiff wind was blowing from the northwest, and the sky was one vast cataract of wet-looking haze. Their hired carriage was parked at the far end of the woods, perhaps three hundred yards away. He and Jean had set the driver up with a clay jug of beer and a splendid basket lunch from the Villa Candessa, promising to be gone for a few hours at most.

“Jean,” muttered Locke as the bigger man stepped up beside him, “this is a proper anchor-noose, right?”

“Certainly looks like it.” Jean hefted the elaborate knot that secured the rope in a bight around the tree and nodded. He took the working end of the rope and added an additional half-hitch for safety. “There. Just right.”

He and Locke worked together for a few minutes, repeating the anchor-noose knot with three further lengths of rope, until the old witchwood tree seemed thoroughly decorated with taut demi-silk. Their spare coils of rope were set aside. The two men then slipped out of their long frock coats and their vests, revealing heavy leather belts studded with iron rings at their waists.

The belts weren’t quite like the custom climbing harnesses treasured by the more responsible burglars of Camorr; these were actually nautical in origin, used by those happy sailors whose ship owners cared enough to spend a bit of money to preserve their health. The belts had been available on the cheap, and had spared Locke and Jean the need to suss out a contact in Tal Verrar’s underworld who could make a pair to order … but remember the transaction. There were a few things Requin would be better off not knowing until the chance came to finally spring the game on him.

“Right, then. Here’s your descender.” Jean passed Locke a fairly heavy bit of iron, a figure eight with one side larger than the other, with a thick bar right down the middle. He also kept one for himself; he’d had them knocked up by a blacksmith in Tal Verrar’s Istrian Crescent a few weeks earlier. “Let’s get you rigged up first. Main line, then belay.”

Locke clipped his descender into one of his harness rings and threaded it through with one of the demi-silk lines leading back to the tree. The other end of this line was left free and tossed toward the cliff. A second line was lashed tight to a harness ring above Locke’s opposite hip. Many Camorri thieves on working jobs “danced naked,” without the added safety of a belay line in case their primary rope broke, but for today’s practice session Locke and Jean were in firm agreement that they were going to play it safe and boring.

It took a few minutes to rig Jean up in a similar fashion; soon enough they were each attached to the tree by two lines, like a pair of human puppets. The two thieves wore little save their tunics, breeches, field boots, and leather gloves, though Jean did pause to slip his reading optics on.

“Now then,” he said. “Seems a fine day for abseiling. Care to do the honors before we kiss solid earth farewell?”

“Crooked Warden,” said Locke, “men are stupid. Protect us from ourselves. If you can’t, let it be quick and painless.”

“Well said.” Jean took a deep breath. “Crazy part on three?”

“On three.”

Each of them took up their coiled main line and tossed the free end over the cliff; the two ropes went over and uncoiled with a soft hiss.

“One,” said Locke.

“Two,” said Jean.

“Three,” they said together. Then they ran for the cliff and threw themselves off, whooping as they went.

For one brief moment Locke’s stomach and the misty gray sky seemed to be turning a somersault in unison. Then his line was taut and the cliff face was rushing toward him just a little too eagerly for his taste. Like a human pendulum, he swung in, raised his legs, and hit the rock wall about eight feet beneath the rim, keeping his knees bent to absorb the shock of impact. That much, at least, he remembered very well. Jean hit with a heavier whoomp about two feet below him.

“Heh,” said Locke, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, loud enough to match the whisper of the wind. “There’s got to be an easier way to test whether or not we have an honest rope-weaver, Jean.”

“Whew!” Jean shifted his feet slightly, keeping a hold on his line with both hands. The use of the descenders made it easy for them to apply enough friction to the rope to slow or stop at will. The little devices were a marked improvement on what they’d been taught as boys. While they could still no doubt slide down a rope using their own bodies for friction, as they once had, it was easy to abrade a certain protruding portion of the male anatomy with that approach if one was careless or unlucky.

For a few moments they simply hung there, feet against the cliffside, enjoying their new vantage point as the vaporous clouds rolled by overhead. The ropes waving in the air beneath them only hung down about half the distance to the ground, but they didn’t intend to get there today anyway. There would be plenty of time to work up to longer drops, in future practice sessions.

“You know,” said Locke, “this is the only part of the plan, I must admit, that I wasn’t terribly sure of. It’s so much easier to contemplate abseiling from a height like this than it is to actually run off a cliff with just two lengths of rope between you and Aza Guilla.”

“Ropes and cliffs are no problem,” said Jean. “What we need to watch out for up here are your carnivorous pigeons.”

“Oh, bend over and bite your own ass.”

“I’m serious. I’m terrified. I’ll keep a sharp lookout, lest the last thing we feel in this life should be that terrible swift pecking—”

“Jean, your belay line must be weighing you down. Here, let me cut it for you.…”

They kicked and shoved good-naturedly against one another for a few minutes, Locke scrambling around and trying to use his agility to balance out Jean’s far greater strength and mass. Strength and mass seemed to be winning the day, however, so in a fit of self-preservation he suggested they actually practice descending.

“Sure,” said Jean, “let’s go down five or six feet, nice and smooth, and stop on my mark, shall we?”

Each of them gripped his taut main line and released a bit of tension on his descender. Slowly, smoothly, they slipped down a good two yards, and Jean cried, “Hold!”

“Not bad,” said Locke. “The knack seems to come back quick, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose. I was never really keen on this after I got back from my little holiday at Revelation House. This was more your thing, and the Sanzas’, than mine. And, ah, Sabetha’s, of course.”

“Yeah,” said Locke, wistfully. “Yeah, she was so mad … so mad and so lovely. I used to love watching her climb. She didn’t like ropes. She’d … take her boots off, and let her hair out, and wouldn’t even wear gloves, sometimes. Just her breeches and her blouse … and I would just …”

“Sit there hypnotized,” said Jean. “Struck dumb. Hey, my eyes worked back then too, Locke.”

“Heh. I suppose it must have been obvious. Gods.” Locke stared at Jean and laughed nervously. “Gods, I’m actually bringing her up myself. I don’t believe it.” His expression turned shrewd. “Are we all right with each other, Jean? Back to being comfortable, I mean?”

“Hell, we’re hanging together eighty feet above a messy death, aren’t we? I don’t do that with people I don’t like.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And yeah, I’d say we’re—”

“Gentlemen! Hello down there!”

The voice was Verrari, with a rough rustic edge. Locke and Jean glanced up in surprise and saw a man standing at the edge of the cliff, arms akimbo, silhouetted against the churning sky. He wore a threadbare cloak with the hood thrown up.

“Er, hello up there,” said Locke.

“Fine day for a bit of sport, ain’t it?”

“That’s exactly what we thought,” cried Jean.

“A fine day indeed, beggin’ your pardons, sirs. And a fine set o’ coats and vests you’ve gone and left up here. I like them very much, exceptin’ that there ain’t no purses in the pockets.”

“Of course not, we’re not stu—Hey, come on now. Kindly don’t mess with our things,” said Jean. As if by some unspoken signal, he and Locke reached out to brace themselves against the cliff, finding hand- and footholds as quickly as they could.

“Why not? They’re such fine things, sirs, I just can’t help but feel sort of drawn to them, like.”

“If you’ll just wait right there,” said Locke, preparing to begin climbing, “one of us should be up in a few minutes, and I’m sure we can discuss this civilly.”

“I’m also sort of drawn to the idea of keepin’ you two down there, if it’s all the same to you, gents.” The man moved slightly, and a hatchet appeared in his right hand. “It’s a mighty fine pair of choppers you’ve left up here with your coats, too. Damned fine. Ain’t never seen the like.”

“That’s very polite of you to say,” yelled Locke.

“Oh, sweet jumping fuck,” muttered Jean.

“I might point out, however,” continued Locke, “that our man at the carriage is due to check on us soon, and he’ll have his crossbow with him.”

“Oh, you mean the unconscious fellow I like jacked over the head with a rock, sir? Sorry to report that he was drunk.”

“I don’t believe you. We didn’t give him that much beer!”

“Beggin’ pardon, but he weren’t all that much man, gents. Skinny fellow, if you savvy. As it is, he’s sleepin’ now. And he didn’t have no crossbow anyway. I checked.”

“Well, I hope you don’t blame us for trying,” said Locke.

“I don’t, not one little bit. Good try. Very creditable, like. But I’m sort of interested, if you don’t mind, in the wheres-abouts of your purses.”

“Safely down here with us,” said Locke. “We might be convinced to surrender them, but you’ll have to help haul us up if you want them.”

“Now on that subject,” said the stranger, “you an’ I have a sort of difference in outlook, like. Since I know you’ve got ’em, now, I think it’s easier to just chop you down and collect ’em at my ease.”

“Unless you’re a much better rock climber than you look,” said Jean, “it’s one hell of a climb down and back for the sake of our little purses!”

“And they are little,” said Locke. “Our rock-climbing purses. Specially made not to weigh us down. Hardly hold anything!”

“I think we probably got different ideas of what anythin’ is. And I wouldn’t have to climb,” said the stranger. “There’s easier ways down to that valley floor, if you know where to go.”

“Ah, don’t be foolish,” said Jean. “These ropes are demi-silk. It’ll take you some time to cut through them. Longer than it will take for us to climb back up, surely.”

“Probably,” said the man in the cloak. “But I’m still up here if you do, ain’t I? I can just crack you over the edge and make your skulls into soup bowls, like. See if I don’t!”

“But if we stay down here, we’ll die anyway, so we might as well come up and die fighting,” said Locke.

“Well, have it your way, sir. Whole conversation’s gettin’ sort of circular, if you don’t mind me sayin’, so I’m just gonna start cuttin’ rope now. Me, I’d stay put and go quiet, was I you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a miserable cur,” shouted Locke. “Any child of three could murder helpless men hanging over a cliff. Time was when a bandit would have the balls to fight us face-to-face and earn his pay!”

“What do I rightly look like, sir, an honest tradesman? Guild tats on my arms?” He knelt down and began to chop at something, steadily, with Jean’s hatchet. “Splattin’ you against those rocks below seems a fine way of earnin’ my pay. Even finer, if you’re gonna speak so unkind.”

“You’re a wretch,” cried Locke. “A cringing dog, a scrub, damned not just for avarice but for cowardice! The gods spit on those without honor, you know! It’ll be a cold hell, and a dark one, for you!”

“I’m chock-full of honor, sir. Got lots of it. Keep it right here between my empty stomach and my puckered white ass, which you may kiss, by the way.”

“Fine, fine,” said Locke. “I merely wanted to see if you could be goaded to misjudgment. I applaud your restraint! But surely, there’s more profit to be had in hoisting us up and holding us for ransom!”

“We’re important people,” said Jean.

“With rich, important friends. Why not just hold us prisoner and send a letter with a ransom demand?”

“Well,” said the man, “for one thing, I can’t read nor write.”

“We’d be happy to write the demand for you!”

“Can’t rightly see how that’d work. You could just write anythin’ you like, couldn’t you? Ask for constables and soldiers instead of gold, if you take my meanin’. I said I can’t read, not that I got worm piss for brains.”

“Whoa! Hold it! Stop cutting!” Jean heaved himself up another foot and braced his rope within the descender to hold him. “Stop cutting! I have a serious question!”

“What’s that, then?”

“Where the hell did you come from?”

“Roundabouts, here and there, by way of my mother’s womb, original like,” said the man, who continued chopping.

“No, I mean, do you always watch these cliffs for climbers? Seems bloody unlikely they’d be common enough to skulk in ambush for.”

“Oh, they isn’t, sir. Ain’t never seen any, before you two. Was so curious I just had to come down and take a peek, and ain’t I glad I did.” Chop, chop, chop. “No, mostly I hide in the woods, sometimes the hills. Watch the roads.”

“All by yourself?”

“I’d be cuttin’ you down faster if I wasn’t by myself, wouldn’t I?”

“So you watch the roads. Looking to rob what, carriages?”

“Mostly.”

“You have a bow or a crossbow?”

“Sadly, no. Think maybe I might buy a piece if I can get enough for your things.”

“You hide in the woods, all by yourself, and try to ambush carriages without a real weapon?”

“Well,” said the man a bit hesitantly, “has been a while since I got one. But today’s my lucky day, ain’t it?”

“I should say so. Crooked Warden, you must be the worst highwayman under the sun.”

“What did you say?”

“He said,” said Locke, “that in his highly educated opinion you’re the—”

“No, the other part.”

“He mentioned the Crooked Warden,” said Locke. “Does that mean something to you? We’re members of the same fraternity, friend! The Benefactor, the Thiefwatcher, the Nameless Thirteenth, patron of you and I and all who take the twisty path through life. We’re actually consecrated servants of the Crooked Warden! There’s no need for animosity, and no need for you to cut us down!”

“Oh yes there is,” said the man vehemently, “now I’m definitely cuttin’ you down.”

“What? Why?”

“Bloody fuckin’ heretics, you are! There ain’t no Thirteenth! Ain’t naught but the Twelve, that’s truth! Yeah, I been to Verrar a couple times, met up with lads and lasses from the cuttin’ crews what tried to tell me ’bout this Thirteenth. I don’t hold with it. Ain’t right like I was raised. So down you go, boys!” The man began hacking at the demi-silk ropes with a vengeance.

“Shit. Want to try and snag him in the belay lines?” Jean swung over beside Locke and spoke with soft urgency. Locke nodded. The two thieves took hold of their ends of their belay lines, stared upward, and at Jean’s whispered signal, yanked them downward.

It was hardly an efficient trap; the lines were slack, and coiled up above the cliffs. Their tormentor looked down at his feet, hopped up, and stepped away as seven or eight feet of each belay line slipped over the cliff’s edge.

“Ha! You’ll have to get up earlier than that, gents, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so!” Whistling tunelessly, he vanished out of sight and continued chopping. A moment later he gave a cry of triumph, and Locke’s coiled belay line flew over the edge of the cliff. Locke averted his face as the rope fell just past him; it was soon dangling in thin air from his waistbelt, its frayed far end still too many feet above the ground for safety.

“Shit,” said Locke. “Right, Jean. Here’s what we do. He should cut my main line next. Let’s hook arms. I’ll slide down your main line, knot what’s left of mine to the bottom, and that should probably get us within twenty feet or so of the ground. If I haul up my belay line and knot that on the end of the other two, we can make it all the way down.”

“Depends on how quickly that asshole cuts. You think you can tie knots fast enough?”

“I think I’ve got no choice. My hands feel up to the task, at least. Even if I just get one line lashed, twenty feet’s a happier fall than eighty.”

At that moment, there was a faint rumble of thunder overhead. Locke and Jean looked up at just the right moment to feel the first few drops of rain on their faces.

“It’s possible,” said Locke, “that this would be really fucking amusing right now, were it anyone but us down on these ropes.”

“At the moment, I think I’d take my chances with your pigeons if I could,” said Jean. “Damn, I’m sorry for leaving the Wicked Sisters up there, Locke.”

“Why in Venaportha’s name would you have brought them down? There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“Although,” said Jean, “maybe there is one other thing I could try. You carrying sleeve steel?”

“Yeah, but it’s in my boot.” The rain was beating down fairly hard now, soaking through their tunics and wetting their lines. Their light dress and the stiff breeze made it seem colder than it really was. “Yourself?”

“Got mine right here.” Locke saw a flash of bright metal in Jean’s right hand. “Yours balanced for throwing, Locke?”

“Shit, no. Sorry.”

“No worries. Hold it in reserve, then. And give us a good silent prayer.” Jean paused to pluck off his optics and tuck them into his tunic collar, then raised his voice. “Hey! Sheep-lover! A word if you please!”

“I sort of thought we was done talkin’,” came the man’s voice from above the cliff’s edge.

“No doubt! I’ll wager using so many words in so short a time makes your brain feel like a squeezed lemon, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t have the wit to find the fucking ground if I threw you out of a bloody window! Are you listening? You’d have to take your shoes and breeches off to count to twenty-one! You’d have to look up to see the underside of cockroach shit!”

“Does it help, yellin’ at me like that? Seems like you should be prayin’ to your useless Thirteenth or somethin’, but what would I know? I ain’t one of you big-time Verrari felantozzers or whatever, am I?”

“You want to know why you shouldn’t kill us? You want to know why you shouldn’t let us hit that valley floor?” Jean hollered at the top of his lungs while bracing his feet more firmly against the cliffside and pulling back his right arm. Thunder echoed overhead. “See this, you idiot? See what I’ve got in my hands? Something you’ll see only once in a lifetime! Something you’ll never forget!”

A few seconds later, the man’s head and torso appeared over the edge of the cliff. Jean let out a cry as he flung his knife with all of his strength. The cry became triumphant as he saw the blurred shape of his weapon strike home in their tormentor’s face … and changed yet again to a frustrated groan as he saw the knife bounce back and fall away into thin air. It had struck hilt-first.

“Fucking rain!” yelled Jean.

The bandit was in serious pain, at least. He moaned and clutched his face, teetering forward. A nice hard smack in the eye? Jean fervently hoped so—perhaps he still had a few seconds to try again.

“Locke, your knife, quickly!”

Locke was reaching into his right boot when the man thrust his arms out for balance, lost it, and toppled screaming over the edge of the cliff. He got one hand around Locke’s main line a second later and fell directly into the crook of Locke’s waist and rope, where they met at the iron descender on his belt. The shock knocked Locke’s legs away from the cliff as it knocked the breath from his lungs, and for a second he and the bandit were in free fall, flailing and screaming in a tangle of arms and legs, with no proper pressure on the line in the descender.

Straining himself to the utmost, Locke curled his left hand around the free side of the line and tugged hard, putting enough strain on the rope to snap them to a halt. They swung into the cliff face together, the bandit taking the brunt of the impact, and dangled there in a struggling mess of limbs while Locke fought to breathe and make sense of the world. The bandit kicked and screamed.

“Stop that, you fucking moron!” They seemed to have fallen about fifteen feet; Jean slipped rapidly down beside them, alighted on the cliff, and reached out with one hand to grab the bandit by the hair. With the hood thrown back, Locke could see that the fellow was grizzled like an underfed hound, perhaps forty, with long greasy hair and a gray beard as scrubby as the grass on the cliff’s edge. His left eye was swelling shut. “Stop kicking, you idiot! Hold still!”

“Oh, gods, please don’t drop me! Please don’t kill me, sir!”

“Why the fuck not?” Locke groaned, dug his heels into the cliff, and managed to reach the edge of his right boot with his right hand. A moment later he had his stiletto out at the bandit’s throat, and the man’s panicked kicking became a terrified quivering.

“See this?” Locke hissed. The bandit nodded. “This is a knife. They have these, wherever the fuck you came from?” The man nodded again. “So you know I could just stick you right now and let you fall, right?”

“Please, please, don’t.…”

“Shut up and listen. This single line that you and I are dangling from right now. Single, solitary, alone! This wouldn’t be the line you were just chopping at up there, would it?”

The man nodded vigorously, his good eye wide.

“Isn’t that splendid? Well, if the shock of your fall didn’t break it, we’re probably safe for a little while longer.” White light flashed somewhere above them and thunder rolled, louder than before. “Though I have been much more comfortable. So don’t kick. Don’t flail. Don’t struggle, and don’t do anything fucking stupid. Savvy?”

“Oh, no, sir, oh please …”

“Shut up already.”

“Lo … er, Leocanto,” said Jean. “I’m thinking this fellow deserves some flying lessons.”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” said Locke, “but thieves prosper, right, Jerome? Help me haul this stupid bastard back up there somehow.”

“Oh, thank you, thank—”

“Know why I’m doing this, you witless woodland clown?”

“No, but I—”

“Shut it. What’s your name?”

“Trav!”

“Trav what?”

“Never had no after-name, sir. Trav of Vo Sarmara is all.”

“And you’re a thief? A highwayman?”

“Yes, yes I am.”

“Nothing else? Do any honest work?”

“Er, no, not for some time now …”

“Good. Then we are brothers of a sort. Look, my smelly friend, the thing you have to understand is that there is a Thirteenth. He does have a priesthood, and I’m one of his priests, savvy?”

“If you say so.…”

“No, shut up. I don’t want you to agree with me; I want you to use your misplaced acorn of a brain before the squirrel comes looking for it again. I have a blade at your throat, we’re seventy feet above the ground, it’s pissing a nice hard rain, and you just tried to murder me. By all rights, I ought to give you a red smile from ear to ear and let you drop. Would you agree to that?”

“Oh, probably, sir, gods, I’m sorry.…”

“Hush now, sweet moron. So you’d admit that I must have a pretty powerful reason for not satisfying myself with your death?”

“I, uh, I guess!”

“I’m a divine of the Crooked Warden, like I said. Sworn to the service and the mandates of the god of our kind. Seems kind of a waste to spit in the face of the god that looks out for you and yours, doesn’t it? Especially since I’m not so sure I’ve been doing right by Him recently.”

“Uh …”

“I should kill you. Instead, I’m going to try and save your life. All I want you to do is think about this. Do I still seem like a heretic to you?”

“Uh … oh, gods, sir, I can’t think straight.…”

“Well, nothing unusual there, I’d wager. Remember what I said. Don’t flail, don’t kick, don’t scream. And if you try to fight, even the tiniest bit, our arrangement’s off. Wrap your arms around my chest and shut up. We’re a good long way from sitting pretty.”

2

AT LOCKE’S urging, Jean went up first, hand-over-hand on the slick cliff face at about half his usual speed. Up top, he rapidly unknotted his own belay line from his belt and passed it down to Locke and his shaken passenger. Next he took his harness off and slid his main line along the cliff edge until it too was beside the dangling men. They certainly didn’t look comfortable, but with all three good lines in their reach they were at least a bit safer.

Jean found his frock coat on the ground and threw it on, grateful for the added coverage even if it was as sopping wet as the rest of him was. He thought quickly. Trav seemed a fairly meatless fellow, and Locke was lightly built—surely they were no more than three hundred pounds together. Jean was sure he could hoist nearly as much to his chest, perhaps even above his head. But in the rain, with so much at stake?

His thoughts turned to the carriage, about a quarter-mile distant through the woods. A horse would be a vast improvement on even a strong man, but the time it would require, and the trouble inherent in unhooking, calming, and leading a beast whose master had been clubbed unconscious …

“Fuck it,” he said, and went back to the cliff’s edge. “Leocanto!”

“Still here, as you might have guessed.”

“Can the two of you make one of my ropes good and fast to your belt?”

There was a brief muttered conversation between Locke and Trav.

“We’ll manage,” Locke yelled. “What do you have in mind?”

“Have the idiot hold tight to you. Brace your arms and legs against the cliff once you’ve lashed yourselves to one of my lines. I’ll start hauling on it with all I’ve got, but I’m sure your assistance won’t hurt.”

“Right. You heard the man, Trav. Let’s tie a knot. Mind where you put your hands.”

When Locke looked up and gave Jean their private hand signal for proceed, Jean nodded. The secured rope was Jean’s former belay line; he seized the working end just before the coil that lay on the wet ground and frowned. The sludge underfoot would make things even more interesting than they already were, but there was nothing else for it. He formed a bight in the rope, stepped into it, and let it slide tight around his waist. He then leaned back, away from the cliff, with one hand on the rope before him and one hand behind, and cleared his throat.

“Tired of dangling, or shall I let you have a few more minutes down there?”

“Jerome, if I have to cradle Trav here for one second longer than I absolutely must, I’m going to—”

“Climb away, then!” Jean dug his heels in, allowed himself to lean even farther back, and began to strain at the rope. Gods damn it, he was a powerful man, unusually strong, but why did moments always come along to remind him that he could be even stronger? He’d been slacking; no other word for it. He should find some crates, fill them with rocks, and heave them up a few dozen times a day, as he had in his youth.… Damn, would the rope ever move?

There. At last, after a long, uncomfortable interval of motionless heaving in the rain, Jean took a slow step back. And then another … and another. Haltingly, with an itching fire steadily rising in the muscles of his thighs, he did his best impression of a plowhorse, pushing deep furrows into the gritty gray mud. Finally, a pair of hands appeared at the edge of the cliff, and in a torrent of shouts and curses, Trav hoisted himself up over the top and rolled onto his back, gasping. Immediately the strain on Jean slackened; he maintained his previous level of effort and just a moment later Locke popped over the edge. He crawled to his feet, stepped over beside Trav, and kicked the would-be bandit in the stomach.

“You fucking jackass! Of all the stupid damn … how difficult would it have been to say, ‘I’ll lower a rope, tie your purses onto it and send them up, or I won’t let you back up’? You don’t tell your bloody victims you’re just going to kill them outright! You come on reasonable first, and when you have the money you run!”

“Oh … ow! Gods, please; ow! You said you … wouldn’t kill me!”

“And I meant it. I’m not going to kill you, you cabbage-brained twit; I’m just going to kick you until it stops feeling good!”

“Ow! Agggh! Please! Aaaaow!”

“I have to say, it’s still pretty fascinating.”

“Aiiiah! Ow!”

“Still enjoying myself.”

“Oooof! Agh!”

Locke finally ceased pummeling the unfortunate Verrari, unbuckled his harness belt, and dropped it in the mud. Jean, breathing heavily, came up beside him and handed him his soaked coat.

“Thank you, Jerome.” Having his coat back, sopping or no, seemed to salve some of Locke’s wounded dignity. “As for you. Trav. Trav of Vo Sarmara, you said?”

“Yes! Oh, please, don’t kick me again.”

“Look here, Trav. Here’s what you’re going to do. First, tell no one about this. Second, don’t fucking go anywhere near Tal Verrar. Got it?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ to, sir.”

“Good. Here.” Locke reached down into his left boot and drew out a very slender purse. He tossed it down beside Trav, where it landed with a jingling plop. “Should be ten volani in there. A healthy bit of silver. And you can … wait a minute, are you absolutely sure our driver’s still alive?”

“Oh, gods yes! Honest truth, Master Leocanto, sir, he was breathin’ and moanin’ after I thumped him, he surely was.”

“So much the better for you, then. You can have the silver in that purse. When Jerome and I have left, you can come back and take whatever we leave. My vest and some of this rope, for sure. And listen to me very carefully. I saved your life today when I could have killed you in a heartbeat. Sound about right to you?”

“Yes, yes you did, and I’m so very—”

“Yes, shut up. Someday, Trav of Vo Sarmara, I may find myself back in these parts, and I may need something. Information. A guide. A bodyguard. Thirteen help me if it’s you I have to turn to, but if anyone ever comes to you and whispers the name of Leocanto Kosta, you jump at their word, you hear?”

“Yes!”

“Your oath before the gods?”

“Upon my lips and upon my heart, before the gods, or strike me dead and find me wantin’ on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence.”

“Good enough. Remember. Now fuck off in the direction of your choice, so long as it isn’t back toward our carriage.”

Jean and Locke watched him scamper away for a minute or two, until his cloaked figure had faded from view behind the shifting gray curtains of the downpour.

“Well,” said Jean, “I think that’s enough practice for one day, don’t you?”

“Absolutely. The actual Sinspire job’ll be a bloody ballroom dance compared to this. What say we just grab the two spare coils of rope and make for the carriage? Let Trav spend the rest of the afternoon out here untying knots.”

“A lovely plan.” Jean inspected his Wicked Sisters, recovered from the edge of the cliff, and gave them a possessive pat on their blades before slipping them into his coat pocket. “There, darlings. That ass might have dulled you a bit, but I’ll soon have you sharpened up again.”

“I hardly credit it,” said Locke. “Nearly murdered by some halfwit country mudsucker. You know, I do believe that’s the first time since Vel Virazzo that anyone’s actually tried to kill either of us.”

“Seems about right. Eighteen months?” Jean slipped one wet coil of rope around his shoulder and passed the other to Locke. Together, they turned and began to trudge back through the forest. “Nice to know that some things never really change, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER SIX

BALANCE OF TRADES

1

“WHOEVER PUT THOSE ASSASSINS THERE obviously knew we used that path to get back to the Savrola,” said Locke.

“Which doesn’t mean all that much; we’ve used the docks often. Anyone could have seen us, and set them there to wait.” Jean sipped his coffee and ran one hand idly over the battered leather cover of the small book he’d brought to breakfast. “Maybe for several nights. It wouldn’t require any special knowledge or resources.”

The Gilded Cloister was even quieter than usual at the seventh hour of the morning this Throne’s Day. Most of the revelers and businessfolk who provided its custom would have been up late on the Golden Steps, and would not rise for several hours. By unspoken consent, Locke and Jean’s breakfast this morning was designed for nervous nibbling: cold fillets of pickled shark meat with lemon, black bread and butter, some sort of brownish fish broiled in orange juice, and coffee—the largest ceramic pot the waiter could find to bring to the table. Both thieves were still having trouble adjusting to the sudden turnaround in their nights and days.

“Unless the Bondsmagi tipped another party off to our presence here in Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “They might even be helping them.”

“If the Bondsmagi had been helping those two on the docks, do you really think we’d have survived? Come on. Both of us knew they were probably going to come after us for what we did to the Falconer, and if they just wanted us dead, we’d be smoked meat. Stragos is right about one thing—they must mean to toy with us. So I still say it’s more likely that some third party took offense at something we’ve done as Kosta and de Ferra. That makes Durenna, Corvaleur, and Lord Landreval the obvious suspects.”

“Landreval’s been gone for months.”

“That doesn’t rule him out completely. The lovely ladies, then.”

“I just … I honestly believe they’d come after us themselves—Durenna has a reputation with a sword, and I hear that Corvaleur’s been in a few duels. Maybe they’d hire some help, but they’re hands-on sorts.”

“Did we bilk anyone important at Blind Alliances? Or some other game when we were playing our way up through the floors? Step on someone’s toe? Fart noisily?”

“I can’t imagine that we’d have missed someone disgruntled enough to hire assassins. Nobody likes to lose at cards, to be sure, but do any really sore losers stick out in memory?”

Jean scowled and sipped his coffee. “Until we know more, this speculation is useless. Everyone in the city is a suspect. Hell, everyone in the world.”

“So in truth,” said Locke, “all we really know is that whoever it is wanted us dead. Not scared off, not brought in for a little chat. Plain old dead. Maybe if we can ponder that, we might come up with a few—”

Locke stopped speaking the instant he saw their waitress approaching their booth—then looked more closely and saw that it wasn’t their waitress at all. The woman wearing the leather apron and red cap was Merrain.

“Ah,” said Jean. “Time to settle the bill.”

Merrain nodded, and handed Locke a wooden tablet with two small pieces of paper pinned to it. One was indeed the bill; the other had a single line written on it in flowing script:

Remember the first place I took you the night we met? Don’t waste time.

“Well,” said Locke, passing the note to Jean, “we’d love to stay, but the quality of the service has sharply declined. Don’t expect a gratuity.” He counted copper coins onto the wooden tablet, then stood up. “Same old place as usual, Jerome.”

Merrain collected the wooden tablet and the money, bowed, and vanished in the direction of the kitchens.

“I hope she doesn’t take offense about the tip,” said Jean when they were out on the street. Locke glanced around in every direction, and noticed that Jean was doing likewise. Locke’s sleeve-stilettos were a comforting weight inside each arm of his coat, and he had no doubt that Jean was ready to produce the Wicked Sisters with a twitch of his wrists.

“Gods,” Locke muttered. “We should be back in our beds, sleeping the day away. Have we ever been less in control of our lives than we are at this moment? We can’t run away from the archon and his poison, which means we can’t just disengage from the Sinspire game. Gods know we can’t even see the Bondsmagi lurking, and we’ve suddenly got assassins coming out of our assholes. Know something? I’d lay even odds that between the people following us and the people hunting us, we’ve become this city’s principal means of employment. Tal Verrar’s entire economy is now based on fucking with us.”

It was a short walk, if a nervous one, to the crossroads just north of the Gilded Cloister. Cargo wagons clattered across the cobbles and trades-folk walked placidly to their jobs. As far as they knew, Locke thought, the Savrola was the quietest, best-guarded neighborhood in the city, a place where nothing worse than the occasional drunk foreigner ever disturbed the calm.

Locke and Jean turned left at the intersection, then approached the door of the first disused shop on their right. While Jean kept a watch on the street behind them, Locke stepped up to the door and rapped sharply, three times. It opened immediately, and a stout young man in a brown leather coat beckoned them in.

“Stay away from the window,” he said once he’d closed and bolted the door behind them. The window was covered with tightly drawn sailcloth curtains, but Locke agreed that there was no need to tempt fate. The only light in the room came from the sunrise, filtered soft pink through the curtains, enabling Locke to see two pairs of men waiting at the rear of the shop. Each pair consisted of one heavy, broad-shouldered man and one smaller man, and all four of the strangers were wearing identical gray cloaks and broad-brimmed gray hats.

“Get dressed,” said the man in the leather coat, pointing to a pile of clothing on a small table. Locke and Jean were soon outfitted in their own matching gray cloaks and hats.

“New summer fashion for Tal Verrar?” said Locke.

“A little game for anyone trying to follow you,” said the man. He snapped his fingers, and one set of gray-clad strangers moved to stand right behind the door. “I’ll go out first. You stand behind these two, follow them out, then enter the third carriage. Understood?”

“What carri—” Locke started to say, but he cut himself off as he heard the clatter of hooves and wheels in the street immediately outside. Shadows passed before the window, and after a few seconds the man in the brown coat unbolted the door. “Third carriage. Move fast,” he said without turning around, and then he threw the door open and was out into the street.

At the curb just outside the disused shop three identical carriages were lined up. Each was black lacquered wood with no identifying crests or banners, each had heavy drapes drawn over its windows, and each was pulled by two black horses. Even their drivers all looked vaguely similar, and wore the same reddish uniforms under leather overcoats.

The first pair of gray strangers stepped out the door and hurried to the first carriage in line. Locke and Jean left the disused shop a second later, hurrying to the rear carriage. Locke caught a glimpse of the last team of gray strangers all but running to the door of the middle carriage behind them. Jean worked the latch on the rear carriage’s door, held it open for Locke, and flung himself inside afterward.

“Welcome aboard, gentlemen.” Merrain lounged in the right forward corner of the compartment, her waitress’ clothing discarded. She was now dressed as though for a ride in an open saddle, in field boots, black breeches, a red silk shirt, and a leather vest. Locke and Jean settled beside one another in the seat across from her. Jean’s slamming of the door threw them into semidarkness, and the carriage lurched into motion.

“Where the hell are we going?” Locke began to shrug off his gray cloak as he spoke.

“Leave that on, Master Kosta. You’ll need it when we get out again. First we’ll all tour the Savrola for a bit. Then we’ll split—one carriage to the Golden Steps, one to the northern edge of the Great Gallery, and us to the docks to catch a boat.”

“A boat to where?”

“Don’t be impatient. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

That was difficult, to say the least, in the hot and stuffy compartment. Locke felt sweat running down his brow, and he grumpily removed his hat and held it in his lap. He and Jean attempted to pelt Merrain with questions, but she answered with nothing but noncommittal “hmmms” until they gave up. Tedious minutes passed. Locke felt the carriage rattling around several corners, then down a series of inclines that had to be the ramp from the upper heights of the Savrola to the sea-level docks.

“We’re almost there,” said Merrain after another few minutes had passed in uncomfortable, jouncing silence. “Hats back on. When the carriage stops, go straight to the boat. Take your seat at the rear, and for the gods’ sake, if you see anything dangerous, duck.”

True to her word, the carriage rattled to a halt just a few heartbeats later. Locke planted his hat over his hair once again, fumbled for the door mechanism, and squinted as it opened into bright morning light.

“Out,” said Merrain. “Don’t waste time.”

They were down on the interior docks at the very northeastern tip of the Savrola, with a sheer wall of black Elderglass behind them and several dozen anchored ships on the gleaming, choppy water before them. One boat was lashed to the nearest pier, a sleek gig about forty feet long, with a raised and enclosed gallery at the stern. Two lines of rowers, five to a side, filled most of the rest of its space.

Locke hopped down from the carriage and led the way toward the boat, past a pair of alert men wearing cloaks as heavy as his own, quite inappropriate for the weather. They were standing at near attention, not lounging, and Locke caught a glimpse of a sword hilt barely hidden beneath one cloak.

He all but scampered up the flimsy ramp to the boat, hopped down into it, and threw himself onto the bench at the rear of the passenger gallery. The gallery, fortunately, was only enclosed on three sides; a decent forward view of their next little voyage would be vastly preferable to another trip inside a dark box. Jean was close behind him, but Merrain turned right, climbed through the mass of rowers, and seated herself in the coxswain’s position at the bow.

The soldiers on the dock rapidly pulled back the ramp, unlashed the boat, and gave it a good push away from the dock with their legs. “Pull,” said Merrain, and the rowers exploded into action. Soon the boat was creaking to their steady rhythm and knifing across the little waves of Tal Verrar’s harbor.

Locke took the opportunity to study the men and women at the oars—they were all leanly muscled, all with hair neatly trimmed short, most with fairly visible scars. Not one of them looked to be younger than their midthirties. Veteran soldiers, then. Possibly even Eyes without their masks and cloaks.

“I have to say, Stragos’ people put on a good production,” said Jean. He then raised his voice. “Hey! Merrain! Can we take these ridiculous clothes off?”

She turned only long enough to nod, and then returned her attention to the waters of the harbor. Locke and Jean eagerly removed their hats and cloaks, and piled the clothing on the deck at their feet.

The ride across the water took about a third of an hour, as near as Locke could tell. He would have preferred to be free to study the harbor in all directions, but what he could see out the open front of the gallery revealed enough. First they headed southwest, following the curve of the inner docks, past the Great Gallery and the Golden Steps. Then they turned south, putting the open sea on their right, and sped toward a huge crescent island of a like size with the one on which the Sinspire sat.

Tal Verrar’s southwestern crescent wasn’t tiered. It was more like a naturally irregular hillside, studded with a number of stone towers and battlements. The huge stone quays and long wooden docks at its northwestern tip comprised the Silver Marina, where commercial vessels could put in for repairs or refitting. But past that, past the bobbing shapes of old galleons waiting for new masts or sails, lay a series of tall gray walls that formed enclosed bays. The tops of these walls supported round towers where the dark shapes of catapults and patrolling soldiers could be seen. The bow of their boat was soon pointed at the nearest of these huge stone enclosures.

“I’ll be damned,” said Jean. “I think they’re taking us into the Sword Marina.”

2

THE VAST stone walls of the artificial bay were gated with wood. As the boat approached, shouts rang out from the battlements above, and the clanking of heavy chains echoed off stone and water. A crack appeared in the middle of the gate, and then the two doors slowly swung inward, sweeping a small wave before them. As the boat passed through the gate, Locke tried to estimate the size of everything he was seeing; the opening itself had to be seventy or eighty feet wide, and the timbers of the doors looked to be as thick as an average man’s torso.

Merrain called instructions to the rowers and they brought the boat in carefully, coasting gently up to a small wooden dock where a single man waited to receive them. The rowers had placed the boat at an angle, so that the end of the dock barely scraped the hull of the boat between the rowers and the passenger gallery.

“Your stop, gentlemen,” called Merrain. “No time to tie up, I’m afraid. Be nimble or get wet.”

“You’re the soul of kindness, madam,” said Locke. “I’ve shed any lingering regret about failing to leave a tip for you.” He moved out of the gallery and to the gunwale on his right hand. There the stranger waited with one arm held out to assist him. Locke sprang up to the dock easily enough with the man’s help, and the two of them in turn yanked Jean to safety.

Merrain’s rowers backed water immediately; Locke watched as the gig made sternway, aligned itself with the gate, and then sped back out of the little bay at high speed. Chains rattled once again, and water surged as the gates drew closed. Locke glanced up and saw that teams of men were turning huge capstans, one on either side of the bay doors.

“Welcome,” said the man who’d helped them out of the boat. “Welcome to the most foolish damn venture I ever heard of, much less got pressed into. Can’t imagine whose wife you must’ve fucked to get assigned to this here suicide mission, sirs.”

The man could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty; he had a chest like a tree stump and a belly that hung over his belt as though he were trying to smuggle a sack of grain beneath his tunic. Yet his arms and neck were almost scrawny in their wiriness, seamed with jutting veins and the scars of hard living. He had a round face, a wooly white beard, and a greasy streak of white hair that fell straight off the back of his head like a waterfall. His dark eyes were nestled in pockets of wrinkles under permanent furrows.

“That might’ve been a pleasant diversion,” said Jean, “if we’d known we were going to end up here anyway. Who might you be?”

“Name’s Caldris,” said the old man. “Ship’s master without a ship. You two must be Masters de Ferra and Kosta.”

“Must be,” said Locke.

“Let me show you around,” said Caldris. “Ain’t much to see now, but you’ll be seeing a lot of it.”

He led the way up a set of rickety stairs at the rear of the dock, which opened onto a stone plaza that rose four or five feet above the water. The entire artificial bay, Locke saw, was a square roughly one hundred yards on a side. Walls enclosed it on three sides, and at the rear rose the steep glass hillside of the island. There were a number of structures built on platforms sticking out from that hillside; storage sheds, armories, and the like, he presumed.

The gleaming expanse of water beside the plaza, now sealed off from the harbor once again by the wooden gates, was large enough to float several ships of war, and Locke was surprised to see that there was only one craft tied up. A one-masted dinghy, barely fourteen feet long, rocked gently at the plaza’s side.

“Quite a bay for such a small boat,” he said.

“Eh? Well, the ignorant need room in which to risk their lives without bothering anybody else for a while,” said Caldris. “This here’s our own private pissing-pond. Never you mind the soldiers on the walls; they’ll ignore us. Unless we drown. Then they’ll probably laugh.”

“Just what is it,” said Locke, “that you think we’re doing here, Caldris?”

“I’ve got a month or so in which to turn two ignorant straight-legged fumble-thumb landlubbers into something resembling phony sea-officers. All gods as my witness, sirs, I suspect this is all gonna end in screaming and drowning.”

“I might have taken offense at that, if I didn’t know that every word you just called us was true,” said Locke. “We told Stragos we didn’t know the first damn thing about sailing.”

“The Protector seems mighty set on having you out to sea regardless.”

“How long have you been in his navy?” asked Jean.

“Been at sea forty-five years, maybe. In the Verrari navy even before there was archons; been in the Thousand-Day War, the old wars against Jerem, the war against the Ghostwinds Armada … Seen a lot of shit, gentlemen. Thought I had it sewn up—been master on archons’ vessels for twenty years. Good pay. Even got a house coming, or so I thought. Before this shit. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Locke. “This some sort of punishment detail?”

“Oh, it’s punishment, Kosta. It’s punishment all right. Just weren’t no crime done to earn it. Archon sort of volunteered me. Fuck me, but that’s what all my loyalty bought. That and a taste of the archon’s wine, so I can’t just quit or run away on you. Poisoned wine. The waiting sort of poison. I take you to sea, outlive all this nonsense, I get the antidote. Maybe my house, if I’m lucky.”

“The archon gave you poisoned wine?” said Locke.

“Didn’t know it was poisoned, obviously. What was I supposed to do,” Caldris spat, “not fuckin’ drink it?”

“Of course not,” said Locke. “We’re passengers in the same boat, friend. Except it was cider with us. We had a hell of a thirst.”

“Oh, really?” Caldris gaped. “Ha! Fuck me raw! Here I thought I was the biggest damn fool on the Sea of Brass. Here I thought I was the damnedest halfwit of a blind, useless … old … ah …”

He seemed to notice the glare Locke and Jean were giving him in unison, and he coughed loudly.

“Which is to say, sirs, that misery does love company, and I can see that we’re all going to be real enthusiastic about this here do-or-die mission.”

“Right. So, ah, tell us,” said Jean. “Exactly how are we going to get on with this?”

“Well, first I reckon we talk; second I reckon we sail. I got just a few things to say before we tempt the gods, so open your ears. First, it takes five years or so to make a landsman into a halfway decent sailor. Ten to fifteen to make a halfway decent sea-officer. So fuckin’ attend this: I ain’t making no halfway decent sea-officers of you. I’m making shams. I’m making it so you’re not embarrassed to talk rope and canvas around real sailors, and that’s about it. Maybe, just maybe, that’s what I can do to you in a month.

So you can pretend to give orders while taking ’em from me. Taking ’em good.”

“Fair enough,” said Locke. “The more you handle, the more comfortable we are, honest.”

“I just don’t want you to decide you’re heroes who’ve learned the full business, so’s you start changing sails and trim and courses without my leave. Do that and we’re all gonna die, fast as a one-copper fuck in a one-whore cathouse. I hope that’s clear.”

“Not to get ahead of ourselves,” said Jean, “but where the hell is this ship on which we would never, ever dare do anything like that?”

“It’s around,” said Caldris. “Getting a bit of finishing in another bay, just to help it hold together. For the time being, that there’s the only vessel you’re fit to board.” He pointed at the dinghy. “That’s what I’ll learn you on.”

“What does that little thing have to do with a real ship?”

“That little thing is what I learned on, Kosta. That little thing is where any real sea-officer starts. That’s how you cop to the basics: hull, wind, and water. Know ’em on a boat and you can think it out on a ship. So, off with your coats and vests and fancy shit. Leave anything you mind getting wet, as I’m making no promises. Boots as well. You’ll do this barefoot.”

Once Locke and Jean had stripped down to their tunics and breeches, Caldris led them over to a large covered basket that sat on the stones near the docked dinghy. He undid the cover, reached in, and removed a live kitten.

“Hello, you monstrous little necessity.”

“Mrrrrwwwwww,” said the monstrous little necessity.

“Kosta.” Caldris shoved the squirming kitten into Locke’s arms. “Look after her for a few minutes.”

“Um … why do you keep a kitten in that basket?” The kitten, dissatisfied with Locke’s arms, decided to wrap her paws around his neck and experiment on it with her claws.

“When you go to sea, there’s two necessities, for luck. First, you’re courting an awful fate if you take a ship to sea without at least one woman officer. It’s the law of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. His mandate. He’s got a fixation for the daughters of the land; he’ll smash any ship that puts to sea without at least one aboard. Plus, it’s plain common sense. They’re good officers. Decent plain sailors, but finer officers than you or I. Just the way the gods made ’em.

“Second, it’s powerful bad luck to put out without cats on board. Not only as they kill the rats, but as they’re the proudest creatures anywhere, wet or dry. Iono admires the little fuckers. Got a ship with women and cats aboard, you’ll have the finest luck you can hope for. Now, our little boat’s so small I reckon we’re fine without no woman. Fishers and harbor boats go out all the time, no worries. But with the pair of you aboard, I’ll be damned if I’m not bringing a cat. A little one suits a little vessel.”

“So … we have to tend this kitten while we’re out there risking our lives?”

“I’ll throw you overboard before I’ll lose her, Kosta.” Caldris chuckled. “You think I’m lying, you just test me. But keep your breeches on; she’ll be in the covered basket.”

Speaking of the basket seemed to recall it to his mind. He reached into it again and drew out a small loaf of bread and a silver knife. Locke saw that the loaf had many small marks upon it, about the size of the muzzle of the little creature trying to slip out of his arms. Caldris didn’t seem to care. “Master de Ferra, hold out your right hand and don’t whine.”

Jean extended his right hand toward Caldris. Without hesitation, the sailing master slashed the knife across Jean’s palm. The big man said nothing, and Caldris grunted as though pleasantly surprised. He turned Jean’s palm upside down and smeared the bread with the blood trickling from the cut.

“Now you, Master Kosta. Keep that kitten still. Vile luck to cut her by accident. Plus she’s armed, fore and aft.”

A moment later, Caldris had made a shallow, stinging cut across Locke’s right palm and was pressing the loaf of bread up against it as though to stanch the wound. When he seemed to decide that Locke had bled sufficiently, he smiled and moved to the edge of the stone plaza, overlooking the water.

“I know you both been passengers on ships,” he said, “but passengers don’t signify. Passengers ain’t involved. Now you’re gonna be involved, proper, so I got to make things right for us first.”

He cleared his throat, knelt at the edge of the water, and put up his arms. In one hand he held the loaf of bread; in the other, the silver knife. “Iono! Iono Stormbringer! Lord of the Grasping Waters! Your servant Caldris bal Comar calls. Long you been pleased to show your servant mercy, and your servant kneels to show his devotion. Surely you know a mighty fuckin’ mess waits over the horizon for him.”

He tossed the bloody knife into the bay and said, “This is the blood of landsmen. All blood is water. All blood is yours. This is a knife of silver, metal of the sky, sky that touches water. Your servant gives you blood and silver to show his devotion.”

He took the loaf of bread in both hands, tore it in half, and threw both halves into the water. “This is the bread of landsmen, that landsmen need to live! At sea, all life is yours. At sea, yours is the only mercy. Give your servant strong winds and open waters, Lord. Show him mercy in his passage. Show him the might of your will within the waves, and send him safe home again. Hail, Iono! Lord of the Grasping Waters!”

Caldris rose from his knees, groaning, and wiped a few smears of blood on his tunic. “Right. If that can’t help, we never had a fuckin’ chance.”

“Beg pardon,” said Jean, “but it seems to me you could have possibly mentioned us along with yourself.…”

“Don’t think nothing of it, de Ferra. I prosper, you prosper. I cop it, you’re screwed. Praying for my health works to your full advantage. Now, put the cat in the basket, Kosta, and let’s do some business.”

A few minutes later, Caldris had Locke and Jean seated beside one another at the rear of the dinghy, which was still lashed firmly to several iron rings set into the stone of the plaza. The covered basket was sitting on the tiny deck of the dinghy at Locke’s feet, occasionally emitting bumping and scratching noises.

“Right,” said Caldris. “Far as the basics go, a boat is just a little ship and a ship is just a bigger boat. Hull goes in the water, mast points toward the sky.”

“Of course,” said Locke, as Jean nodded vigorously.

“The nose of your boat is called the bow, the ass is called the stern. Ain’t no right and left at sea. Right is starboard, left is larboard. Say right or left and you’re liable to get whipped. And remember, when you’re directing someone else, it’s the ship’s starboard and larboard you’re talking about, not your own.”

“Look, little as we know, Caldris, I daresay we know that much,” said Locke.

“Well, far be it from me to correct the young master,” said Caldris, “but as this venture is somewhat in the way of completely fuckin’ mad, and since all our lives are looking mighty cheap, I’m gonna start by presuming that you don’t know water from weasel piss. Is that suitable by you, gentlemen?”

Locke opened his mouth to say something ill-advised, but Caldris went on.

“Now, unrack the oars. Slide ’em in the oarlocks. Kosta, you’re starboard oar. De Ferra, you’re larboard.” Caldris unlashed the dinghy from the iron rings, threw the ropes into the bottom of the boat, and hopped down into it, landing just before the mast. He settled down onto his backside and grinned as the boat swayed. “I’ve locked the rudder tight for now. You two will do all our steering, gods help us.

“De Ferra, push us off from the quay. That’s right. Nice and easy. Can’t fly sails straight from the dockside; got to get some sea-room first. Plus there’s no breeze behind these walls for us to use anyway. Row gently. Pay attention as I move around … look how I’m making us wobble. Don’t like that, do you? You’re turning green, Kosta.”

“Hardly,” muttered Locke.

“This is important. What I’m trying to tell you about now is called trim. Weight needs to be distributed sensible in a boat or a ship. I move to starboard, we heel over on Kosta’s side. I move to larboard, we heel over even worse on de Ferra’s side. Can’t have that. That’s why stowing cargo proper is so important on a ship. Gotta have balance fore and aft, starboard and larboard. Can’t have the bow in the air or the stern higher than the mast. Looks silly, then you sink and die. That’s basically what I mean when I says ‘trim.’ Now, time to learn how to row.”

“We already know how to—”

“I don’t care what you think you know, Kosta. Until further notice, we’re gonna presume that you’re too dumb to count to one.”

Locke would later swear that they must have spent two or three hours rowing around in circles on that artificial bay, with Caldris crying out, “Hard a-larboard! Back water! Hard a-starboard!” and a dozen other commands, seemingly at random. The sailing master constantly shifted his weight, left and right, forward and center, to force them to fight for stability. To make things even more interesting, there was an obvious difference between the power of Jean’s strokes and the power of Locke’s, and they had to concentrate to avoid constantly turning to starboard. They were at it so long that Locke started in surprise when Caldris finally called for a halt to their labor.

“ ’Vast rowing, you fuckin’ toddlers.” Caldris stretched and yawned. The sun was approaching the center of the sky. Locke’s arms felt wrung out, his tunic was soaked through with sweat, and he fervently wished that he’d had less coffee and more actual food for breakfast. “Better than you was two hours ago, I’ll give you that. That and not much else. You gotta know your starboard and larboard, fore and aft, boats and oars, like you know the width of your own cocks. Ain’t no such thing as a calm or convenient emergency out on the blue.”

The sailing master produced lunch from a leather sack at the bow of the dinghy, and they floated relaxingly in the middle of the enclosed square bay while they ate. The men shared black bread and hard cheese, while the kitten was let out to make quick work of a pat of butter in a stone crock. The skin that Caldris passed around was full of “pinkwater,” warm rainwater mixed with just enough cheap red wine to partly conceal its stale, leathery taste. Caldris took only a few sips, but the two thieves rapidly finished it off.

“So, our ship is waiting for us somewhere around here,” said Locke when his thirst was temporarily beaten down, “but where are we going to get a crew?”

“A fine question, Kosta. I wish I knew the answer. The archon said the matter is being attended to, that’s all.”

“I suspected you’d say something like that.”

“No sense in dwelling on what’s beyond our power at the moment,” said Caldris. The sailing master lifted the kitten, who was still licking her greasy nose and paws, and stuck her back into the basket with surprising tenderness. “So, you’ve done some rowing. I’ll get those men up top to open the gate, take the rudder, and we’re gonna head out and see if we can catch enough breeze to hoist some canvas. You two have any money in the things you left ashore?”

“Some,” said Locke. “Maybe twenty volani. Why?”

“Then I’ll bet you twenty volani that you two are gonna capsize us at least once before the sun goes down.”

“I thought you were here to teach us how to do things the right way?”

“I am. And I damn well will! It’s just that I know first-time sailors too well. Make the bet and the money’s as good as mine. Hell, I’ll pay up a full solari against your twenty silvers if I’m wrong.”

“I’m in,” said Locke. “Jerome?”

“We’ve got the kitten and a blood blessing on our side,” said Jean. “Underestimate us at your peril, sailing master.”

3

IT HAD been refreshing, at first, to work for a while in completely soaked tunic and breeches. After they’d righted the dinghy and rescued the kitten, of course.

But now the sun was lowering in the west, casting a golden halo around the dark outlines of the battlements and towers above the Sword Marina, and the gentle harbor breeze had begun to chill Locke despite the lingering heat of the summer air.

He and Jean were rowing the dinghy toward the open gate to their private bay; Caldris had been happy to earn his twenty volani, but not happy enough that he was willing to trust them with the sails again.

“ ’Vast rowing,” said Caldris as they finally drifted near the edge of the stone plaza. Caldris tended to the business of tying them up again while Locke stowed his oar and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Every muscle in his back seemed to slide painfully against those surrounding it, as though someone had thrown grit in between them. He had a headache from the glare of sun on water, and his old wound in his left shoulder was demanding attention above and beyond his other aches.

Locke and Jean clambered stiffly out of the boat and stretched while Caldris, clearly amused, uncovered the basket and plucked the bedraggled kitten out of it. “There, there,” he said, allowing it to nestle within his crossed arms. “The young masters didn’t mean anything by that soaking they gave you. They got it just as bad.”

“Mrrrrrrrrreeeeew,” it said.

“I fancy that means ‘fuck you,’ ” said Caldris, “But at least we’ve got our lives. So what do you think, sirs? An educational day?”

“I hope we’ve shown some aptitude, at least,” groaned Locke, kneading a knot in the small of his back.

“Baby steps, Kosta. As far as sailors go, you haven’t even learned to suck milk from a tit yet. But now you know starboard from larboard, and I’m twenty volani richer.”

“Indeed,” sighed Locke as he fetched his coat, vest, neck-cloths, and shoes from the ground. He tossed a small leather purse to the sailing master, who dangled it at the kitten and cooed as though to a small child.

Locke happened to glance over at the gate while he was throwing his coat on over his damp tunic, and he saw Merrain’s gig slip into the artificial bay. She was seated at the bow again, looking as though they had parted ten minutes rather than ten hours before.

“Your ride back to civilization, gents.” Caldris raised Locke’s coin purse in a salute. “See you bright and early tomorrow. Only gets worse from here, so mind yourselves. Enjoy those nice beds while they’re still available.”

Merrain was completely unwilling to answer questions as the team of ten soldiers rowed them back to the docks beneath the Savrola, which suited Locke’s mood. He and Jean commiserated over their aches and pains while lounging, as best the space allowed, in the rear gallery.

“I could sleep for about three days, I think,” said Locke.

“Let’s order a big dinner when we get back, and some baths to take the knots out. After that, I’ll race you to unconsciousness.”

“Can’t,” Locke sighed. “Can’t. I have to go see Requin tonight. By now, he probably knows Stragos pulled us in again a few nights ago. I need to talk to him before he gets annoyed. And I need to give him the chairs. And I need to somehow tell him about all of this, and convince him not to strangle us with our own intestines if we leave for a few months.”

“Gods,” said Jean. “I’ve been trying not to think about that. You just barely convinced him that we’ve been assigned to the Sinspire to go after his vault; what can you say that will make this whole out-to-sea thing plausible?”

“I have no idea.” Locke massaged the aching vicinity of his old shoulder wound. “Hopefully the chairs will put him in a forgiving mood. If not, you’ll get the bill for cleaning my brains off his plaza stones.”

When the rowers finally pulled the boat up alongside the Savrola docks, where a carriage was waiting with several guards, Merrain left the bow and made her way back to where Locke and Jean were sitting.

“Seventh hour of the morning tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll have a carriage at the Villa Candessa. We’ll vary your movement for a few mornings for safety’s sake. Stay at your inn this evening.”

“Out of the question,” said Locke. “I have business on the Golden Steps tonight.”

“Cancel it.”

“Go to hell. How do you propose to stop me?”

“You might be surprised.” Merrain rubbed her temples as though she felt a headache coming on, then sighed. “You’re sure you can’t cancel it?”

“If I cancel my business tonight, you-know-who at the Sinspire is likely to cancel us,” said Locke.

“If you’re worried about Requin,” she said, “I could simply arrange for quarters to be found in the Sword Marina. He’d never be able to reach you there; you’d be safe until your training was finished.”

“Jerome and I have sunk two years in this bloody city into our plans for Requin,” said Locke. “We intend to finish them. Tonight is critical.”

“On your head be it, then. I can send a carriage with some of my men. Can it wait two hours?”

“If that’s what it takes, fine.” Locke smiled. “In fact, send two. One for me, one for cargo.”

“Don’t push your—”

“Excuse me,” said Locke, “but is the money coming out of your pocket? You want to protect me, surround me with your agents, fine—I accept. Just send two carriages. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“So be it,” she said. “Two hours. No sooner.”

4

THE WESTERN horizon had swallowed the sun, and the two moons visible in the cloudless sky were soft red, like silver coins dipped in wine. The driver of the carriage rapped three times on the roof to announce their arrival at the Sinspire, and Locke moved the window curtain back over the corner he’d been peeking out of.

It had taken time for the pair of carriages to thread their way out of the Savrola, across the Great Gallery, and through the bustling traffic of the Golden Steps. Locke had found himself alternately stifling yawns and cursing the bumpy ride. His companion, a slender swordswoman with a well-used rapier resting across her legs, had steadfastly ignored him from her position on the opposite seat.

Now, as the carriage jostled to a halt, she preceded him out the door, tucking her weapon under a long blue coat that hung to her calves. After she’d scanned the warm night for trouble, she beckoned wordlessly for Locke to follow.

As per Locke’s instructions, the carriage driver had turned onto the cobbled drive that led to a courtyard behind the Sinspire. Here, a pair of converted stone houses held the tower’s primary kitchens and food storage areas. By the light of red and gold lanterns bobbing on unseen lines, Sinspire attendants were coming and going in squads—carrying forth elaborate meals and returning with empty platters. The smell of richly seasoned meat filled the air.

Locke’s bodyguard continued to look around, as did the two soldiers atop the carriage, each dressed in nondescript coachman’s uniforms. The second carriage, the one carrying Locke’s suite of chairs, rattled to a halt behind the first. Its team of gray horses stamped their feet and snorted, as though the scent of the kitchens was not to their taste. A heavyset Sinspire attendant with thinning hair hurried over to Locke and bowed.

“Master Kosta,” he said, “apologies, sir, but this is the service courtyard. We simply cannot receive you in the accustomed style here; the front doors are far more suited to—”

“I’m in the right place.” Locke put one hand on the attendant’s shoulder and slipped five silver volani into the man’s vest pocket, letting the coins clink against one another as they slipped from his hand. “Find Selendri, as quickly as you can.”

“Find … uh … well …”

“Selendri. She stands out in a crowd. Fetch her now.”

“Uh … yes, sir. Of course!”

Locke spent the next five minutes pacing in front of his carriage while the swordswoman tried to look casual and keep him within a few steps at the same time. Surely nobody would be foolish enough to try anything, he thought—not with five people at his beck and call, not here in the very heart of Requin’s domain. Nonetheless, he was relieved to finally see Selendri step out the service door, wearing a flame-colored evening gown that made the brass of her artificial hand look molten where it reflected orange.

“Kosta,” she said. “To what do I owe the distraction?”

“I need to see Requin.”

“Ah, but does Requin need to see you?”

“Very much,” said Locke. “Please. I do need to see him in person. And I’m going to need some of your stronger attendants; I’ve brought gifts that need careful handling.”

“Gifts?”

Locke showed her to the second carriage and opened the door. She spared a quick glance at Locke’s bodyguard, then stroked her brass hand with her flesh hand while she pondered the contents of the compartment.

“Are you entirely sure that such obvious bribery is the solution to your problems, Master Kosta?”

“It’s not like that, Selendri. It’s rather a long story. In fact, he’d be doing me a favor if he’d accept them. He has a tower to decorate. All I have is a rented suite and a storage room.”

“Interesting.” She closed the door to the second carriage, turned away, and began walking back toward the tower. “I can’t wait to hear this. You’ll come up with me. Your attendants stay here, of course.”

The swordswoman looked as though she might utter a protest, so Locke shook his head firmly and pointed sternly at the first carriage. The glare she returned made him glad that she was bound by orders to protect him.

Once inside the Sinspire, Selendri gave whispered orders to the heavyset attendant, then led Locke through the usual busy crowds, up to the service area on the third floor. Soon enough they were locked away inside the darkness of the climbing closet, slowly rising to the ninth floor. Locke was surprised to feel her actually turn toward him.

“Interesting bodyguard you’ve found for yourself, Master Kosta. I didn’t know you rated an Eye of the Archon.”

“Er, neither did I. I suspected, but I didn’t know. What makes you so sure?”

“Tattoo on the back of her left hand. A lidless eye in the center of a rose. She’s probably not used to going about in common clothes; she should have worn gloves.”

“You must have sharp eyes. Eye. Sorry. You know what I mean. I saw it, but I didn’t give it much thought.”

“Most people aren’t familiar with the sigil.” She turned away from him once again. “I used to have one just like it on my own left hand.”

“I … well. That’s … I had no idea.”

“The things you don’t know, Master Kosta. The things you simply do not know …”

Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own strat péti for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time they’d been this close. Did everyone in this damn city have a little game?

“Selendri,” he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, “I have never desired anything more than to be a friend to you.”

“As you’re a friend to Jerome de Ferra?”

“If you knew what he’d done to me, you’d understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt your secrets, I think I’ll just keep a few of my own.”

“Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be a great deal more final than your opinion of me.”

Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and she squeezed past him into the light of Requin’s office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri led Locke across the floor; Requin’s optics were tucked into the collar of his black tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment.

“Kosta,” he said. “This is timely. I need some explanation from you.”

“And you’re certainly going to get it,” said Locke. Shit, he thought, I hope he hasn’t found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is. “May I sit?”

“Grab your own chair.”

Locke selected one from against the wall and set it down before Requin’s desk. He surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down. Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then stared at Locke.

“You’ve had some sun,” he said.

“Today,” said Locke. “Jerome and I were sailing in the harbor.”

“Pleasant exercise?”

“Not particularly.”

“A pity. But it seems you were on the harbor several nights ago. You were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited to bring the events of that visit to my attention?”

“Ah.” Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn’t know there was any relevant link between Jean, himself, and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin wasn’t all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. “I presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us here for a conversation.”

“You should make a little list, Kosta, titled People It’s Safe for Me to Antagonize. My name will not appear on it.”

“Sorry. It wasn’t exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that does have something to do with Stragos’ plans.”

At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.

“Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta’s chairs brought up from the courtyard.”

“Do so,” said Requin. “Selendri mentioned these. What’s this, then?”

“I know it’s going to look more crass than it really is,” said Locke, “but you’d be doing me a favor, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands.”

“Take them off your … oh my.”

A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke’s chairs before him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.

“Talathri Baroque,” he said. “Surely, it’s Talathri Baroque … you, there. Put those in the center of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed.”

Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin’s floor, and then retreated back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over its lacquered surface.

“Reproduction …” he said slowly. “Beyond any doubt … but absolutely beautiful.” He returned his attention to Locke. “I wasn’t aware that you were familiar with the styles I collect.”

“I’m not,” said Locke. “Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before now. A few months ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was … strained, so I agreed to accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They’ve been in storage ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the things you keep up here in your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I’m glad they suit. Like I said, you’re the one doing me a favor if you take them.”

“Astonishing,” said Requin. “I’ve always thought about having a suite of furniture crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with.”

“They’re wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair, as far as I know. Just be careful with them. For some reason, they’re shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to sit in, but don’t abuse them.”

“This is … most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you.” Requin returned, with obvious reluctance, to his chair behind his desk. “This doesn’t slip you out of your need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation.” The smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.

“Of course not. But, concerning that … look, Stragos has a jar of fire oil up his ass about something. He’s sending Jerome and I away for a bit, on business.”

“Away?” The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered in a flat, dangerous whisper.

Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.

“To sea,” said Locke. “To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand.”

“Strange. I don’t recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal.”

“It relates to that.” But how? “We’re … after something.” Shit. Not nearly good enough. “Someone, actually. Have you ever … ah, ever …”

“Ever what?”

“Ever heard of … a man named … Calo … Callas?”

“No. Why?”

“He’s, ah … well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you’d have heard about him. I don’t know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall tale. You’re sure you don’t recall hearing the name before?”

“Certain. Selendri?”

“The name means nothing,” she said.

“Who is he supposed to be, then?” Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.

“He’s …” What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we’re here to break the vault? Oh … Crooked Warden, of course! “… a lockbreaker. Stragos’ spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he’s the best, or he was, back in his day. An artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault.”

“What’s a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?”

“Hiding, I imagine.” Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. “Stragos says that the Artificers have tried to kill him several times. He’s their antithesis. If he’s real, he’s the gods-damned anti-artificer.”

“Strange that I’ve never heard of him,” said Requin, “or been asked to find and remove him.”

“If you were the Artificers,” said Locke, “would you want to spread knowledge of his capabilities to someone in a position to make the best possible use of them?”

“Hmmm.”

“Hell.” Locke scratched his chin and feigned distracted consideration. “Maybe someone did ask you to find him and remove him. Just not by that name, and not with that description of his skills, you know?”

“But why, of all his agents, would you and Jerome—”

“Who else is guaranteed to come back or die trying?”

“The alleged poison. Ah.”

“We have two months, maybe less.” Locke sighed. “Stragos warned us not to dally. We’re not back by then, we get to find out how skilled his personal alchemist is.”

“The service of the archon seems a complicated life, Leocanto.”

“Fucking tell me about it. I liked him much better when he was just our unknown paymaster.” Locke rolled his shoulders and felt some of his sore back muscles protest. “We leave inside the month. That’s what the day-sailing is about. We’ll slip in with the crew of an independent trader once we’ve had some training, so we don’t stand out as the land-huggers we are. No more late nights gaming for us, until we get back.”

“You expect to succeed?”

“No, but one way or another, I’m damn well coming back. Maybe Jerome can even have an ‘accident’ on the voyage. Anyhow, we’ll be storing our wardrobes at the Villa Candessa. And we’ll be leaving every centira we currently have on your ledgers right where they are. My money and Jerome’s. Hostage against my return, as it were.”

“And if you do return,” said Selendri, “you might bring back a man who can genuinely aid the archon’s design.”

“If he’s there,” said Locke, “I’ll be bringing him straight back here first. I expect you’ll want to have a frank discussion with him about the health benefits of accepting a counteroffer.”

“Assuredly,” said Requin.

“This Callas,” said Locke, letting excitement rise in his voice, “he could be our key to getting Stragos over the coals. He could be an even better turncoat than I am.”

“Why, Master Kosta,” said Selendri, “I doubt that anyone could be a more enthusiastic turncoat than you.”

“You know damn well what I’m enthusiastic about,” said Locke. “But that’s that. Stragos hasn’t told us anything else at the moment. I just wanted to get rid of those damn chairs and let you know we’d be leaving for a while. I assure you, I’ll be back. If it’s in my power at all, I’ll be back.”

“Such assurances,” mused Requin. “Such earnest assurances.”

“If I wanted to cut and run,” said Locke, “I would have done it already. Why come tell you all this first?”

“Obvious,” said Requin, smiling gently. “If this is a ploy, it could buy you a two-month head start during which I wouldn’t think to go looking for you.”

“Ah. An excellent point,” said Locke. “Except that I’d expect to start dying horribly around then, head start or no.”

“So you claim.”

“Look. I’m deceiving the archon of Tal Verrar on your behalf. I’m deceiving Jerome gods-damned de Ferra. I need allies if I’m going to get out of this shit. I don’t care if you two trust me; I have to trust you. I am showing you my hand. No bluff. Now, again, you tell me how we proceed.”

Requin casually riffled the edges of the parchment pile on his desk, then matched gazes with Locke. “I expect to hear the archon’s further plans for you immediately. No delays. Make me wonder where you are again, and I’ll have you fetched. With finality.”

“Understood.” Locke made a show of swallowing and wringing his hands together. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing him again before we leave. I’ll be here the night after any meeting, no later.”

“Good.” Requin pointed in the direction of the climbing closet. “Leave. Find this Calo Callas, if he exists, and bring him to me. But I don’t want dear Jerome slipping over a rail while you’re out at sea. Understand? Until Stragos is in hand, that privilege is mine to deny.”

“I …”

“No ‘accidents’ for Master de Ferra. You satisfy that grudge on my sufferance. That’s the bargain.”

“If you put it that way, understood, of course.”

“Stragos has his promised antidote.” Requin took up a quill and returned his attention to his parchments. “I want my own assurance of your enthusiastic return to my fair city. You want to slaughter your calf, you tend him for a few months first. Tend him very well.”

“Of … of course.”

“Selendri will show you out.”

5

“HONESTLY, IT could have gone much worse,” said Jean as he and Locke pulled at their oars the next morning. They were out in the main harbor, clipping over the gentle swells near the Merchants’ Crescent. The sun had not yet reached its noon height, but the day was already hotter than its predecessor. The two thieves were sweat-drenched.

“Sudden miserable death is indeed much worse,” said Locke. He stifled a groan; today, the exercise was troubling not only his back and shoulder but the old wounds that covered a substantial portion of his left arm. “But I think that’s the last dregs of Requin’s patience. Any more strangeness or complication … Well, hopefully, this is as odd as Stragos’ plans are going to get.”

“Can’t move the boat by flapping your mouths,” yelled Caldris.

“Unless you want to chain us to these oars and beat a drum,” said Locke, “we converse as we please. And unless you wish us to drop dead, you should consider an early lunch.”

“Oh dear! Does the splendid young gentleman not find the working life agreeable?” Caldris was sitting in the bow with his legs stretched out toward the mast. On his stomach, the kitten was curled into a dark ball of sleeping contentment. “The first mate here wants me to remind you that where we’re going, the sea don’t wait on your pleasure. You might be up twenty hours straight. You might be up forty. You might be on deck. You might be working a pump. Time comes to do what’s necessary, you’ll fucking well do it, and you’ll do it until you drop. So we’re gonna row, every day, until your expectations are right where they should be. And today we’re gonna take a late lunch, not an early one. Hard a-larboard!”

6

“EXCELLENT WORK, Master Kosta. Fascinating and bloody unorthodox. By your reckoning, we’re somewhere near the latitudes of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. A touch on the warm side for Vintila, don’t you think?”

Locke slipped the backstaff, a four-foot pole with an awkward arrangement of vanes and calipers on the forward end, off his shoulder and sighed.

“Can you not see the sun-shadow on your horizon vane?”

“Yes, but—”

“I admit, the device ain’t exactly as precise as an arrow-shot. But even a land-sucker should be able to do better than that. Do it again, just like I showed you. Horizon and sun-shadow. And be grateful you’re using a Verrari Quadrant; the old cross-staffs made you look right at the sun instead of away from it.”

“Beg pardon,” said Jean, “but I’d always heard this device referred to as a Camorri Quadrant.”

“Bullshit,” said Caldris. “This here’s a Verrari Quadrant. Verrari invented it, twenty years back.”

“That claim,” said Locke, “must take some of the sting out of getting the shit walloped out of you in the Thousand-Day War, eh?”

“You sweet on Camorri, Kosta?” Caldris put a hand on the backstaff. Locke realized with a start that his anger wasn’t bantering. “I thought you was Talishani. You got a reason to fuckin’ speak up for Camorr?”

“No, I was just—”

“Just what, now?”

“Forgive me.” Locke realized his mistake. “I didn’t think. It’s not just history to you, is it?”

“All thousand days and then some,” said Caldris. “I was there all the fuckin’ way.”

“My apologies. I suppose you lost friends.”

“You damn well suppose right.” Caldris snorted. “Lost a ship from under me. Lucky not to be devilfish food. Bad times.” He removed his hand from Locke’s backstaff and composed himself. “I know you didn’t mean anything, Kosta. I’m … sorry, too. Those of us who bled in that fight didn’t exactly think we was losing it when the Priori gave in. Partly why we had such hopes for the first archon.”

“Leocanto and I have no reason to love Camorr,” said Jean.

“Good.” Caldris clapped Locke on the back and seemed to relax. “Good. Keep it that way, eh? Now! We’re lost at sea, Master Kosta! Find our latitude!”

It was the fourth day of their training with the Verrari sailing master; after their customary morning of torture at the oars, Caldris had led them out to the seaward side of the Silver Marina. Perhaps five hundred yards out from the glass island, still well within the sweep of calmed sea provided by the city’s encircling reefs, there was a flat-topped stone platform in forty or fifty feet of translucent blue-green water. Caldris had called it the Lubber’s Castle; it was a training platform for would-be Verrari naval and merchant sailors.

Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner’s Box, and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.

“Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this,” said Caldris. “But he’s not to be the captain; you are.”

“And I thought you were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you’ve only mentioned ten score times.”

“I am. You’re mad if you think that’s changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your ass when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn’t put us off by half the fucking world.”

“Sun-shadow and horizon,” muttered Locke.

“Indeed. Later on tonight, we’ll use the old-style staff for the only thing it’s still good for—taking your reading from the stars.”

“But it’s just past noon!”

“Right,” said Caldris. “We’re in for a good long haul today. There’s books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then more books and charts. Late to bed, you’ll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubber’s Castle.” Caldris spat on the stones. “Now fetch that fucking latitude!”

7

“WHAT’S IT mean if we broach?” said Jean.

It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he’d demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.

The shutters and curtains of the suite’s windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted, and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds’ additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands.

“Ah, gods,” he said. “I know this. It’s … something … bad?”

“To meet strong winds and seas abeam,” said Jean, “taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow.”

“And that’s bad.”

“Powerful bad.” Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis’ Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon, with Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. “Come on, you’re the captain of the ship. I’m just your skull-cracker.”

“I know. Give me another.” Locke’s own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.

“Hmmm.” Jean flipped pages. “Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell’s he talking about?”

“Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel,” muttered Locke. “Hitting us straight on the side.”

“And now he wants a broad reach.”

“Right.” Locke paused to sip his brandy. “Wind neither blowing right up our ass nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel.”

“Good enough.” Jean flipped pages again. “Box the compass. What’s the sixth point?”

“Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home.”

“Right on both counts. South a point.”

“Um, east by south.”

“Right. South another point.”

“Southeast east?”

“And another point.”

“Ah, gods.” Locke grabbed his glass and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. “Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That’s enough for tonight.”

“But—”

“I am the captain of the bloody ship,” said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. “My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed.” He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head, and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails, and finding latitudes.

8

“I WAS not aware,” said Locke the next morning, “that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it.”

“A means to an end, Master Kosta.”

The archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neck-cloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

“I don’t have many fair-haired officers in my service,” said Stragos, “but the uniform is a good fit. I’ll have another made by the end of the week.” Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke’s details—tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. “After that, you’ll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use.”

“I still don’t understand why—”

“I know.” Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master’s presence, had lost his customary vulgar impishness. “How are they doing in their training, sailing master?”

“The Protector is already well aware,” said Caldris slowly, “of my general opinion concerning this here mission.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“They are … less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless.”

“That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mold them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun.”

“Where’s our ship, Stragos?” asked Locke.

“Waiting.”

“And where’s our crew?”

“In hand.”

“And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?”

“Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That’s what’s meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You’ll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders.”

Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he’d seen Stragos’ Eyes use on several occasions. “Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar.”

“Very good,” said Stragos. “But you’re an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle.”

He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

“I return you gentlemen to Caldris’ care,” said the archon as he stepped down into the boat. “Use your days well.”

“And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?”

“All in good time, Kosta.”

9

TWO MORNINGS later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain’s boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.

A soft warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.

“Look you both,” Caldris yelled. “Here she is in person. The ship we’re damn likely to die on!” He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. “She’s styled the Red Messenger.”

“Is she now?” The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a condition, Locke thought. “One of the archon’s, I presume?”

“No. It seems the gods have favored the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?”

“Only too well.”

“Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned.”

“Oh,” said Locke, sniggering. “I’m very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar.”

“Archon had it careened,” continued Caldris. “Needed new sails, some shoring up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she’s been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she’ll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you’ve learned. What do you think she is?”

Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck, and a single boat stored upside down at its waist. “Is she a caulotte?”

“No,” said Caldris, “she’s more properly a vestrel, what you’d also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you’d say caulotte. But let me tell you why you’re off on the particulars.…”

Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks that Locke only half understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.

“… she’s eighty-eight feet, stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course,” finished Caldris.

“I hadn’t truly realized before now,” said Locke. “Gods, I’m to actually command this ship.”

“Ha! No. You are to feign command of this ship. Don’t get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what my proper orders are. Hurry aboard.”

Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the Red Messenger, and while Locke gazed around, absorbed in every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He’d taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bedridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life … or foiling his impersonation utterly.

“Damn,” he muttered to Jean. “Maybe ten years ago, I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy.”

“It’s not getting any easier,” said Jean, squeezing Locke on his uninjured shoulder. “But we’re not yet out of time to learn.”

They paced the full length of the ship in the warm drizzle, with Caldris alternately pointing things out and demanding answers to difficult questions. They finished their tour at the Red Messenger’s waist, and Caldris leaned back against the ship’s boat to rest.

“Well,” he said, “you do learn fast, for lubbers. I can give you that much. Notwithstanding, I’ve taken shits with more sea wisdom than the pair of you combined.”

“Come ashore and let us try to teach you our profession some time, goat-face.”

“Ha! Master de Ferra, you’ll fit in just fine in that wise. Maybe you’ll never truly know shit from staysails, but you’ve got the manner of a grand first mate. Now, up the ropes. We’re visiting the maintop this morning while this fine weather holds.”

“The maintop?” Locke stared up the mainmast, dwindling into the grayness above, and squinted as rain fell directly into his face. “It’s bloody raining!”

“It has been known to rain at sea. Ain’t nobody passed you the word?” Caldris stepped over to the starboard main shrouds; they passed down just the opposite side of the deck railing, and were secured by deadeyes to the outer hull itself. Grunting, the sailing master hoisted himself up onto the rail and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. “The poor bastards on your crew will be up there in all weather. I’m not taking you out to sea as virgins to the ropes, so get your asses up after me!”

They followed Caldris up into the rain, carefully stepping into the ratlines that crossed the shrouds to provide footholds. Locke had to admit that nearly two weeks of steady hard exercise had given him more wind for a task like this, and begun to mitigate the pain of his old wounds. Still, the strange and faintly yielding sensation of the rope ladder was like nothing familiar to him, and he was only too happy when a dark yardarm loomed out of the drizzle just above them. A few moments later, he scampered up to join Jean and Caldris on a circular platform that was blessedly firm.

“We’re two-thirds up, maybe,” said Caldris. “This yard carries the main course.” Locke knew by now that he was referring to the ship’s primary square sail, not a navigational plan. “Farther up, you got your topsails and t’gallants. But this is fine enough for now. Gods, you think you got it bad today, can you imagine climbing up here with the ship bucking side to side like a bull making babies? Ha!”

“Can’t be as bad,” Jean whispered to Locke, “as some fucking idiot toppling off and landing on one of us.”

“Will I be expected,” said Locke, “to come up here frequently?”

“You got unusually sharp eyes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hell with it, then. Nobody’ll expect it. Captain’s place is on deck. You want to see things from a distance, use a glass. You’ll have top-eyes hugging the mast farther up to do your spotting.”

They took in the view for a few more minutes, and then thunder rumbled in the near distance, and the rain stiffened.

“Down we go, I think.” Caldris rose to his knees and prepared to slide over the side. “There’s tempting the gods, and then there’s tempting the gods.”

Locke and Jean reached the deck again with no trouble, but when Caldris jumped down from the shrouds he was breathing raggedly. He groaned and massaged his upper left arm. “Damn. I’m too old for the tops. Thank the gods the master’s place is on the decks, too.” Thunder punctuated his words. “Come on, then. We’ll use the main cabin. No sailing today; just books and charts. I know how much you love those.”

10

BY THE end of their third week with Caldris, Locke and Jean had begun to nurture guarded hopes that their brush with the two dockside assassins would not be repeated. Merrain continued to escort them each morning, but they were given some freedom at night provided they went armed and ventured no farther than the interior waterfront of the Arsenale District. The taverns there were thick with the archon’s soldiers and sailors, and it would be a difficult place for someone to lurk unnoticed in ambush.

At the tenth hour of the evening on Duke’s Day (which of course, Jean corrected himself, the Verrari called Council’s Day), Jean found Locke staring down a bottle of fortified wine at a back table in the Sign of the Thousand Days. The place was spacious and cheerfully lit, noisy with the bustle of healthy business. It was a naval bar—all the best tables, under hanging reproductions of old Verrari battle pennants, were filled with officers whose social status was clear whether or not they were wearing their colors. Common sailors drank and gamed at the penumbra of tables surrounding them, and the few outsiders congregated at the little tables around Locke.

“I thought I might find you here,” said Jean, taking the seat across from Locke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m working. Isn’t it obvious?” Locke seized the wine bottle by its neck and gestured toward Jean. “This is my hammer.” He then rapped his knuckles against the wooden tabletop. “And this is my anvil. I am beating my brains into a more pleasant shape.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“I just wanted half a night to be something other than the captain of a phantom fucking sailing expedition.” He spoke in a controlled whisper, and it was plain to Jean that he was not yet drunk, but more possessed of an earnest desire to be so. “My head is full of little ships, all going round and round gleefully making up new names for the things on their decks!” He paused to take a sip, then offered the bottle to Jean, who shook his head. “I suppose you’ve been diligently studying your Lexicon.”

“Partly.” Jean turned himself and his chair a bit toward the wall, to allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on most of the tavern. “I’ve also penned some polite little lies to Durenna and Corvaleur; they’ve been sending notes to the Villa Candessa, asking when we’ll come back to the gaming tables so they can have another go at butchering us.”

“I do so hate to disappoint the ladies,” said Locke, “but tonight I’m on leave from everything. No ’Spire, no archon, no Durenna, no Lexicon, no navigational tables. Just simple arithmetic. Drink plus drinker equals drunk. Join me. Just for an hour or two. You know you could use it.”

“I do. But Caldris grows more demanding with every passing day; I fear we’ll need clear heads on the morrow more than we’ll need clouded ones tonight.”

“Caldris’ lessons aren’t clearing our heads. Quite the opposite. We’re taking five years of teaching in a month. It’s all jumbling up inside me. You know, before I stepped in here tonight I bought half a peppered melon. The stall woman asked which of her melons I wished cut, the one on the left or the right. I replied, ‘The larboard!’ My own throat has turned traitorously nautical on me.”

“It is something like a madman’s private language, isn’t it?” Jean slipped his optics out of his coat pocket and onto the end of his nose so he could examine the faint etching on Locke’s wine bottle. An indifferent Anscalani vintage, a blunt instrument among wines. “So intricate in its convolutions. Say you have a rope lying on the deck. On Penance Day it’s just a rope lying on the deck; after the third hour of the afternoon on Idler’s Day it’s a half-stroke babble-gibbet, and then at midnight on Throne’s Day it becomes a rope again, unless it’s raining.”

“Unless it’s raining, yes, in which case you take your clothes off and dance naked round the mizzenmast. Gods, yes. I swear, Je … Jerome, the next person who tells me something like, ‘Squiggle-fuck the rightwise cock-swatter with a starboard jib’ is going to get a knife in the throat. Even if it’s Caldris. No more nautical terms tonight.”

“You seem to be three sheets to the wind.”

“Oh, that’s your death warrant signed, then, four-eyes.” Locke peered down into the depths of his bottle, like a hawk eyeing a mouse in a field far below. “There’s altogether too much of this stuff not yet in me. Get a glass and join in. I want to be a barking public embarrassment as soon as possible.”

There was a commotion at the door, followed by a general stilling of conversation and a rise in murmuring that Jean recognized from long experience as very, very dangerous. He looked up warily and saw that a party of half a dozen men had just set foot inside the tavern. Two of them wore the partial uniforms of constables, under cloaks, without their usual armor or weapons. Their companions were dressed in plain clothing, but their bulk and manner told Jean that they were all prime examples of that creature commonly known as the city watchman.

One of them, either fearless or possessed of the sensibilities of a dull stone, stepped up to the bar and called for service. His companions, wiser and therefore more nervous, began to whisper back and forth. Every eye in the tavern was upon them.

There was a scraping sound as a tough-looking woman at one of the officers’ tables pushed her chair back and slowly stood up. Within seconds, all of her companions, uniformed or otherwise, were standing beside her. The motion spread across the bar in a wave; first the other officers, and then the common sailors, once they saw that the weight of numbers would be eight-to-one in their favor. Soon enough, four dozen men and women were on their feet, saying nothing, simply staring at the six men by the door. The tiny knot of folk around Locke and Jean stayed planted in their seats; at the very least, if they remained where they were, they would be far out of the main line of trouble.

“Sirs,” said the oldest barkeeper on duty as his two younger associates reached surreptitiously beneath the counter for what had to be weapons. “You’ve come a long way now, haven’t you?”

“What do you mean?” If the constable at the bar wasn’t feigning puzzlement, thought Jean, he was dimmer than a snuffed candle. “Came from the Golden Steps, is all. Fresh off duty. Got a thirst and a fair bit of coin to fill it.”

“Perhaps,” said the barkeep, “another tavern would be more to your taste this evening.”

“What?” The man seemed at last to become aware of the fact that he was the focal point of a waiting mob’s attention. As always, thought Jean, there were two sorts in a city watch—the ones that had eyes for trouble in the backs of their heads, and the ones that used their skulls to store sawdust.

“I said …,” the barkeep began, clearly losing patience.

“Hold,” said the constable. He put both hands up toward the patrons of the tavern. “I see what’s what. I already had a few tonight. You got to forgive me; I don’t mean nothing. Aren’t we all Verrari here? We just want a drink, is all.”

“Lots of places have drinks,” said the barkeep. “Lots of more suitable places.”

“We don’t want no trouble for anyone.”

“Wouldn’t be any trouble for us,” said a burly man in naval tunic and breeches. His table-mates shared an evil chuckle. “Find the fucking door.”

“Council dogs,” muttered another officer. “Oathless gold-sniffers.”

“Hold on,” said the constable, shaking off the grasp of a friend who was trying to pull him to the door. “Hold on, I said we didn’t mean nothing. Dammit, I meant it! Peace. We’ll be on our way. Have a round on me, all of you. Everyone!” He shook out his purse with trembling hands. Copper and silver coins rattled onto the wooden bar. “Barkeep, a round of good Verrari dark for anyone who wants it, and keep what’s left.”

The barkeeper flicked his gaze from the unfortunate constable to the burly naval officer who’d spoken earlier. Jean guessed the man was one of the senior officers present, and the barkeep was looking to him for a judgment.

“Groveling suits you,” the officer said with a crooked grin. “We won’t touch a drink with you, but we’ll be happy to spend your money once you’re out that door for good.”

“Of course. Peace, friends, we didn’t mean nothing.” The man looked as though he might babble on, but two of his comrades grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out the door. There was a general outburst of laughter and applause when the last of the constables had vanished into the night.

“Now that’s how the navy adds money to its budget,” yelled the burly officer. His table-mates laughed, and he grabbed his glass and held it up toward the rest of the tavern. “The archon! Confusion to his enemies at home and abroad.”

“The archon,” chorused the other officers and sailors. Soon enough, they were all settling down into good humor once again, and the eldest barkeep was counting the constable’s money while his assistants set out rows of wooden cups beside a tapped cask of dark ale. Jean frowned, calculating in his head. Drinks for roughly fifty people, even plain dark ale, would set the constable back at least a quarter of his monthly pay. He’d known many men who’d have chanced a chase and a beating before parting with that much hard-earned coin.

“Poor drunk idiot,” he sighed, glancing at Locke. “Still want to make yourself a barking public embarrassment? Seems they’ve already got one in these parts.”

“Maybe I’ll just hold fast after this bottle,” said Locke.

“Hold fast is a nautical—”

“I know,” said Locke. “I’ll kill myself later.”

The two younger barkeeps circulated with large trays, passing out wooden cups of dark ale, first to the officers, who seemed mostly indifferent, and then to the ordinary sailors, who received them with enthusiasm. Seemingly as an afterthought, one of them eventually made his way to the corner where Locke and Jean and the other civilians sat.

“Sip of the dark stuff, sirs?” He set cups down before Locke and Jean and, with dexterity approaching that of a juggler, dashed salt into them from a little glass shaker. “Courtesy of the man with more gold than brains.” Jean slid a copper onto his tray to be sociable, and the man nodded his appreciation before moving on to the next table. “Sip of the dark stuff, madam?”

“Clearly, we need to come here more often,” said Locke, though neither he nor Jean touched their windfall ale. Locke, it seemed, was content to drink his wine, and Jean, consumed by thoughts of what Caldris might challenge them with the next day, felt no urge to drink at all. They passed a few minutes in quiet conversation, until Locke finally stared down at his cup of ale and sighed.

“Salted dark ale just isn’t the thing to follow punched-up wine,” he mused aloud. A moment later, Jean saw the woman seated behind him turn and tap him on the shoulder.

“Did I hear you right, sir?” She looked to be a few years younger than Locke and Jean, vaguely pretty, with bright scarlet forearm tattoos and a deep suntan that marked her as a dockworker of some sort. “Salted dark not to your taste? I don’t mean to be bold, but I’ve just run dry over here.…”

“Oh. Oh!” Locke turned, smiling, and passed his cup of ale to her over his shoulder. “By all means, help yourself. My compliments.”

“Mine as well,” said Jean, passing it over. “It deserves to be appreciated.”

“It will be. Thank you kindly, sirs.”

Locke and Jean settled back into their conference of whispers.

“A week,” said Locke. “Maybe two, and then Stragos wants us gone. No more theoretical madness. We’ll be living it, out there on the gods-damned ocean.”

“All the more reason I’m glad you’ve decided not to get too bent around the bottle this evening.”

“A little self-pity goes a long way these days,” said Locke. “And brings back memories of a time I’d rather forget.”

“There’s no need for you to keep apologizing for … that. Not to yourself and certainly not to me.”

“Really?” Locke ran one finger up and down the side of the half-empty bottle. “Seems I can see a different story in your eyes, whenever I make the acquaintance of more than a glass or two. Outside a Carousel Hazard table, of course.”

“Now, hold on—”

“It wasn’t meant as an unkindness,” Locke said hurriedly. “It’s just the truth, is all. And I can’t say you’re wrong to feel that way. You … What is it?”

Jean had looked up, distracted by a wheezing sound that was rising behind Locke. The dockworker had half risen out of her chair, and was clutching at her throat, fighting for breath. Jean immediately stood up, stepped around Locke, and took her by the shoulders.

“Easy, madam, easy. A little too much salt in the ale, eh?” He spun her around and gave her several firm slaps on the back with the heel of his right hand. To his alarm, she continued choking—in fact, she was sucking in absolutely nothing now with each futile attempt at a breath. She turned and clutched at him with desperate strength; her eyes were wide with terror, and the redness of her face had nothing to do with her suntan.

Jean glanced down at the three empty ale cups on the table before her, and a sudden realization settled in his gut like a cold weight. He grabbed Locke with his left hand and all but heaved him out of his chair.

“Back against the wall,” he hissed. “Guard yourself!” Then he raised his voice and shouted across the tavern, “Help! This woman needs help!”

There was a general tumult; officers and sailors alike came to their feet, straining to see what was happening. Elbowing through the mass of patrons and suddenly empty chairs came an older woman in a black coat, with her stormcloud-colored hair drawn into a long tight tail with silver rings. “Move! I’m a ship’s leech!”

She seized the dockworker from Jean’s arms and gave her three sharp blows against her back, using the bottom edge of her clenched fist.

“Already tried,” cried Jean. The choking woman was flailing against him and the leech alike, shoving at them as though they were the cause of her troubles. Her cheeks were wine-purple. The leech managed to snake a hand around the dockworker’s neck and clutch at her windpipe.

“Dear gods,” the woman said, “her throat’s swelled up hard as a stone. Hold her to the table. Hold her down with all your strength!”

Jean shoved the dockworker down on her tabletop, scattering the empty ale cups. A crowd was forming around them; Locke was looking at it uneasily, with his back to the wall as Jean had insisted. Looking frantically around, Jean could see the older barkeeper, and one of his assistants … but one was missing. Where the hell was the one who’d served them those cups of ale?

“Knife,” the leech shouted at the crowd. “Sharp knife! Now!”

Locke conjured a stiletto out of his left sleeve and passed it over. The leech glanced at it and nodded—one edge was visibly dull, but the other, as Jean knew, was like a scalpel. The leech held it in a fencer’s grip and used her other hand to force the dockworker’s head back sharply.

“Press her down with everything you’ve got,” she said to Jean. Even with the full advantage of leverage and mass, Jean was hard-put to keep the thrashing young woman’s upper arms still. The leech leaned sharply against one of her legs, and a quick-witted sailor stepped up behind her to grab the other. “A thrash will kill her.”

As Jean watched in horrified fascination, the leech pressed the stiletto down on the woman’s throat. The dockworker’s corded neck muscles stood out like those of a stone statue, and her windpipe looked as prominent as a tree trunk. With gentleness that Jean found awe-inspiring, given the situation, the leech cut a delicate slice across the windpipe just above the point where it vanished beneath the woman’s collarbones. Bright red blood bubbled from the cut, then ran in wide streams down the sides of the woman’s neck. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her struggles had become alarmingly faint.

“Parchment,” the leech shouted, “find me parchment!”

To the barkeeper’s consternation, several sailors immediately began ransacking the bar, looking for anything resembling parchment. Another officer shoved her way through the crowd, plucking a letter from within her coat. The leech snatched it, rolled it into a tight, thin tube, and then shoved it down the slit in the dockworker’s throat, past the bubbling blood. Jean was only partially aware that his jaw was hanging open.

The leech then began pounding on the dockworker’s chest, muttering a series of ear-scalding oaths. But the dockworker was limp; her face was a ghastly shade of plum, and the only movement visible was that of the blood streaming out around the parchment tube. The leech ceased her struggles after a few moments and sat down against the edge of Locke and Jean’s tables, gasping. She wiped her bloody hands against the front of her coat.

“Useless,” she said to the utterly silent crowd. “Her warm humors are totally stifled. I can do nothing else.”

“Why, you’ve killed her,” shouted the eldest barkeeper. “You cut her fucking throat right where we could all see it!”

“Her jaw and throat are clenched tight as iron,” said the leech, rising in anger. “I did the only thing I possibly could to help her!”

“But you cut her—”

The burly senior officer Jean had seen earlier now stepped up to the bar, with a cadre of fellow officers at his back. Even across the room, Jean could see a rose-over-swords somewhere on every coat or tunic.

“Jevaun,” he said, “are you questioning Scholar Almaldi’s competence?”

“No, but you saw—”

“Are you questioning her intentions?”

“Ah, sir, please—”

“Are you naming a physiker of the archon’s warrant,” the officer continued in a merciless voice, “our sister-officer, a murderer? Before witnesses?” The color drained from the barkeeper’s face so quickly Jean almost wanted to look behind the bar, to see if it had pooled there. “No, sir,” he said with great haste. “I say nothing of the sort. I apologize.”

“Not to me.”

The barkeeper turned to Almaldi and cleared his throat. “I beg your absolute pardon, Scholar.” He looked down at his feet. “I’m … I’ve not seen much blood. I spoke in wretched ignorance. Forgive me.”

“Of course,” said the leech coldly as she shrugged out of her coat, perhaps finally realizing how badly she’d bloodied it. “What the hell was this woman drinking?”

“Just the dark ale,” said Jean. “The salted Verrari dark.”

And it was meant for us, he thought. His stomach twisted.

His words caused a new eruption of anger throughout the crowd, most of whom had, of course, been recently drinking the very same ale. Jevaun put up his arms and waved for silence.

“It was good, clean ale from the cask! It was tasted before it was drawn and served! I would serve it to my grandchildren!” He took an empty wooden cup, held it up to the crowd, and drew a full draught of dark beer from the cask. “This I will declare to witnesses! This is a house of honest quality! If there is some mischief afoot, it was nothing of my doing!” He drained the cup in several deep gulps and held it up to the crowd. Their murmuring continued, but their angry advance on the bar was halted.

“It’s possible she had a reaction,” said Almaldi. “An allergy of some sort. If so, it would be the first I’ve ever seen of anything like it.” She raised her voice. “Who else feels poorly? Sore necks? Trouble breathing?”

Sailors and officers looked at one another, shaking their heads. Jean offered a silent prayer of thanks that nobody seemed to have seen the dockworker taking the fatal cups of ale from himself and Locke.

“Where the hell is your other assistant?” Jean shouted to Jevaun. “I counted two before the ale was served. Now you have only one!”

The eldest barkeeper whipped his head from side to side, scanning the crowd. He turned to his remaining assistant with a horrified look on his face. “I’m sure Freyald is just scared shitless by the commotion, right? Find him. Find him!”

Jean’s words had had precisely the effect he’d desired; sailors and officers alike scattered angrily, looking for the missing barkeeper. Jean could hear the muffled trilling of watch whistles somewhere outside. Soon enough constables would be here in force, sailors’ bar or no. He nudged Locke and gestured at the back door of the tavern, through which several others, plainly expecting much complication, had already slipped out.

“Sirs,” said Scholar Almaldi as Locke and Jean moved past her. She wiped Locke’s stiletto clean on the sleeve of her already-ruined coat and passed it back to him. He nodded as he took it.

“Scholar,” he said, “you were superb.”

“And yet completely inadequate,” she said, running her bloodstained fingers carelessly through her hair. “I’ll see someone dead for this.”

Us, if we linger here much longer, thought Jean. He had a nasty suspicion that the hands of the city watch would offer no safety if he and Locke vanished into them.

Further arguments were erupting throughout the room by the time Jean finally managed to use his bulk to knock a path for himself and Locke to the tavern’s rear entrance. It led to an unlit alley, running away in either direction. The clouds had settled across the black sky, blotting out the moons, and Jean slipped a hatchet reflexively into his right hand before he’d taken three steps into the night. His trained ears told him the watch whistles were about a block to the west and moving fast.

“Freyald,” said Locke as they moved through the darkness together. “That rat bastard barkeep. That ale was aimed at us, sure as a crossbow quarrel.”

“That was my conclusion,” said Jean. He led Locke across a narrow street, over a rough stone wall, and into a silent courtyard that appeared to border on warehouses. Jean crouched behind a partially shattered crate, and his adjusting eyes saw the black shape of Locke flatten against a nearby barrel.

“Things are worse,” said Locke. “Worse than we thought. What are the odds that half a dozen city watch wouldn’t know which bars were safe for off-duty hours? What are the odds that they would come to the wrong fucking neighborhood?”

“Or drop that much pay on drinks for a bar full of the archon’s people? They were just cover. Probably they didn’t even know what they were covering for.”

“It still means,” whispered Locke, “that whoever’s after us can pull strings in the city watch.”

“It means Priori,” said Jean.

“Them or someone close to them. But why?”

There was the sudden scuff of leather on stone behind them; Locke and Jean went silent in unison. Jean turned in time to see a large dark shape hop the wall behind them, and the slap of heels on cobbles told him that a man of some weight had just landed.

In one smooth motion, Jean slipped out of his coat, swung it in a high arc, and brought it down over the man’s upper body. While the shadowy shape struggled with the coat, Jean leapt up and cracked the top of his opponent’s head with the blunt end of his hatchet. He followed this with a punch to the solar plexus, folding the man in half. It was child’s play after that to guide the man facefirst to the ground with a shove on the back.

Locke shook a tiny alchemical lamp, little more than a thumb-sized vial, to life. He shielded the wan glow against his body and let the light fall in only one direction, on the man Jean had subdued. Jean obligingly took back his coat, revealing a tall, well-muscled fellow with a shaven head. He was dressed nondescriptly in the fashion of a coachman or servant, and he threw a gloved hand across his face as he moaned in pain. Jean set the blade of his hatchet just beneath the man’s jaw.

“M-master de Ferra … de Ferra, no, please,” the man whispered. “Sweet gods. I’m with Merrain. I’m to … look after you.”

Locke seized the man’s left hand and peeled his leather glove off. By the pale lamplight, Jean saw a tattoo on the back of the stranger’s hand, an open eye in the center of a rose. Locke sighed and whispered, “He’s an Eye.”

“He’s a bloody fool,” said Jean, glancing around them before setting his hatchet down quietly. He rolled the man onto his back. “Easy, friend. I pulled the blow to your head, but not to your stomach. Just lie there and breathe for a few minutes.”

“I’ve been hit before,” huffed the stranger, and Jean could see that tears of pain gleamed on his cheeks. “Gods. I marvel at the thought that you need protecting at all.”

“We clearly do,” said Locke. “I saw you in the Thousand Days, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And I saw you give up your glasses of ale to that poor woman. Oh, fuck, my stomach is like to burst.”

“It will pass,” said Jean. “Did you see where that missing barkeep went?”

“I saw him enter the kitchen, and I never looked for him to come back. Didn’t have any reason to at the time.”

“Shit.” Locke scowled. “Knowing Merrain, does she have soldiers nearby against need?”

“Four in an old warehouse just a block south.” The Eye gasped several times before continuing. “I was to take you there in case of trouble.”

“This qualifies,” said Locke. “When you can move, take us to them. We need to reach the Sword Marina in one piece. And then I’ll need you to carry a message to her. Can you reach her tonight?”

“Within the hour,” the man said, rubbing his stomach and staring up at the starless sky.

“Tell her we wish to take her up on her earlier offer of … room and board.”

Jean rubbed his beard thoughtfully, then nodded.

“I’ll send a note to Requin,” said Locke. “I’ll tell him we’re leaving in a day or two. We won’t be around much longer than that, in truth. I’m no longer confident we can walk the streets. We can demand an escort to fetch our things from the Villa Candessa tomorrow, close our suite, put most of our clothes into storage. Then we’ll hide in the Sword Marina.”

“We have orders to guard your lives,” said the Eye.

“I know,” said Locke. “About the only thing we’re sure of is that for the time being, your master means to use us, not kill us. So we’ll rely on his hospitality.” Locke passed the soldier’s glove back to him. “For now.”

11

TWO CARRIAGES of Eyes, dressed in plain fashion, accompanied Locke and Jean when they packed their personal effects at the Villa Candessa the next morning.

“We’re heartily sorry to see you go,” said the chief steward as Locke scratched Leocanto Kosta’s signature onto a last few scraps of parchment. “You’ve been superb guests; we hope that you’ll consider us again the next time you visit Tal Verrar.”

Locke had no doubt the inn had been glad of their business; at five silvers a day for a year and a half, plus the price of additional services, he and Jean had left behind a pile of solari large enough to purchase a decent-sized house of their own and hire capable staff.

“Pressing matters compel our presence elsewhere,” muttered Locke coldly. He rebuked himself in his thoughts a moment later—it wasn’t the steward’s fault they were being chased from comfort by Stragos, Bondsmagi, and bloody mysterious assassins. “Here,” he said, fishing three solari out of his coat and setting them down on the desk. “See that this is split evenly and passed out to everyone on staff.” He turned his palm up, and with a minor bit of legerdemain conjured another gold coin. “And this for yourself, to express our compliments for your hospitality.”

“Return anytime,” said the steward, bowing deeply.

“We shall,” said Locke. “Before we go, I’d like to arrange to have some of our wardrobe stored indefinitely. You can be certain we’ll be back to claim it.”

While the steward happily scrawled the necessary orders on a parchment, Locke borrowed a square of the Villa Candessa’s pale blue formal stationery. On this he wrote, I depart immediately by the means previously discussed. Rely upon my return. I remain deeply grateful for the forbearance you have shown me.

Locke watched the steward seal it in the house’s black wax, and said, “See that this is delivered without fail to the master of the Sinspire. If not personally, then only to his majordomo, Selendri. They will want it immediately.”

Locke suppressed a smile at the slight widening of the steward’s eyes. The suggestion that Requin had a vested personal interest in the contents of the note would do much to speed it safely on its way. Nonetheless, Locke still planned to send another copy later through one of Stragos’ agents. No sense in taking chances.

“So much for those fine beds,” said Jean as he carried their two trunks of remaining possessions out to the waiting carriages. They had kept only their implements of thieving—lockpicks, weapons, alchemical dyes, disguise items—plus a few hundred solari in cold metal, and a few sets of tunics and breeches to take to sea. “So much for Jerome de Ferra’s money.”

“So much for Durenna and Corvaleur,” said Locke with a tight smile. “So much for looking over our shoulders everywhere we go. Because, in truth, we’re stepping into a cage. But just for a few days.”

“No,” said Jean thoughtfully as he stepped up into a carriage door held open by a bodyguard. “No, the cage goes on, much farther than that. It goes wherever we go.”

12

THEIR TRAINING with Caldris, which resumed that afternoon, only grew more arduous. The sailing master walked them from end to end of the ship, drilling them in the operation of everything from the capstan to the cooking box. With the help of a pair of Eyes, they unlashed the ship’s boat, hoisted it over the side, and retrieved it. They pulled the gratings from the main-deck cargo hatches and practiced sending barrels up and down with various arrangements of block and tackle. Everywhere they went, Caldris had them tying knots and naming obscure devices.

Locke and Jean were given the stern cabin of the Red Messenger for their living quarters. At sea, Jean’s compartment would be separated from Locke’s by a thin wall of stiffened canvas—and Caldris’ equally tiny “cabin” would be just across the passage—but for now they made the space into tolerably comfortable bachelor accommodations. The necessity of their enclosure seemed to impress upon them both the utter seriousness of their situation, and they redoubled their efforts, learning confusing new things with speed they had not required since they had last been under the tutelage of Father Chains. Locke found himself falling asleep with his copy of the Lexicon for a pillow nearly every night.

Mornings they sailed their dinghy west of the city, within the glass reefs but with increasing confidence that only somewhat eclipsed actual skill. Afternoons, Caldris would call out items and locations on the deck of the ship and expect them to run to each place he named.

“Binnacle,” the sailing master cried, and Locke and Jean raced together for the small wooden box just beside the ship’s wheel that held a compass and several other navigational aids. No sooner had they touched it than Caldris cried, “Taffrail,” which was easy enough—the stern rail at the very end of the ship. Next, Caldris shouted, “Craplines!” Locke and Jean ran past the bemused kitten, who lounged on the sunlit quarterdeck licking her paws. They were grimacing as they ran, for the craplines were what they’d be bracing themselves against when they crawled out onto the bowsprit to relieve themselves into the sea. More commodious methods of shitting were for rich passengers on larger vessels.

“Mizzenmast,” bellowed Caldris, and Locke and Jean both fetched up short, breathing heavily.

“Ship doesn’t bloody have one,” said Locke. “Just foremast and mainmast!”

“Oh, clever you! You’ve undone my subtle ruse, Master Kosta. Get your bloody uniform and we’ll let you act the peacock for a few hours.”

The three men worked together across the days to define a system of hand and verbal signals, with Locke and Jean making a few sensible adaptations from their existing private language.

“Privacy on a ship at sea is about as real as fucking fairy piss,” Caldris grumbled one afternoon. “I might not be able to give you clear spoken instructions with gods-know-who watching and listening. We’ll work with lots of nudges and whispers. If you know something complicated is coming up, best thing to say is just—”

“Let’s see if you know your business, Caldris!” Locke found that the Verrari naval uniform was a great aid when it came to conjuring an authoritative voice.

“Right. That or something like it. And if one of the sailors cops technical and wants your opinion on something you don’t know …”

“Come now, Imaginary Seaman, surely I don’t have to spell it out for you like a child?”

“Right, good. Give me another one.”

“Gods damn you, I know this ship’s lines like the back of my hand!” Locke looked down his nose at Caldris, which was only possible because his leather boots added an inch and a half to his height. “And I know what she’s capable of. Trust my judgment or feel free to start swimming.”

“Yes. A fine job, Master Kosta!” The sailing master squinted at Locke and scratched his beard. “Where does Master Kosta go when you do that? What exactly is it you do for a living, Leocanto?”

“I do this, I suppose. I’m a professional pretender. I … act.”

“On the stage?”

“Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage.”

“Indeed you do.” Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels, joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet from the kitten. “Places!”

Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly aloof and concentrating on their own tasks, while remaining close enough to pick up on a whisper or a prompting gesture.

“Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow,” said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the slightest breeze stirred. “The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps. I need to know you’ve got them down.”

Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight into the wind. To move a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at something like a forty-five degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags, tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities for disaster.

“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, “we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Master de Ferra!”

Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck. “All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!”

“Master Caldris,” said Locke. “Neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down.”

Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled, “Helm a-lee!”

Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship’s lee side, in this case the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full force; an error at this point could “lock them in irons,” stalling all progress, stealing power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse—an error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.

“Imaginary Sailors! Tacks and sheets!” Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions to the invisible deckhands. “Smartly now, you slothful dogs!”

“Master de Ferra,” called Locke, “that Imaginary Sailor is not minding his duty!”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and wait for my word!”

“Master Caldris!” Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping from a leather skin of pinkwater. “Hard over!”

“Aye, sir.” He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. “By your word, hard over.”

“Up mainsail,” cried Locke.

“Bowlines off! Braces off!” Jean blew another blast on his whistle. “Yards around for the starboard tack!”

In Locke’s mind, the ship’s bow was now tilting past the heart of the wind; the larboard bow would become their lee, and the wind would blow in across the starboard side of the ship. The yards would be rapidly rebraced for the sails to take advantage of the wind’s new aspect, and Caldris would be frantically reversing his wheel’s turn. The Red Messenger would need to stabilize her new course; if she was pushed too far to larboard, they might find themselves moving in the opposite of their intended direction, with the sails braced improperly to boot. They would be lucky to be merely embarrassed by such a fiasco.

“Hard over,” he yelled again.

“Aye sir,” cried Caldris. “Heard the captain fine the first time.”

“Lines on! Braces on!” Jean blew his whistle yet again. “Haul off all, you fuckin’ maggots!”

“We’re now on the starboard tack, Captain,” said Caldris. “Surprisingly, we didn’t lose her in stays and we’ll all live to see another hour.”

“Aye, no bloody thanks to this useless cur of an Imaginary Sailor!” Locke mimed grabbing a man and forcing him to the deck. “What’s your gods-damned problem, you work-shirking little orlop worm?”

“First mate de Ferra beats me cruelly,” cried Jean in a squeaky voice. “He is a monstrous bad fellow, who makes me wish I’d taken priest’s orders and never set foot aboard!”

“Of course he does! It’s what I pay him for.” Locke mimed hefting a blade. “For your crimes, I swear you’ll die on this very deck, unless you can answer two bloody questions! First—where the hell is my nonimaginary crew? And second, why in the name of all the gods am I supposed to practice wearing this damned uniform?”

He was startled out of his act by the sound of applause from behind him. He whirled to see Merrain standing just beside the entry port at the ship’s rail; she’d come up the ramp in absolute silence.

“Oh, wonderful!” She smiled at the three men on deck, stooped down, and plucked up the kitten, who’d moved immediately to attack Merrain’s fine leather boots. “Very convincing. But your poor invisible sailor doesn’t have the answers you seek.”

“Are you here to name someone who does?”

“On the morrow,” she said, “the archon orders you to take the sails of one of his private boats. He wishes to see a demonstration of your skills before you receive your final orders for sea. He and I will be your passengers. If you can keep our heads above water, he’ll show you where your crew is. And why we’ve had you practicing with that uniform.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

CASTING LOOSE

1

THERE WAS ONE GUARD PACING the dock at the base of the lonely island. His soft yellow lamp cast rippling light across the black water as Locke threw him a rope from within the little launch. Rather than tying them up, the guard thrust his lantern down toward Locke, Jean, and Caldris, and said, “This dock is strictly off … oh, gods. My apologies, sir.”

Locke grinned, feeling the authority of the full Verrari captain’s uniform enfold him like nothing so much as a warm blanket. He grabbed a piling and heaved himself up onto the dock while the guard saluted him awkwardly with his lantern hand crossed over his chest.

“Gods defend the archon of Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “Carry on. It’s your job to challenge strange boats at night, soldier.”

While the soldier tied the launch to a piling, Locke reached down and helped Jean up. Moving gracefully in the now-familiar costume, Locke then stepped around behind the dock guard, unfurled a leather crimper’s hood from within his jacket, slammed it down over the soldier’s head, and cinched the drawstring tight.

“Gods know there’s none stranger than ours that you’re ever likely to see.”

Jean held the soldier by his arms while the drugs inside the hood did their job. He lacked the constitution of the last man Locke had tried to knock out with such a hood, and sagged after just a few seconds of muffled struggle. When Locke and Jean tied him firmly to the piling at the far corner of the dock and stuffed a rag in his mouth, he was sleeping peacefully.

Caldris clambered out of the boat, picked up the guard’s lantern, and began pacing with it in his place.

Locke stared up at the stone tower that was their objective; seven stories tall, its battlements were orange-lit by alchemical navigation beacons warning ships away. Ordinarily there would be guards up there as well, watching the waters and the dock, but the hand of Stragos was already at work. Nothing moved atop the tower.

“Come on, then,” Locke whispered to Jean. “Let’s get inside and do some recruiting.”

2

“IT’S CALLED Windward Rock,” Stragos said. He pointed at the stone tower that jutted from the little island, perhaps a single arrow-flight from the line of hissing white surf that marked Tal Verrar’s outer barrier of glass reefs. They floated at anchor in seventy feet of water, a good mile west of the Silver Marina. The warm morning sun was just rising over the city behind them, making tiers of soft light from its layers of foggy haze.

True to Merrain’s word, Stragos had arrived at dawn in a thirty-foot launch of polished black wood, with comfortable leather seats at the stern and gold-gilded scrollwork on every surface. Locke and Jean were given the sails under Caldris’ minimal supervision, while Merrain sat in the bow. Locke had wondered if she was ever comfortable anywhere else.

They had sailed north, then rounded the Silver Marina and turned west, chasing the last blue shadow of the night sky on the far horizon.

They rode on for a few minutes, until Merrain whistled for everyone’s attention and pointed to her left, across the starboard bow. A tall, dark structure could be seen rising above the waves in the distance. Orange lights glowed at its peak.

Soon enough they had dropped anchor to regard the lonely tower. If Stragos had no praise for Locke and Jean’s handling of the vessel, neither did he offer any criticism.

“Windward Rock,” said Jean. “I’ve heard of it. Some sort of fortress.”

“A prison, Master de Ferra.”

“Will we be visiting it this morning?”

“No,” said Stragos. “You’ll be returning and landing soon enough. For now, I just wanted you to see it … and I wanted to tell you a little story. I have in my service a particularly unreliable captain, who has until now done a splendid job of concealing his shortcomings.”

“Words cannot express how truly sorry I am to hear that,” said Locke.

“He will betray me,” said Stragos. “His plans for months have been leading up to a grand and final betrayal. He will steal something of great value from me and turn it against me for all to see.”

“You should have been watching him more closely,” Locke muttered.

“I have been,” said Stragos. “And I am right now. The captain I speak of is you.”

3

WINDWARD ROCK had only one set of doors, iron-bound, eleven feet tall, locked and guarded from the inside. A small panel in the wall beside them slid open as Locke and Jean approached, and a head silhouetted by lamplight appeared behind it. The guardswoman’s voice was devoid of banter: “Who passes?”

“An officer of archon and Council,” said Locke with ritual formality. “This man is my boatswain. These are my orders and papers.”

He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door. She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs. Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars dusted the cloudless sky like confectioners’ sugar thrown against a black canvas.

Finally, there was a metallic clatter, and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting, but not returning Locke’s papers.

“My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to Windward Rock.”

Locke and Jean followed her into the tower’s entrance hall, which was divided into two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth. On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever mechanism closed the gates—they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.

The man, like the woman, wore the archon’s blue under ribbed black leather armor: bracers, vest, and neck-guard. He was clean-shaven and handsome, and he waited behind the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke’s papers.

“Captain Orrin Ravelle,” she said. “And boatswain. Here with orders from the archon.”

The man studied Locke’s papers at length before nodding and passing them back through the bars. “Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is your boatswain, Jerome Valora?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

“You’re to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?”

“Just a general viewing, Lieutenant.”

“As you will.” The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into the wall of iron bars, and stepped out toward them smiling. “We’re pleased to render any aid the Protector requires, sir.”

“I very much doubt that,” said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand. He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coifed hair. She cried out, whirled, and had her blackened-steel saber out of its scabbard in an instant.

Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armor robbed the blow of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a grip like iron.

Locke darted backward out of the female guard’s reach as she slashed with her blade. Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion.

“You … fucker …,” she muttered. “Poi … poi … son.”

Locke winced as she toppled facefirst to the stone floor; he’d meant to catch her, but the stuff on the blade was faster than he’d expected.

“You bastard,” coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean’s hold, “you killed her!”

“Of course I didn’t kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people … pull a blade anywhere around here and everyone assumes straightaway that you’ve killed someone.” Locke stepped up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. “Stuff on the edge is called witfrost. You have a good hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you’ll feel like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?”

“You … you gods-damned traitor!”

“Neck it is.” Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean’s arms, limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring of iron keys from his belt.

“Right,” said Locke. “Let’s pay a visit to the second vault.”

4

“RAVELLE DIDN’T exist until a month ago,” said Stragos. “Not until I had you to build the lie around. A dozen of my most trusted men and women will swear after the fact that he was real; that they shared assignments and meals with him, that they spoke of duties and trifles in his company.

“My finnickers have prepared orders, duty rosters, pay vouchers, and other documents, and seeded them throughout my archives. Men using the name of Ravelle have rented rooms, purchased goods, ordered tailored uniforms delivered to the Sword Marina. By the time I’m dealing with the consequences of your betrayal, he’ll seem real in fact and memory.”

“Consequences?” asked Locke.

“Ravelle is going to betray me just as Captain Bonaire betrayed me when she took my Basilisk out of the harbor seven years ago and raised a red banner. It’s going to happen again … twice to the same archon. I will be ridiculed in some quarters, for a time. Temporary loss for long-term gain.” He winced. “Have you not considered the public reaction to what I’m arranging, Master Kosta? I certainly have.”

“Gods, Maxilan,” said Locke, toying absently with a knot on one of the lines bracing the vessel’s relatively small mainsail. “Trapped out at sea, feigning mastery in a trade for which I’m barely competent, fighting for my life with your fucking poison in my veins, I shall endeavor to keep you in my prayers for the sake of your hardship.”

“Ravelle is an ass, too,” said the archon. “I’ve had that specifically written into his back history. Now, something you should know about Tal Verrar—the Priori’s constables guard Highpoint Citadel Gaol in the Castellana. The majority of the city’s prisoners go there. But while Windward Rock is a much smaller affair, it’s mine. Manned and provisioned only by my people.”

The archon smiled. “That’s where Ravelle’s treachery will reach the point of no return. That, Master Kosta, is where you’ll get your crew.”

5

TRUE TO Stragos’ warning, there was an additional guard to be disarmed in the first cell level beneath the entrance hall, at the foot of a wide spiral staircase of black iron. The stone tower overhead was for guards and alchemical lights; Windward Rock’s true purpose was served by three ancient stone vaults that went down far beneath the sea, into the roots of the island.

The man saw them coming and took immediate alarm; no doubt Locke and Jean descending alone was a breach of procedure. Jean relieved him of his sword as he charged up the steps, kicked him in the face, and pinned him, squirming, on his stomach. Jean’s month of exercise at Caldris’ whim seemed to have left his strength more bullish than ever, and Locke almost pitied the poor fellow struggling beneath his friend. Locke reached over, gave the guard a touch of witfrost, and whistled jauntily.

That was it for the night shift—a skeleton force with no cooks or other attendants. One guard at the docks, two in the entrance hall, one on the first cell level. The two on the roof, by Stragos’ direct order, would have sipped drugged tea and fallen asleep with the pot between them. They’d be found by their morning relief with a plausible excuse for their incapacity—and another lovely layer of confusion would be thrown over the whole affair.

There were no boats kept at Windward Rock itself, so even if prisoners could conceivably escape from iron-barred cells set into the weeping walls of the old vaults, and win free through the barred entrance hall and lone reinforced door, they’d face a swim across a mile of open water (at least), watched with interest by many things in the depths eager for a meal.

Locke and Jean ignored the iron door leading to the cells of the first level, continuing down the spiraling staircase. The air was dank, smelling of salt and unwashed bodies. Past the iron door on the second level, they found themselves in a vault divided into four vast cells, long and low-ceilinged, two on each side with a fifteen-foot corridor down the middle.

Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the pale green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in here was positively rank, dense with the odors of unclean bedding, urine, and stale food. Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.

Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars of the door. The clamor was sharp, echoing intolerably from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets, swearing and hollering.

“Are you men comfortable in there?” Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean ceased his pounding.

“We’d be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to fuck sideways,” said a prisoner near the door.

“I have no patience to speak of,” said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had come through. “If I walk back out that door, I won’t be coming back.”

“Piss off, then, and let us sleep,” said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the cell.

“And if I won’t be coming back,” said Locke, “then none of you poor bastards will ever find out why vaults one and three have prisoners in every cell … while this one is completely empty save for yourselves.”

That got their attention. Locke smiled.

“That’s better. My name is Orrin Ravelle. Until a few minutes ago, I was a captain in the navy of Tal Verrar. And the reason you’re here is because I selected you. Every last one of you. I selected you, and then I forged the orders that got you assigned to an empty cell vault.”

6

“I CHOSE forty-four prisoners, originally,” said Stragos. They stared at Windward Rock in the light of the morning sun. A boat of blue-coated soldiers was approaching it in the distance, presumably to relieve the current shift of guards. “I had the second cell vault cleared, except for them. All the orders signed ‘Ravelle’ are plausible, but upon scrutiny, the signs of forgery will become evident. I can use that later as a plausible excuse to arrest several clerks whose loyalties aren’t … straightforward enough for my taste.”

“Efficient,” said Locke.

“Yes.” Stragos continued, “These prisoners are all prime seamen, taken from ships that were impounded for various reasons. Some have been in custody for a few years. Many are actually former crewmen of your Red Messenger, lucky not to be executed along with their officers. Some of them might even have past experience at piracy.”

“Why keep prisoners at the Rock?” asked Jean. “In general, I mean?”

“Oar fodder,” answered Caldris. “Handy thing to keep on hand. War breaks out, they’ll be offered full pardons if they agree to work as galley rowers for the duration. The Rock tends to have a couple galleys’ worth, most of the time.”

“Caldris is entirely correct,” said Stragos. “Now, as I said, some of those men have been in there for several years, but none of them have ever had to endure conditions like those of the past month. I have had them deprived, of everything from clean bedding to regular meals. The guards have been cruel, disturbing their sleeping hours with loud noises and buckets of cold water. I daresay by now that there isn’t a man among them that doesn’t hate Windward Rock, hate Tal Verrar, and hate me. Personally.”

Locke nodded slowly. “And that’s why you expect them to greet Ravelle as their savior.”

7

“YOU’RE THE one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin’ Verrari ass-licker?”

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build frighteningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale green light, as though in disdain.

“I’m the one responsible for moving you to this vault,” said Locke. “I didn’t lock you up in the first place. I didn’t arrange for the treatment you’ve been receiving.”

“Treatment’s a fancy fuckin’ word for it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jabril.”

“Are you in charge?”

“Of what?” Some of the man’s anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. “Nobody’s in fuckin’ charge behind iron bars, Captain Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don’t keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts.”

“You men are all sailors,” said Locke.

“Was sailors,” said Jabril.

“I know what you are. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Think about this—thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labor, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war’s over. But you poor bastards … you’re penned up here against need. You’re cattle. If there’s a war, you’ll be chained to oars, and if there’s no war … well.”

“There’s always war,” said Jabril.

“Seven years since the last one,” said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. “Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?”

“What’s the bloody alternative … Captain?”

“Some of you came from a ship,” said Locke. “Impounded recently. Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps.”

“The Fortunate Venture, aye,” said Jabril. “We was promised high heaps of gold for that job.”

“Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage,” said another prisoner. “We thought we’d inherit their shares.”

“Turns out they was lucky,” said Jabril. “They didn’t have to take no share of this gods-damned place.”

“The Fortunate Venture is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina,” said Locke. “She’s been rechristened the Red Messenger. Refurbished, resupplied, careened, and smoked. She’s been prettied up. The archon means to take her into his service.”

“Good for the bloody archon.”

“I’m to command her,” said Locke. “She’s at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were.”

“What the fuck do you want, then?”

“It’s half past midnight,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. “Morning relief won’t arrive for more than six hours. And every guard on Windward Rock is … currently … unconscious.”

The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd.

“I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight,” said Locke. “This is the last time I will ever wear this uniform. I am quits with the archon and everything he stands for. I mean to take the Red Messenger, and for that I need a crew.”

The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust out at Locke through the bars, and he stepped back.

“I’m a topman,” one of the prisoners yelled, “fine topman! Take me!”

“Nine years at sea,” hollered another. “Do anything!”

Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing, “Quiiiieeeett!”

Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance hall.

“I sail south on the Sea of Brass,” he said. “I make for Port Prodigal. This is not subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then, we’re on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal shares.”

That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.

“Equal shares,” he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. “But you make your decision here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have means to get you off this rock and over to the Red Messenger. We’ll have hours of darkness to clear the harbor and be well away. If you don’t want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You’ll stay here when we’re gone. Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty … but I doubt it. Who among you will desist?

None of the prisoners said anything.

“Who among you will go free, and join my crew?”

Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine grin.

“All gods as your witness!” he shouted. “Upon your lips and upon your hearts.”

“Our oath is made,” said Jabril, while those around him nodded.

“Then stand upon it, or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence.”

“So we stand,” came a chorus of shouts.

Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock, and gave it a hard turn to the right.

8

“THERE IS one problem,” said Stragos.

“Just one?” Locke rolled his eyes.

“There are only forty left of the forty-four I selected.”

“How will that suit the needs of the ship?”

“We’ve got food and water for a hundred days with sixty,” said Caldris. “And she can be handled well with half that number. Once we’ve got them sorted out, we’ll do fine for hands at the lines.”

“So you will,” said Stragos. “The missing four are women. I had them placed in a separate cell. One of them developed a gaol-fever, and soon they all had it. I had no choice but to move them to shore; they’re too weak to lift their arms, let alone join this expedition.”

“We’re for sea with not a woman aboard,” said Caldris. “Will not Merrain be coming with us, then?”

“I’m afraid,” she said sweetly, “that my talents will be required elsewhere.”

“This is mad,” cried Caldris. “We taunt the Father of Storms!”

“You can find women for your crew in Port Prodigal, perhaps even good officers.” Stragos spread his hands. “Surely you’ll be fine for the duration of a single voyage down.”

“Would that it were mine to so declare,” said Caldris, a haunted look in his eyes. “Master Kosta, this is a poor way to start. We must have cats. A basket of cats, for the Red Messenger. We need what luck we can steal. All gods as your witness, you must not fail to have cats at that ship before we put to sea.”

“Nor shall I,” said Locke.

“Then it’s settled,” said Stragos. “Heed this now, Kosta. Concerning the … depth of your deception. In case you have any misgivings. None of the men you’ll be taking from Windward Rock have ever served in my navy, so they’ve little notion of what to expect from one of my officers. And soon enough you’ll be Ravelle the pirate rather than Ravelle the naval captain, so you may tailor the impersonation as you see fit, and worry little over small details.”

“That’s good,” said Locke. “I’ve got enough of those crammed into my head just now.”

“I have one last stipulation,” Stragos continued. “The men and women who serve at Windward Rock, even those who are not party to this scheme, are among my finest and most loyal. I will provide means for you to disable them without rendering permanent harm. In no way are they to be otherwise injured, not by you nor your crew, and gods help you if you leave any dead.”

“Curious sentiments for a man who claims to be no stranger to risks.”

“I would send them into battle at any time, Kosta, and lose them willingly. But none who wear my colors honestly are to die as part of this; that much my honor compels me to grant them. You are supposed to be professionals. Consider this a test of your professionalism.”

“We’re not bloody murderers,” said Locke. “We kill for good reason, when we kill at all.”

“So much the better,” said Stragos. “That is all I have to say, then. This day is yours to do with as you see fit. Tomorrow evening, just before midnight, you’ll land on Windward Rock and start this business.”

“We need our antidote,” said Locke. Jean and Caldris nodded.

“Of course. You three will get your last vials just before you leave. After that … I shall expect your first return within two months. And a report of your progress.”

9

LOCKE AND Jean managed a ragged muster of their new crew just inside the entrance hall. Jean had to demonstrate his physical strength to several men who attempted to vent their frustrations on the sleeping guards.

“I said you touch them at your peril,” Locke snarled for the third time. “Let them be! If we leave them dead behind us, we’ll lose all sympathy with anyone. Let them live, and Verrari will be laughing about this for months to come.

“Now,” he said, “move out quietly to the dockside. Take your ease, stretch your legs, have a good long look at the sea and sky. I’ve a boat to fetch before we can be away. For the sake of us all, keep your mouths shut.”

They mostly obeyed this admonition, breaking up into little whispering groups as they moved out of the tower. Locke noticed that some of the men hung back near the door, their hands on the stones, as though afraid to step out beneath the open sky. He couldn’t say he blamed them after months or years in the vault.

“That’s lovely,” said Jabril, who fell into step beside Locke as they approached the dock where Caldris paced with his lantern. “Fuckin’ lovely. Almost as lovely as not having to smell us all at once.”

“You’ll be crammed together again soon enough,” said Locke.

“Aye. Same but different.”

“Jabril,” said Locke, raising his voice, “in time, as we come to know one another’s strengths, we can hold proper votes for some of the officers we’ll need. For now, I’m naming you acting mate.”

“Mate of what?”

“Mate of whatever.” Locke grinned and slapped him on the back. “I’m not in the navy anymore, remember? You’ll answer to Jerome. Keep the men in order. Take the weapons from that soldier tied to the dock, just in case we need to pull a little steel this evening. I don’t expect a fight, but we should be ready.”

“Good evening, Captain Ravelle,” said Caldris. “I see you’ve fetched them out just as you planned.”

“Aye,” said Locke. “Jabril, this is Caldris, my sailing master. Caldris, Jabril is acting mate under Jerome. Listen up!” Locke raised his voice without shouting, lest it echo across the water to unseen ears. “I came with a boat for six. I have a boat for forty nearby. I need two men to help me row. Won’t be half an hour, and then we’ll be away.”

Two younger prisoners stepped forward, looking eager for anything that would relieve the tedium of what they’d been through.

“Right,” said Locke as he stepped down into their little boat, after Caldris and the two sailors. “Jerome, Jabril, keep order and quiet. Try to sort out those who can work right away from those who will need a few days to recover their strength.”

Anchored half a mile out from Windward Rock was a long launch, invisible in the moonlight until Caldris’ lantern found it from about fifty yards away. Locke and Caldris worked quickly to rig the boat’s small sail; then, slowly but surely, they steered their way back toward the prison with the two ex-prisoners rowing the little boat beside them. Locke glanced around nervously, spotting a sail or two gleaming palely on the far horizons, but nothing closer.

“Listen well,” he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly they’d settled down to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense—they were the crews of impounded ships, not hard cases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn’t make saints of them, but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favor for once.

“Able hands take the oars. Don’t be shy if you’re less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit down in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We’ve plenty to eat.”

That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days they’d have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.

In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied, and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.

“Right,” said Locke. “The Messenger is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I’ll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I’ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defenses are stowed.”

Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris’ lantern.

“Say farewell to Windward Rock, boys,” said Locke. “And bid fuck-you to the archon of Tal Verrar. We’re bound for sea.”

10

A SHADOW within shadows watched the two boats depart.

Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low gray shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water.

She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of witfrost sleep. True to the archon’s wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.

“Alas for that,” she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved finger across his cheeks. “You’re a handsome one.”

She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket, and cut the man’s throat with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the blade on the guard’s breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance hall.

The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn’t be plausible for anyone to have climbed the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here, and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.

That would be enough, she reckoned—it wasn’t that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to fail. But if they did return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they could return victorious, well … men like that were better off dead if they couldn’t be put to use on behalf of the interests she served.

Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely painless was a comfort in her work.

11

“CAPTAIN RAVELLE!”

The soldier was one of those handpicked by the archon to be in on some part of the deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the Red Messenger’s deck, followed by Jean, Caldris, and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men was just butting up against the ship’s starboard side.

“I didn’t expect you back this evening, sir.… Sir, what’s going on?”

“I have reached a decision,” said Locke, approaching the soldier. “This ship is too fine a thing for the archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking it to sea.”

“Now hold on … hold on, sir, that’s not funny.”

“Depends on where you’re standing,” said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned punch to the soldier’s stomach. “Depends on if you’re standing.” By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having received a devastating blow, and fell backward to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned. Let his new crew whisper of that amongst themselves.

The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler, and knives, then joined Jean and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.

“What’s to be done with the launch, Captain?” Jabril said as he came over the side.

“It’s too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch,” said Locke. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the “subdued” guard. “We’ll set him adrift in it. Jerome!”

“Aye, sir,” said Jean.

“Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel best for now; give us light.”

Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke’s help he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft golden light to work by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had the crew herded into the middle of the ship’s waist, before the mainmast. Before them all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer’s coat, and pitched it over the side. They applauded.

“Now, we must have haste without carelessness,” he said. “Those of you that do not believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads.”

Locke counted nine hands. Most of the men who raised them were visibly aged or far too slender for good health, and Locke nodded. “We hold no grudge for your honesty. You’ll take up your share of work once you’re fit again. For now, find a spot on the main deck below, or beneath the forecastle. There’s mats and canvas in the main hold. You may sleep or watch the fun as you see fit. Now, can anyone among you claim to be any sort of cook?”

One of the men standing behind Jabril raised a hand.

“Good. When the anchor’s up, get below and have a look at the stores. We’ve a brick firebox at the forecastle, plus an alchemical stone and a cauldron. We’ll want a hell of a meal once we’re out past the glass reefs, so show some initiative. And tap a cask of ale.”

The men began cheering at that, and Jean blew his whistle to quiet them down.

“Come, now!” Locke pointed to the darkness of the Elderglass island looming behind them. “The Sword Marina’s just the other side of that island, and we’re not away yet. Jerome! Capstan bars and stand by to haul up anchor. Jabril! Fetch rope from Caldris and help me with this fellow.”

Together, Locke and Jabril hoisted the “incapacitated” soldier to his feet. Locke tied a loose but very convincing knot around his hands with a scrap of rope provided by Caldris; once they were gone, the man could work himself free in minutes.

“Don’t kill me, Captain, please,” the soldier muttered.

“I would never,” said Locke. “I need you to carry a message to the archon on my behalf. Tell him that he may kiss Orrin Ravelle’s ass, that my commission is herewith resigned, and that the only flag his pretty ship will fly from now on is red.”

Locke and Jabril hoisted the man over the side of the entry port and dropped him the nine feet into the bottom of the launch. He yelped in (no doubt genuine) pain and rolled over, but seemed otherwise okay.

“Use those exact words,” Locke cried, and Jabril laughed. “Now! Master Caldris, we shall make for sea!”

“Very good, Captain Ravelle.” Caldris collared the four men nearest to him and began leading them below. Under his guidance, they would keep the anchor cable moving smoothly toward its tier on the orlop.

“Jerome,” said Locke, “hands to the capstan to raise anchor!”

Locke and Jabril joined all the remaining able-bodied members of the crew at the capstan, where the last of the heavy wooden bars were being slid into their apertures. Jean blew on his whistle, and the men crammed together shoulder-to-shoulder on the bars. “Raise anchor! Step-and-on! Step-and-on! Push it hard; she’ll be up ere long!” Jean chanted at the top of his lungs, giving them a cadence to stamp and shove by. The men strained at the capstan, many of them weaker than they would have liked or admitted, but the mechanism began to turn and the smell of wet cable filled the air.

“Heave-and-up! Heave-and-up! Drop the anchor and we’ll all be fucked!”

Soon enough they managed to heave the anchor up out of the water, and Jean sent a party forward to the starboard bow to secure it. Most of the men stepped away from the capstan groaning and stretching, and Locke smiled. Even his old injuries still felt good after the exercise.

“Now,” he shouted, “who among you sailed this ship when she was the Fortunate Venture? Step aside.”

Fourteen men, including Jabril, separated themselves from the others.

“And who among you were fair topmen?”

That got him seven raised hands; good enough for the time being.

“Any of you not familiar with this ship nonetheless comfortable up above?”

Four more men stepped forward, and Locke nodded. “Good lads. You know where you’ll be, then.” He grabbed one of the non-topmen by the shoulder and steered him toward the bow. “For’ard watch. Let me know if anything untoward pops up in front of us.” He grabbed another man and pointed to the mainmast. “Get a glass from Caldris; you’ll be masthead watch for now. Don’t look at me like that; you won’t be fucking with the rigging. Just sit still and stay awake.

“Master Caldris,” he bellowed, noting that the sailing master was back on deck, “southeast by east through the reef passage called Underglass!”

“Aye, sir, Underglass. I know the very one.” Caldris, of course, had plotted their course through the glass reefs in advance and carefully instructed Locke in the orders to give until they were out of sight of Tal Verrar. “Southeast by east.”

Jean gestured at the eleven men who’d volunteered for duty up on the heights of the yardarms, where the furled sails waited, hanging in the moonlight like the thin cocoons of vast insects. “Hands aloft to loose topsails and t’gallants! On the word, mind you!”

“Master Caldris,” shouted Locke, unable to disguise his mirth, “now we shall see if you know your business!”

The Red Messenger moved south under topsails and topgallants, making fair use of the stiff breeze blowing west off the mainland. Her bow sliced smoothly through the calm dark waters, and the deck beneath their feet heeled only the tiniest bit to starboard. It was a good start, thought Locke—a good start to a mad venture. When he had settled most of his crew in temporary positions, he stole a few minutes at the taffrail, watching the reflections of two moons in the gentle ripple of their wake.

“You’re enjoying the hell out of yourself, Captain Ravelle.” Jean stepped up to the taffrail beside him. The two thieves shook hands and grinned at one another.

“I suppose I am,” Locke whispered. “I suppose this is the most lunatic thing we’ve ever done, and so we’re entitled to bloody well enjoy ourselves.”

“Crew seems to have bought the act for now.”

“Well, they’re still fresh from the vault. Tired, underfed, excited. We’ll see how sharp they are when they’ve had a few days of food and exercise. Gods, at least I didn’t call anything by the wrong name.”

“Hard to believe we’re actually doing this.”

“I know. Barely seems real yet. Captain Ravelle. First Mate Valora. Hell, you’ve got it easy. I’ve got to get used to people calling me ‘Orrin.’ You get to stay a ‘Jerome.’ ”

“I saw little sense in making things harder for myself. I’ve got you to do that for me.”

“Careful, now. I can order you whipped at the rail.”

“Ha! A navy captain, maybe. A pirate first mate doesn’t have to stand for that.” Jean sighed. “You think we’ll ever see land again?”

“I damn well mean to,” said Locke. “We’ve got pirates to piss off, a happy return to arrange, Stragos to humble, antidotes to find, and Requin to rob blind. Two months at sea and I may even begin to have the faintest notion how.”

They stared for a while at Tal Verrar sliding away behind them, at the aura of the Golden Steps and the torch-glow of the Sinspire slowly vanishing behind the darker mass of the city’s southwestern crescent. Then they were passing through the navigational channel in the glass reefs, away to the Sea of Brass, away to danger and piracy. Away to find war and bring it back for the archon’s convenience.

12

“SAIL AHOY! Sail two points off the larboard bow!”

The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he’d packed in his chest. Before departure, he’d used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its natural color, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn’t yet sure if he’d shave it, but with the shout from above, his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway, and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.

A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. They’d had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the Red Messenger was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who’d been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last—and only previous—sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky.

“What passes, Master Caldris?”

“Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow.”

Caldris had the wheel to himself this morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco that stank like sulfur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was—hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

“Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?” Jabril seemed merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.

“Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?” Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master’s private signal for an emphatic no. As Locke had expected—and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.

“Can’t do it, lads. You know better than that. We’ve not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else’s. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We’ve got fresh food, a clean ship, and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris.”

“Hold course, aye.”

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke’s superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now … Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment.

“Streva,” he said to the youngest, “heave the log aft. Mal, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?”

“Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any.”

“I’ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the ass. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I’ll want good archers in the tops.”

“Fine idea, Captain.”

That, at least, seemed to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought.

“Master Valora!”

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing something at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgment of Locke’s shout.

“By sunset I want to know that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself.”

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke’s reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship’s weapons—aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabers, clubs, and a few polearms—would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden.

“Well done,” said Caldris quietly.

Mal watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, “Hold the line!”

“Seven and a half knots,” Streva hollered a moment later.

“Seven and a half,” said Caldris. “Very well. We’ve been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run.”

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris’ navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hairsbreadth west of due south.

“A fine pace if it holds,” muttered Caldris around his cigar. “Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don’t know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me very bloody comfortable.”

“And will it hold?” Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master’s ear.

“Good question. Summer’s end’s an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They’re a ways off, but they’re waiting.”

“Oh, splendid.”

“We’ll make do, Captain.” Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck, and returned it to between his teeth. “Fact is, we’re doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters.”

13

“KILL ’IM, Jabril! Get ’im right in the fuckin’ ’eart!”

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke’s chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who’d been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster. “Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a drop! Don’t spill a drop!”

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up, and flung the knife. It struck dead center in the coat, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle.

“Dammit!” he cried.

“Wine-waster,” shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervor of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. “Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!”

“Hey, at least I hit the coat,” said Jabril with a grin. “You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw.”

“Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!” chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up, and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. Jabril’s neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark red stuff down.

The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered his head, and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. “Oh no,” he cried, “I spilled a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!”

“My turn,” said the drenched sailor. “I’m gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!”

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship’s precious helm by half a dozen paces.

“This was a good idea,” said Locke.

“Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch.” Caldris was smoking a pale blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris’ suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the Red Messenger was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he’d offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double ration of fresh roasted pork—courtesy of the small but well-larded pig they’d brought with them—for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn’t. Caldris, Jean, and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who’d chosen the pork.

“It’s things like this that makes a ship seem like home,” said Caldris. “Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Locke, a bit wistfully.

“Aye, says the captain of the fuckin’ ship, on a night sent by the gods.” He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. “Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it’ll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words.”

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent afterimage when he blinked.

“Gods,” he said, “what the hell is that?”

There was a fountain of the things, now, about a hundred yards from the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror.

“You really are new to these waters,” said Caldris. “Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see ’em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin’ over the water. Over ships. They’ve been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you.”

“Are they some kind of fish?”

“Nobody rightly knows,” said Caldris. “Flit-wraiths can’t be caught. They can’t be touched, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are.”

“Eerie,” said Locke.

“You get used to ’em after a few years,” said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe, and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. “The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it’s haunted by the Eldren. Most say it’s just plain haunted. I’ve seen things. Saint Corella’s fire, burnin’ blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen … a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose it was, then gone.”

“Heh,” said Locke, smiling. “You’re pretty good at this. You don’t have to toy with me, Caldris.”

“I’m not toying with you one bit, Kosta.” Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. “I’m telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There’s things out there even I have trouble believing. And there’s places no sensible ship’s master will ever go. Places that are … wrong, somehow. Places that wait for you.”

“Ah,” said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr, and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. “Now there I grasp your meaning.”

“The Ghostwind Isles,” said Caldris, “well, they’re the worst of all. In fact, there’s only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on, and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck’s on ’em.” He paused before continuing. “You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?”

“I don’t think so,” said Locke.

“Well.” Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. “Originally there was three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre, and Hope-of-Silver.

“Port Prodigal’s still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal’s tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn’t. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burnt their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name ‘Montierre’ off the map. Place ain’t worth resetting.”

“And Hope-of-Silver?”

“Hope-of-Silver,” said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn’t just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take.

“Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just … gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took ’em all.”

“Merciful hells.”

“If only,” said Caldris. “A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it’d put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops.” Caldris sighed. “They’d lashed themselves there to escape whatever they’d seen … and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin’ for ’em.

“So pay attention to this, Master Kosta.” Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes. “You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your ship a happy home.”

14

“NEED A word, Captain Ravelle.”

A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The Red Messenger lacked the mass to knife deep into the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke’s feet became even less of a friend.

Jabril—recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle—and a pair of older sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon, holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men who’d declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship’s understrength complement, had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular.

“What do you need, Jabril?”

“Cats, Captain.”

The bottom fell out of Locke’s stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely puzzled. “What about them?”

“We been down on the main deck,” said one of the older sailors. “Sleeping, mostly. Ain’t seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin’ around, doin’ tricks, lookin’ to curl up an’ sleep on us.”

“I asked around,” said Jabril. “Nobody’s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin’ em in your cabin?”

“No,” said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including Caldris’ kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armory shack above their private bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream and plates of cold chicken.

Eight cats who were undoubtedly still lounging in that shack, right where he’d forgotten them, the night of the fateful assault on Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.

“Kittens,” he said quickly. “I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they’re a hell of a shy bunch—I myself haven’t seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they’re just getting used to us. We’ll see them soon enough.”

“Aye, sir.” Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors. “That’s good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds; no cats would be plain awful.”

“Couldn’t tolerate no such offense,” whispered one of the older sailors.

“We’ll put out some meat every night,” said Jabril. “We’ll keep poking around the decks. I’ll let you know soon as we find one.”

“By all means,” said Locke.

Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment they were gone.

15

ON THE evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private conversation in Locke’s cabin with the door locked.

“We’re doing well,” the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since they’d reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean’s care without supervision. He’d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master’s mate, a man called Bald Mazucca, but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with Caldris’ attention so divided.

They continued to be blessed by the behavior of the rest of the crew. The men were still fresh with vigor for any sort of work following their escape from prison. A half-assed carpenter and a decent sailmaker had been found, and one of Jabril’s friends had been optimistically voted quartermaster, in charge of counting and dividing plunder when it came. The infirm were gaining health with speed, and several had already joined watches. Lastly, the men no longer gathered to stare nervously across the ship’s wake, looking for any hint of pursuit on the sea behind them. They seemed to think that they had evaded Stragos’ retribution … and of course they could never be told that none would be forthcoming.

“This is your doing,” said Locke, patting Caldris on the shoulder. He berated himself for not thinking beforehand of what a strain the voyage would put on the older man. Mazucca would have to be shaped more quickly, and he and Jean would need to pick up whatever slack they could in their inept fashion. “Even with a glassy sea and a fine breeze, there’s no way in hell we’d have pulled this off so far without you.”

“Strong weather coming, though,” said Caldris. “Weather that will test us. Summer’s end, like I said, shit blows up that’s like to knock you halfway round the world. Might spend days riding it out with bare poles, throwing up until there ain’t a dry spot in the holds.” The sailing master sighed, then gave Locke a curious look. “Speaking of holds, I heard the damnedest things the past day or two.”

“Oh?” Locke tried to sound nonchalant.

“Ain’t nobody seen a cat, not on any of the decks. Not a one has come up from wherever they are, not for anything, ale or milk or eggs or meat.” Sudden suspicion clouded his brow. “There are cats down there … right?”

“Ah,” said Locke. His sympathy for Caldris from a moment earlier remained like a weight on his heart. For once, he found himself completely unwilling to lie, and he massaged his eyes with his fingers as he spoke. “Ah.

No, the cats are all safe and sound in their shack in the Sword Marina, right where I left them. Sorry.”

“You fucking jest,” said Caldris in a flat, dead voice. “Come now. Don’t bloody lie to me about this.”

“I’m not.” Locke spread his palms before him and shrugged. “I know you told me it was important. I just … I had a hundred things to do that night. I meant to fetch them, honest.”

“Important? I told you it was important? I told you it was fucking critical, is what I told you!” Caldris kept his voice at a whisper, but it was like the sound of water boiling against hot coals. Locke winced. “You have imperiled our souls, Master Kosta, our very gods-damned souls. We have no women and no cats and no proper captain, I remind you, and hard weather sits upon our course.”

“Sorry, honestly.”

“Honestly, indeed. I was a fool to send a land-sucker to fetch cats. I should have sent cats to fetch me a land-sucker! They wouldn’t have disappointed me.”

“Now, surely, when we reach Port Prodigal—”

“When is an audacious assumption, Leocanto. For long before then the crew will cop wise to the fact that our cats are not merely shy, but imaginary. If they decide the cats have died off, they will just assume that we are cursed and abandon the ship when we touch land. If, however, the absence of smelly little bodies leads them to deduce that their fuckin’ captain in fact brought none, they will hang you from a yardarm.”

“Ouch.”

“You think I jest? They will mutiny. If we see another sail on that horizon, in any direction, we must give chase. We must bring a fight. You know why? So we can take some of their bloody cats. Before it’s too late.”

Caldris sighed before continuing, and suddenly looked ten years older. “If it’s a summer’s-end storm coming up on us,” said Caldris, “it’ll be moving north and west, faster than we can sail. We’ll have to pass through it, for we cannot outrun it by beating up to the east. It’ll catch us still, and it’ll only catch us tired. I’ll do my damnedest, but you’d better pray in your cabin tonight for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Cats falling from the bloody sky.”

16

OF COURSE, no convenient rain of screeching felines was forthcoming that night, and when Locke made his first appearance on the quarterdeck the next morning, there was an ugly ghost-gray haze looming on the southern horizon like the shadow of an angry god. The bright medallion of the sun rising in the otherwise clear sky only made it seem more sinister. The starboard heel of the deck was yet more pronounced, and walking to anywhere on the larboard bow felt almost like going up a small hill. Waves slapped the hull and were pulverized to spray, filling the air with the smell and taste of salt.

Jean was drilling a small group of sailors with swords and polearms at the ship’s waist, and Locke nodded knowingly, as though he caught every nuance of their practice and approved. He toured the deck of the Red Messenger, greeting sailors by name, and tried to ignore the feeling that Caldris’ gaze was burning holes in the back of his tunic.

“A fine morning to you, Captain,” muttered the sailing master when Locke approached the wheel. Caldris looked ghoulish in the bright sunlight: his hair and beard washed whiter, his eyes sunken in deeper shadow, every line on his face newly re-etched by the hand of whatever god claimed him.

“Did you sleep last night, Master Caldris?”

“I found myself strangely unable, Captain.”

“You must rest sometime.”

“Aye, and the ship must generally stay above the waves, or so I’ve heard it suggested.”

Locke sighed, faced the bow, and studied the darkening southern sky. “A summer’s-end storm, I daresay. Been through enough of them in my time.” He spoke loudly and casually.

“Soon enough you’ll be in one more, Captain.”

Locke spent the afternoon counting stores in the main hold with Mal as his scribe, marking little lines on a wax tablet. They ducked and weaved through a forest of salted meat in treated cloth sacks, hung from the beams in the hold and swaying steadily with the increasing motion of the ship. The hold was danker already from constant occupation by the crew; those who had been inclined to sleep in the more open space beneath the forecastle had abandoned it as the promise of hard weather had loomed. Locke was certain he smelled piss; someone was either too lazy or too frightened to crawl out and use the craplines. That could get ugly.

The whole sky was a cataract of haze-gray by the fourth hour of the afternoon. Caldris, slumped against the mast for a brief respite while Bald Mazucca and another sailor held the wheel, ordered sails trimmed and lanterns passed around from the storm lockers. Jean and Jabril led parties belowdecks to ensure that their cargo and equipment was all properly stowed. A weapons locker flying open, or a barrel tumbling around in a rocking ship, would send hapless sailors to meet the gods.

After dinner, at Caldris’ whispered insistence, Locke ordered those sailors who’d dipped into the ship’s store of tobacco to smoke their last until further notice. Open flames would no longer be tolerated anywhere; alchemical lanterns would provide all of their light, and they would use the hearthstone or—more likely—take cold meals. Locke promised an extra half of a wine ration each night if that became necessary.

A premature darkness had infused the sky by the time Locke and Jean could sit down for a quiet drink in the stern cabin. Locke closed the shutters over his stern windows, and the compartment seemed smaller than ever. Locke regarded the dubious comforts of this symbol of Ravelle’s authority: a padded hammock against the larboard bulkhead, a pair of stools, his sword and knives hung on the wall by storm clasps. Their “table” was a flat wooden board atop Locke’s chest. Sad as it was, it was princely compared to the glorified closets claimed by Jean and Caldris, or the way the men seemed to burrow in cargo and canvas matting on the main deck.

“I’m so sorry about the cats,” said Locke.

“I could have remembered as well,” said Jean. Unspoken was the obvious statement that he’d trusted Locke enough not to feel that he needed to concern himself. Jean might be doing his best to stay polite, but guilt twisted in Locke’s stomach more sharply for it.

“No sharing this blame,” said Locke, sipping his warm ale. “I’m the captain of the bloody ship.”

“Don’t be grandiose.” Jean scratched his belly, which had been reduced by his recent activity to a much less dramatic curve than it had once possessed. “We’ll think of something. Hell, if we spend a few days plowing through a storm, the men won’t have time to worry about anything except when and how hard to piss their breeches.”

“Hmmm. Storm. Fine opportunity for one of us to misstep and look a fool in front of the men. More likely to be me than you.”

“Quit brooding.” Jean grinned. “Caldris knows what he’s doing. He’ll haul us through somehow.”

There was a sudden heavy impact on the cabin door. Locke and Jean jumped up from their stools in unison, and Locke darted for his weapons. Jean shouted, “What passes?”

“Kosta,” came a faint voice, followed by a feeble rattling, as though someone was trying and failing to work the latch.

Jean pulled the door open just as Locke finished buckling on his sword-belt. Caldris stood at the bottom of the companionway, clutching the doorframe for support, swaying on his feet. The amber glow of Locke’s cabin lamp revealed wretched details: Caldris’ eyes were bloodshot and rolling upward, his mouth hung open, and his waxy skin was glazed with sweat.

“Help, Kosta,” he whispered, wheezing with a sound that was painful just to hear.

Jean grabbed him and held him up. “Damn,” he muttered. “He’s not just tired, Leo … Captain. He needs a bloody physiker!”

“Help … Kosta,” moaned the sailing master. He clawed at his left upper arm with his right hand, and then at his left breast. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

“Help me?” Locke put a hand beneath Caldris’ chin; the man’s pulse was wild and erratic. “What do you mean, help me?”

“No.” Caldris grimaced with concentration, sucking in a harsh breath between each word. “Help. Me. Kosta!”

“Lay him on the table,” said Jean, and together he and Locke pressed the old man down onto his back.

“Sweet gods,” said Locke, “is it the poison? I don’t feel any different.”

“Nor I,” said Jean. “I think … I think his heart is seizing up. I’ve seen it before. Shit. If we can calm him down, maybe get him to drink something—”

But Caldris moaned again, dug feebly at the left side of his chest with both hands, and shuddered. His hands fell limp. One long, strangled exhalation escaped from his throat, and Locke, in rising horror, felt frantically around the base of his neck with the fingers of both hands.

“His pulse is gone,” Locke whispered.

A soft rattle on the cabin roof, gentle at first but quickly rising in tempo, told them that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall on the ship. Caldris’ eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were lifeless as glass.

“Oh, shit,” said Jean.

II
CARDS UP THE SLEEVE

“Gamblers play just as lovers make love and drunkards drink—blindly and of necessity, under domination of an irresistible force.”

Jacques Anatole Thibault

CHAPTER EIGHT

SUMMER’S END

1

DARK WATER ACROSS THE BOW, water at the sides, water in the air, falling with the weight of lead pellets against Locke’s oilcloak. The rain seemed to come first from one side and then another, never content to fall straight down, as the Red Messenger rocked back and forth in the gray hands of the gale.

“Master Valora!” Locke held fast to the safety lines knotted around the mainmast (as they were knotted all around the deck) and bellowed down the main-deck hatch. “How much water in the well?”

Jean’s answer came up a few moments later. “Two feet!”

“Very good, Master Valora!”

Locke caught a glimpse of Bald Mazucca staring at him, and he suppressed a feeling of unease. He knew that Caldris’ sudden death the day before had been taken by the crew as an omen of the worst sort; they were openly muttering about women and cats, and the focal point of all their unkind attention was one Orrin Ravelle, whose status as captain and savior was steadily fraying. Locke turned toward the helmsman and found him once again squinting ahead into the stinging rain, seemingly absorbed in his duty.

Two cloaked sailors stood at the second wheel behind Mazucca; in seas this strong control of the rudder could easily fly free from the grip of a single man. Their faces were dark shadows within their hoods; they had nothing friendly to say to Locke, either.

The wind screamed through the lines and yards overhead, where most of the sails were tightly furled. They continued to push vaguely southwest under the press of nothing but close-reefed topsails. They were heeled over so far to starboard that Mazucca and his assistants were not merely standing in wait at their wheels. The crashing sea demanded their constant, tedious concentration to keep the ship stable, and still the sea was rising.

A rush of gray-green water ran over Locke’s bare toes and he sucked in breath; he’d abandoned his boots for the more certain footing of unprotected feet. Locke watched that water roll across the deck, unwelcome but constant guest, before it poured away down the scuppers and leaked past the edges of the storm-canvas laid beneath the hatch gratings. In truth the water was warm, but here in the sunless heart of the storm, with the wind like knives in the air, his imagination made it seem cold.

“Captain Ravelle!”

Jabril was approaching along the larboard rail, storm lantern in one night-black hand. “It might’ve been advisable to take down the fuckin’ topgallant masts a few hours ago,” he shouted.

Since Locke had risen that morning, Jabril had offered at least half a dozen rebukes and reminders without prompting. Locke stared upward at the very tips of the main and foremasts, nearly lost in the swirling haze overhead. “I gave it some thought, Jabril, but it didn’t seem necessary.” According to some of what Locke had read, even without sails flying from their yards, the topgallant masts might give unwanted leverage to deadly storm winds, or even be lost over the side as the vessel bucked and heaved. He’d been too busy to think of striking them down.

“It’ll seem pretty gods-damned necessary if they come down and take more of the rigging with them!”

“I might have them struck down in a while, Jabril, if I think it proper.”

“If you think it proper?” Jabril gaped at him. “Are you bereft of your bloody senses, Ravelle? The time to strike the bastards was hours ago; now the hands we have are in sore need elsewhere, and the fuckin’ weather’s up! We might try it only were the ship in peril … but damn me, she might soon be! Have you not been out this far on the Sea of Brass before, Captain?”

“Aye, of course I have.” Locke sweated within his oilcloak. Had he known the real extent of Jabril’s sea-wisdom, he might have tasked the man with minding such details, but now it was too late, and some of his incompetence was laid bare. “Forgive me, Jabril. Caldris was a good friend. His loss has left me a bit off-kilter!”

“Indeed! As the loss of the fuckin’ ship might leave us all more than a touch off-kilter, sir.” Jabril turned and began making his way forward along the larboard rail, then after a few seconds whirled back to Locke. “You and I both know for a damn truth there’s not a single bloody cat on board, Ravelle!”

Locke hung his head and clung to the mizzen. It was too much to hope that Mazucca and the hands standing behind him hadn’t heard that. But of course, at his glance, they said nothing and betrayed nothing, staring fixedly ahead into the storm, as though trying to imagine he were not there at all.

2

BELOWDECKS WAS a nightmare. At least on deck one had masts and crashing seas to offer some perspective on one’s place. Down here, in the enveloping fug of sweat, urine, and vomit, the shuddering walls themselves seemed to tilt and lurch at malicious whim. Streams of water poured down from hatchways and gratings, despite the weather precautions the crew had taken. The main deck echoed with the muffled howling of the wind, and the clanking sound of the pumps rose from the orlop below.

Those pumps were fine Verrari gearwork, capable of heaving water up and dashing it over the side at some speed, but they demanded eight-man shifts in seas like this, and the labor was backbreaking. Even a crew in good health would have found the job onerous; it was just plain bad luck for this bunch that so few of them had come out of prison at anything near their full strength.

“The water gains, Captain,” said a sailor Locke couldn’t recognize in the near darkness. He’d popped his head up the hatchway from the orlop. “Three feet in the well. Aspel says we busted a seam somewhere; says he needs men for a repair party.”

Aspel was their approximation of a ship’s carpenter. “He’ll have them,” Locke said, though from where, he knew not. Ten doing important work on deck, eight at the pumps … damn near their time to be relieved, too. Six or seven still too bloody weak to be of any use save as ballast. A squad in the orlop hold with Jean, resecuring casks of food and water after three had come loose and broken open. Eight sleeping fitfully on the main deck just a few feet away, having been up all night. Two with broken bones, trying to dull the pain with an unauthorized ration of wine. Their rudimentary scheme of watches was unraveling in the face of the storm’s demands, and Locke struggled to subsume a sharp pang of panic.

“Fetch Master Valora from the orlop,” he said at last. “Tell him he and his men can look to the stores again once they’ve given Aspel a hand.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Captain Ravelle!”

Another shout rose from below as the first sailor disappeared, and Locke stood over the hatchway to answer. “What passes?”

“Our time at the bloody pumps, sir! We can’t keep up this gods-damned pace forever. We need relief. And we need food!”

“You shall have them both,” said Locke, “in but ten minutes.” Though from where, again, he knew not; all his choices were sick, injured, exhausted, or otherwise engaged. He turned to make his way back up to the deck. He could swap the deck-watch and the men at the pumps; it would bring joy to neither group, but it might serve to nudge the ship ahead of total disaster for a few more precious hours.

3

“WHAT DO you mean, you haven’t been turning the glasses?”

“Captain Ravelle, sir, beggin’ your double-fuckin’ pardon, but we ain’t had no time to turn the glasses nor mind the log since … hell, I suppose I can’t say. A while now.”

Bald Mazucca and his mate looked more like they were clinging to his wheel for dear life than steering the ship with it. Two teams of two had the wheels; the air was a frenzy of howling wind and stinging rain. The sea, cresting twenty feet or more, slammed past the bow again and again, washing the deck white and sluicing past Locke’s ankles. At long last they’d been forced to abandon a southerly course, and now they were dead west before the wind, pulled by one lonely storm forecourse. They scudded again and again through waves high as houses.

A bolt of yellow flitting past in the periphery of Locke’s vision was a storm-lantern flying free and vanishing over the side, soon to be a curiosity for the fish far below.

Locke hauled himself over to the binnacle and flipped through the damp pages of the master’s log; the last hasty entry read:

3rd hr afternoon 7 Festal 78 Morgante s/sw 8 kts

please may Iono spare these souls

Locke couldn’t remember when it had last felt like the third hour of the afternoon. The storm turned high noon dark as the insides of a shark’s gullet, and the crackle of lightning gave uncanny illumination to what might have been deep evening. They were as unfixed in time as they were in place.

“At least we know we’re somewhere on the Sea of Brass,” he shouted above the din. “We’ll be through this mess soon enough, and then we’ll take sightings to fix our latitude.”

If only that was as easily done as said. Fear and exhaustion had set Locke’s senses reeling; the world was gray and whirling in every direction, and he’d thrown up his last cold meal at the taffrail … gods knew when. Hours before, probably. If Bondsmage of Karthain had appeared on deck at that moment and offered to use magic to steer the ship to safety, Locke might have kissed their boots.

There was a sudden terrible sound overhead; an explosive crack followed by the warbling hiss of a broken line lashing the air. Seconds later came a louder crash, and then a snap-snap-snap like the noise of a whip biting flesh.

“ ’Ware above,” cried Jabril from somewhere forward; Locke and the ship seemed to lurch at once from another hammering wave. It was this loss of footing that saved Locke’s life. A shadow swooped past his left shoulder as he slipped to the wet deck, sputtering. There was a splintering crash, screams, and sudden blackness as something slick and yielding enshrouded him.

Sail canvas! Locke shoved at it, working his way out from beneath it. Strong hands grabbed his forearms and hauled him to his feet. They belonged to Jean, who was braced against the starboard quarterdeck rail. Locke had slid a few feet to his right with the fall. Muttering thanks, he turned to see exactly what he feared.

The main topgallant mast had torn away. Its stays must have been snapped by some trick of wind or the ship’s tumult. It had plunged forward and down, unfurling and trailing sail from its yard as it went, before a mess of tangled rigging had snapped it backward like a pendulum just above the deck. It covered the wheels, and the four men previously manning them were nowhere to be seen. Locke and Jean moved in unison, fighting across wet canvas and torn rope while smaller pieces of debris continued to rain down around them. Already Locke could feel the ship moving in an unhealthy fashion beneath them. The wheels must be seized, the rudder put right instantly.

“All hands,” Locke cried with every ounce of conviction he possessed. “All hands on deck! All hands to save the ship!”

Jean heaved against the fallen topgallant spar, bracing himself against the mainmast, letting loose a howl of sheer exertion. Wood and canvas shifted, then crashed to the deck. Some of the handles of the two wheels had been reduced to splinters, but the wheels themselves were substantially intact. Locke could now see Bald Mazucca crawling slowly to his feet behind them; another man lay on deck with the top of his head plainly smashed in.

“Seize the wheel,” Locke cried, looking around for more help. “Seize the bloody wheel!” He found himself tangled with Jabril.

“Captain,” Jabril hollered straight into his face, “we are like to broach!”

Oh good, thought Locke, at least I know what that means. He gave Jabril a shove toward the wheels, and grabbed onto one beside Jean. “Helm a-larboard,” Locke coughed, confident of that much. Groaning with strain, he and Jean fought to heave the wheel in the proper direction. The Red Messenger was slipping to lee at an angle, down into the troughs of the waves; in moments she’d be broadside to them and all but lost. A dark wave, impossibly heavy, surged over the starboard rail and doused them all, the merest foretaste of what awaited failure.

But the resistance of the wheel lessened as Jabril found his place behind them and heaved; in seconds he was joined by Mazucca, and inch by straining inch Locke felt the ship’s stern come round again to larboard, until her bow was knifing into the waves once more. They’d bought time to contemplate the disaster the toppling mast had made of the rigging.

Men boiled out of the deck hatches, inhuman shapes in the dancing light of storm-lanterns. Lightning scorched the darkness above them. Orders were issued, from Locke and Jean and Jabril, with no heed paid to whose was the higher authority. The minutes became hours, and the hours felt like days. They fought on together in an eternity of gray chaos, cold and exhausted and terrified, against the screaming winds above and the hammering waters below.

4

“THREE FEET of water in the well and holding, Captain.”

Aspel delivered his report with a makeshift bandage wrapped around his head, the sleeve of someone’s jacket roughly slashed from its parent garment.

“Very good,” said Locke, holding himself up at the mainmast much as Caldris had days before. Every joint and muscle in Locke’s body announced their discomfort; he felt like a rag doll full of broken glass, and he was soaked in the bargain. But in that he was no different from any of the survivors aboard the Red Messenger. As Chains had once said, feeling like you wanted desperately to die was fine evidence that you had yet to do so.

The summer’s-end storm was a receding line of darkness on the northwestern horizon; it had spit them out a few hours earlier. Here, the seas were running at five or six feet and the skies were still ashen gray, but this was a paradise following the tempest. Enough funereal light filtered down from above for Locke to guess that it was day, after some fashion.

He surveyed the shambles of the deck; lifelines and debris from the rigging were tangled everywhere. Scraps of canvas fluttered in the wind, and sailors were tripping over fallen block and tackle, cursing as they went. They were a crew of ghosts, haggard and clumsy with fatigue. Jean labored at the forecastle to conjure their first warm meal in living memory.

“Damnation,” Locke muttered. Their escape had not been without price: three swept clean overboard, four seriously injured, two dead including Caldris. Mirlon, the cook, had been the man at the wheel when the main topgallant mast had crashed down upon him like a divine spear and shattered his skull.

“No, Captain,” said Jabril from behind him. “Not if we can do right by them.”

“What?” Locke whirled, confused.… Suddenly he remembered. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“The fallen, Captain,” said Jabril, enunciating as though to a child. “The fallen haunt our decks and cannot rest until we send them off proper.”

“Aye,” said Locke. “Let’s do that.”

Caldris and Mirlon lay by the larboard entry port, wrapped in canvas. Pale packages bound with tarred rope, awaiting their final send-off. Locke and Jabril knelt beside them.

“Say the words, Ravelle,” muttered Jabril. “You can do that much for them. Send their souls on down to Father Stormbringer and give them rest.”

Locke stared at the two wrapped corpses and felt a new pain in his heart. Nearly overcome with fatigue and shame, he put his head in his hands and thought quickly.

By tradition, ships’ captains could be proclaimed lay priests of Iono, with a minimum of study at any proper temple to the Father of Grasping Waters. At sea, they could then lead prayers, perform marriages, and even give death-blessings. While Locke knew some interior ritual of Iono’s Temple, he wasn’t consecrated in Iono’s service. He was a priest of the Crooked Warden, and here at sea, a thousand miles out into Iono’s domain, aboard a ship that was already damned for spurning His mandates … there was no way in heavens or hells Locke could presume to give these men Iono’s rest. For the sake of their souls, he’d have to invoke the only power he had any pull with.

“Crooked Warden, Unnamed Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Caldris bal Comar, Iono’s servant, sworn to steal goods beneath the red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom—”

“What are you doing?” Jabril hissed, seizing Locke by the arm. Locke shoved him backward.

“The only thing I can do,” said Locke. “The only honest blessing I can give these men, understand? Don’t fucking interfere again.” He reached back down to touch Caldris’ wrapped body. “We deliver this man, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea.” Locke figured a little flattery never went amiss in these matters. “Lend him aid. Carry his soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.”

Locke gestured for Jabril’s help. The muscular man remained deadly silent as they lifted Caldris’ body together and heaved it out the entry port. Even before he heard the splash, Locke reached back down to the other canvas bundle.

“Crooked Warden, Thiefwatcher, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this man, Mirlon, Iono’s servant, sworn to steal goods beneath a red flag, therefore sharing a corner of your kingdom …”

5

THE MUTINY came the next morning, while Locke slept senseless in his hammock, still wearing the wet clothes that had seen him through the storm.

He was awakened by the sound of someone slamming his door and shooting home the bolt. Bleary-eyed and gasping in confusion, he all but fell out of his hammock and had to use his sea chest to push himself unsteadily to his feet.

“Arm yourself,” said Jean, backing away from the door with both of his hatchets in hand. “We’ve got a problem.”

That brought Locke to full wakefulness sharply enough. He buckled on his sword-belt in haste, noting with satisfaction that the heavy shutters over his stern windows were still drawn. Light peeked in around the edges; was it day already? Gods, he’d slept the whole night away in one dreamless blink.

“There’s, ah, some of them that aren’t happy with me, aren’t there?”

“None of them are happy with us.”

“I think they’re surely angrier with me than they are with you. I think you could still make it as one of them; it’s my blood they’ll be after, and you can claim to be as much my dupe as they were. Take me out to them. You might still pull this scheme off and get the antidote from Stragos.”

“Are you mad?” Jean glared back at Locke, but didn’t step away from the door.

“You’re a strange fellow, brother.” Locke contemplated his Verrari sea-officer’s saber uneasily; in his hands it would be no less a showpiece than it was now, in its scabbard. “First you want to punish yourself for something that’s not your fault, and now you won’t let me slip you out of a mistake that’s entirely mine.”

“Who the hell are you to lecture me, Locke? First you insist that I stay despite the real danger I pose to you, now you beg me to betray you for gain? Fuck you. You’re ten pints of crazy in a one-pint glass.”

“That describes us both, Jean.” Locke smiled despite himself; there was something refreshing in being returned to danger of his own making after the indifferent malice of the storm. “Though you’re more of a carafe than a pint glass. I knew you wouldn’t buy it.”

“Too gods-damned right.”

“I will say, I would’ve liked to see Stragos’ face when we did whatever we were going to do to him,” said Locke. “And I would’ve liked to know what it was when the clever moment came.”

“Well,” said Jean, “as long as we’re wishing, I would have liked a million solari and a parrot that speaks Throne Therin. But they’re not coming, take my meaning?”

“Maybe the fact that this scuppers Stragos’ precious little plan is fuck-you enough.”

“Now, Locke.” Jean sighed, and his voice softened. “Maybe they’ll want to talk first. And if they want to talk to you, with your wits about you, we might still have a chance.”

“Doubtless you’re the only man aboard this ship who’d still express confidence in anything I do,” Locke sighed.

“Ravelle!” The shout came from the companionway.

“You didn’t kill any of them yet, did you, Jean?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Ravelle! I know you’re in there, and I know you can hear me!”

Locke stepped up to the cabin door and shouted back through it. “Marvelously clever, Jabril! You’ve tracked me unerringly to the cabin in which I’ve been fast asleep and motionless all bloody night. Who tipped you off?”

“We have all the bows, Ravelle!”

“Well, damn,” said Locke. “You must have gotten into the weapon lockers, then. I suppose I was hoping we could have one of those pleasant dancing mutinies, or maybe a singing-and-card-games mutiny, you know?”

“There’s thirty-two of us as can still move, Ravelle! Two of you in there, no food, no water … the ship’s ours. How long do you figure on staying in there?”

“It’s a fine place,” shouted Locke. “Got a hammock, a table, nice view out the stern … big door between us and the rest of you.…”

“Which we can smash at any time, and you know it.” Jabril lowered his voice; a creak of shifting weight in the companionway told Locke he’d stepped right up to the other side of the door. “You’re glib, Ravelle, but glib’s no good against ten bows and twenty blades.”

“I’m not the only man in here, Jabril.”

“Aye. And believe me, there’s not one among us who’d like to face Master Valora; not with fuckin’ four-to-one odds. But the odds is better than that. Like I said, we got all the bows. You want it to come down hard, we’ll do what it takes.”

Locke bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. “You swore an oath to me, Jabril. An oath to me as your captain! After I gave you your lives back.”

“We all did, and we meant it, but you’re not what you said you was. You’re no sea-officer. Caldris was the real thing, gods rest him, but I don’t know what the fuck you are. You deceived us, so the oath don’t stand.”

“I see.” Locke pondered, snapped his fingers, and continued. “So you would have kept to the oath, had I … ah, been what I claimed to be?”

“Aye, Ravelle. Fuckin’ right we would’ve.”

“I believe you,” said Locke. “I believe you’re no oath-breaker, Jabril. So I have a proposal. Jerome and I are willing to come peaceably out of the cabin. We’ll come up on the deck, and we’ll talk. We’ll be pleased to hear your grievances, every last one. And we’ll keep our hands empty, so long as you swear an oath to give us that much. Safe conduct to the deck, and an open talk. For everyone.”

“Won’t be no ‘hearing grievances,’ Ravelle. It’ll just be us telling you how it’s to be.”

“As you wish,” said Locke. “Call it whatever you like. Give me your oath of safe passage, and it’ll happen. We’ll come out right now.”

Locke strained for several seconds to hear anything from the companionway. At last, Jabril spoke.

“Come up with empty hands,” he said, “and don’t make no unkind moves, especially not Valora. Do that, and I swear before all the gods, you’ll come up to the deck safe. Then we’ll talk.”

“Well,” whispered Jean, “at least you got us that much.”

“Yeah. Maybe just a chance to die in the sunlight rather than the shade, though.” He considered changing out of his wet clothes before going up on deck, then shook his head. “Hell with it. Jabril!”

“Aye?”

“We’re opening the door.”

6

THE WORLD above the deck was one of rich blue skies and bright sunlight; a world Locke had almost forgotten over the previous days. He marveled at it, though Jabril led them to the waist under the eyes of thirty men with drawn swords and nocked arrows. Lines of white foamed on the sea at the horizons, but around the Red Messenger the waves rolled softly, and the breeze was a welcome kiss of warmth against Locke’s skin.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “We sailed right back into summer again.”

“Stands to reason that we got blown a ways south even in the storm,” said Jean. “We must have passed the Prime Divisor. Latitude naught.”

The ship was still something of a shambles; Locke spotted makeshift and incomplete repairs everywhere. Mazucca stood calmly at the wheel, the only unarmed man on deck. The ship was making steerage way under nothing but its main topsail. The mainmast rigging would need one hell of a sorting out before it would carry any useful canvas; the fallen topgallant mast was nowhere to be seen.

Locke and Jean stood before the mainmast, waiting. Up on the forecastle, men were looking down on them from behind their bows. Thankfully, none of them had drawn their strings back—they looked nervous, and Locke trusted neither their judgment nor their muscle tone. Jabril leaned back against the ship’s boat and pointed at Locke.

“You fuckin’ lied to us, Ravelle!”

The crew shouted and jeered, shaking their weapons, hurling insults. Locke held up his hand to speak, but Jabril cut him off. “You said it yourself, down below. I got you to bloody admit it, so say it again, for all to hear. You ain’t no sea-officer.”

“It’s true,” said Locke. “I’m not a sea-officer. That should be obvious to everyone by now.”

“What the hell are you, then?” Jabril and the men seemed genuinely confused. “You had a Verrari uniform. You got in and out of Windward Rock. The archon took this ship, and you got it back. What’s the gods-damned game?”

Locke realized that an unsatisfactory answer to this question would have hard consequences; those things really did add up to a mystery too considerable to brush off. He scratched his chin, then put up his hands. “Okay, look. Only some of what I told you was a lie. I, ah, I really was an officer in the archon’s service, just not a naval officer. I was one of his captains of intelligence.”

“Intelligence?” cried Aspel, who held a bow atop the forecastle. “What, you mean spies and things like that?”

“Exactly,” said Locke. “Spies. And things like that. I hate the archon. I was sick of his service. I figured … I figured with a crew and a ship I had a sure way to get the hell out and give him grief at the same time. Caldris came along to do all the real work, while I was learning.”

“Aye,” said Jabril. “But that’s not what happened. You didn’t just lie to us about what you was.” He turned his back to Locke and Jean to address the crew. “He brought us out to sea without a woman aboard the ship!”

Scowls, catcalls, rude gestures, and no few hand-signs against evil. The crew were not well pleased to be reminded of that subject.

“Hold fast,” shouted Locke, “I meant to bring women with us; I had four women on my list. Didn’t you see them at Windward Rock? Other prisoners? They all went down with a fever. They had to be put back ashore, don’t you see?”

“If that was you,” shouted Jabril, “maybe you thought of it once, but what did you do to fix it when they fell sick?”

“The archon took the bloody prisoners, not me,” said Locke. “I had to work with what that left me. It left me you!”

“So it did,” said Jabril, “and then you fuckin’ brought us out here without one single cat neither!”

“Caldris told me to get some,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I just … I said I’m not a sailor, right? I got busy sneaking out of Tal Verrar and I left them behind. I didn’t understand!”

“Indeed,” said Jabril. “You had no business out here if you didn’t know the bloody mandates! Because of you, this ship is cursed! We’re lucky to be alive, those of us that is. Five men paid for what was rightly your sin! Your ignorance of what’s due Iono Stormfather by those that sail his waters!”

“Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us!” said another sailor.

“Our misfortune’s been made by you,” Jabril continued. “You admit your lies and ignorance. I say this ship ain’t clean till we get you off her! What’s the word of all?”

There was a loud, immediate, and unanimous chorus of agreement; the sailors shook their weapons at Locke and Jean as they cheered.

“That’s that,” said Jabril. “Drop your weapons on the deck.”

“Wait,” said Locke. “You said we’d talk, and I’m not finished!”

“I brought you on deck safe, and we did talk. Talk’s finished, oath’s paid off.” Jabril folded his arms. “Lose your weapons!”

“Now—”

“Archers!” yelled Jabril. The men atop the forecastle took aim.

“What’s the choice?” Locke shouted angrily. “Disarm so we can what?”

“Keep your arms and die bleeding on this deck,” said Jabril. “Or disarm, and swim as far as you can. Let Iono be your judge.”

“Quick and painful or slow and painful. Right.” Locke unbound his sword-belt and let it drop to the deck. “Master Valora had nothing to do with my cock-ups. I dragged him into this same as you!”

“Now, wait a fucking minute …,” said Jean, as he set the Wicked Sisters respectfully down at his feet.

“What say you, Valora?” Jabril looked around for objections from the crew and saw none. “Ravelle’s the liar. Ravelle admits the crime is his; away with him and the curse is lifted fair. You’d be welcome to stay.”

“He swims, I swim,” Jean growled.

“He worth that much to you?”

“I don’t have to bloody well explain myself.”

“So be it. That I respect,” said Jabril. “Time to go.”

“No,” shouted Locke as several sailors advanced, swords held at guard. “No! I have one thing to say first.”

“You had your say. Stormfather’ll judge what else there is.”

“When I found you,” said Locke, “you were in a vault. Under a fucking rock. You were locked away beneath iron and stone! You were fit to die or to push oars for the archon’s pleasure. You were dead and rotting, every last miserable one of you!”

“Heard this already,” said Jabril.

“Maybe I’m not a sea-officer,” said Locke. “Maybe I deserve this; maybe you’re doing right to punish the man that’s brought you this misfortune. But I am also the man who freed you. I am the man who gave you any life you have. You spit on that gift before the gods to do this to me!”

“You saying you want the arrows, then?” said Aspel, and the men around him laughed.

“No,” said Jabril, holding up his hands. “No. There’s a point. This ain’t a happy ship in the eyes of the gods, that’s for bloody sure. Our luck is tight-drawn as it is, even once we’re rid of him. He needs to die for the crimes he’s done; for his lies and his ignorance and the men who won’t see land again. But he did free us.” Jabril looked around and bit his lip before continuing. “We do owe him for that. I say we give them the boat.”

“We need that boat,” hollered Mazucca.

“Lots of boats in Port Prodigal,” said Streva. “Maybe we can take one as plunder on the way down there.”

“Aye, that and cats,” shouted another sailor.

“Open boat,” said Jabril. “No food, no water, says I. They go in as they are now. Let Iono take them as and when he will. What’s the word of all?”

The word of all was another outburst of enthusiastic approval. Even Mazucca gave in and nodded.

“Just a longer swim, in the end,” said Locke.

“Well,” whispered Jean, “at least you talked them into that much.”

7

THE SHIP’S boat was unlashed, hoisted out, and plopped over the starboard side into the deep blue waters of the Sea of Brass.

“They get oars, Jabril?” One of the sailors had been assigned the task of removing the water cask and rations from the boat, and he’d pulled out the oars as well.

“Think not,” said Jabril. “Iono moves them if he wants them moved. We leave them to float; that was the word.”

Parties of armed sailors lined up fore and aft to prod Locke and Jean toward the starboard entry port. Jabril followed close behind. When they reached the edge, Locke saw that the boat was tied up with one knotted line that would allow them to climb down.

“Ravelle,” said Jabril quietly. “You really hold with the Thirteenth? You really one of his divines?”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “It was the only honest blessing I could give for their sakes.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Spies, things like that.” Jabril slipped something cold beneath Locke’s tunic, against the small of his back, sliding it precariously into the top of his breeches. Locke recognized the weight of one of the stilettos from his belt.

“Stormfather maybe takes you fast,” whispered Jabril, “or maybe he lets you float. Long fuckin’ time. Until you decide you just plain had enough … you know?”

“Jabril,” said Locke, “… thank you. I, ah, wish I could have been a better captain.”

“I wish you’d been any kinda captain at all. Now get over the fuckin’ side and be gone.”

So it was that Locke and Jean watched from the gently bobbing boat as the Red Messenger limped on, southwest by west under tattered sail, leaving them in the middle of nowhere under a midafternoon sun that Locke would have given ten thousand solari for just a day or two earlier.

One hundred yards, two hundred, three … their former ship slowly made way across the rippling sea, at first with what must have been half the crew gazing astern, watching. But soon enough they lost interest in the dead men in their wake. Soon enough they returned to the task of keeping their precious little wooden world from succumbing to its wounds.

Locke wondered who would inherit the stern cabin, Jean’s hatchets, their unusual tools, and the five hundred solari stashed at the bottom of his personal chest—a mixture of their last funds and Stragos’ financing.

Thieves prosper, he thought.

“Well, splendid,” he said, stretching his legs as best he could. He and Jean faced each other from opposite rowing benches of a boat built for six. “Once again we’ve engineered a brilliant escape from immediate peril, and stolen something of value to take with us. This boat must be worth two solari.”

“I just hope that whoever ends up with the Wicked Sisters bloody well chokes,” said Jean.

“What, on the hatchets?”

“No, on anything. Whatever’s convenient. I should’ve thrown them out the cabin window rather than let someone else have them. Gods.”

“You know, Jabril slipped me a stiletto as I went off.”

Jean seemed to ponder the implications of this for a moment, then shrugged. “When a smaller boat comes along, at least we’ll have a weapon to board and carry her.”

“Are you, ah, comfortable back there in the stern cabin?”

“I am,” said Jean. He got off the bench, slid sideways, and crammed himself into the stern with his back against the starboard gunwale. “Bit tight, but luxurious trimmings.”

“That’s good,” said Locke, pointing to the middle of the boat. “Hope it doesn’t get more cramped when I install the hanging garden and the library right about there.”

“Already took that into account.” Jean leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Hanging garden can go in on top of my bathhouse.”

“Which can double as a temple,” said Locke.

“You think that necessary?”

“I do,” said Locke. “I daresay the two of us are going to be doing a hell of a lot of praying.”

They floated in silence for many minutes. Locke also closed his eyes, breathed deep of the tangy air, and listened to the faint whisper of the waves. The sun was a warm and welcome pressure on the top of his head, and this above all conspired to lull him into a half-dozing state as he sat. He looked within for some hint of anguish and found only a hollow numbness; he seemed to have relaxed into relief at this final collapse of all his plans. Nobody else to fool, no more secrets to keep, no duties required of him or Jean as they drifted, merely drifted, waiting for the gods to make their next whim known.

Jean’s voice recalled him to the present after some unguessable interval had passed, and he blinked as he reopened his eyes to the bright gleam of sun on water.

“Locke,” said Jean, evidently repeating himself, “sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!”

“Ha-ha, Jean. That would be the Red Messenger, sailing away from us forever. Surely you remember her.”

“No,” said Jean, more insistent. “Fresh sail ho, three points off the starboard bow!”

Locke glanced over his right shoulder, squinting. The Red Messenger was still plainly visible, now about three-quarters of a mile distant. And there, off to the left of his former ship, hard to see at first against the bright fusion of sea and sky—yes, a dusty white square just cresting the horizon.

“I’ll be damned,” said Locke. “Looks like our lads are going to have their first chance at some plunder.”

“If only it’d had the courtesy to show up yesterday!”

“I’ll wager I would have screwed things up regardless. But … can you imagine those poor bastards grappling their prey, leaping over the rails, swords in hand, screaming, ‘Your cats! Give us all your gods-damned cats!’ ”

Jean laughed. “What a bloody mess we’ve unleashed. At least we’ll have some entertainment. This’ll be damn awkward with the Messenger in such a state. Maybe they’ll come back for us and beg us to lend a hand.”

“They’d beg you, maybe,” said Locke.

As Locke watched, the Messenger’s forecourse shuddered into existence, an unfolding square of white. Straining, he could just see tiny figures dashing to and fro on the deck and in the rigging. His former ship put her bow a touch to larboard, bringing the wind onto her larboard quarter.

“She’s limping like a horse with a broken ankle,” said Jean. “Look, they won’t trust the mainmast with any canvas. Can’t say I blame them.” Jean scrutinized the scene for a few moments more. “Their new friend’s coming up north-northwest, I think. If our lads sneak west and look harmless enough, maybe … otherwise, that new ship’s got plenty of room to run west or south. If she’s in any decent shape at all, Messenger’ll never catch her.”

“Jean …,” said Locke, very slowly, a bit hesitant to trust his own naval judgment. “I dont … I don’t think escape is anywhere on their minds. Look, they’re straight on for the Messenger.”

The next few minutes confirmed this. Indeed, the newcomer’s sails soon doubled in size, and Locke could see the faintest line of the hull beneath them. Whatever she was, she was angled well north of west, fit to cut straight across the path of the Red Messenger.

“And she’s fast,” said Jean, clearly fascinated. “Look at her come on! I’d bet my own liver the Messenger’s not even making four knots. She’s doing twice that or more.”

“Maybe they just don’t give a whit for the Messenger,” said Locke. “Maybe they can see she’s wounded and they’re just going to fly right past.”

“A ‘kiss my ass and fare-thee-well,’ ” said Jean. “Pity.”

The newcomer grew steadily; blurry shapes became a sleek dark hull, billowing sails, the thin lines of masts.

“Two masts,” said Jean. “Brig, flying loads of canvas.”

Locke felt an unexpected urgency; he tried to restrain his excitement as the Messenger plodded feebly to the southwest while the newcomer steadily gained on her. Now the strange vessel showed her starboard side to them. As Jean had said, she had two masts, as well as a swift low profile and a hull so black she gleamed.

A dark speck appeared in midair above her stern. It moved upward, expanded, and burst apart into a huge fluttering flag—a banner of solid crimson, bright as fresh-spilled blood.

“Oh, gods,” cried Locke. “You have to be fucking kidding!”

The newcomer raced on, foam-capped water surging at her bow, closing the gap with the Red Messenger with every passing second. Low white shapes appeared from behind her—boats crammed with the dark specks of sailors. The new ship swung round to the Messenger’s lee like a hungry beast cutting off her prey’s escape; meanwhile, her boats knifed across the gleaming water to launch their attack from windward. Whatever Jabril and his crew did to try and foil their entrapment, it wasn’t enough; chorus after chorus of belligerent cheers echoed faintly across the water, and little black specks were soon swarming up the Messenger’s sides.

“No!” Locke was unaware that he’d leapt to his feet until Jean pulled him back down hastily. “Oh, you bastards! You rotten, miserable, skulking bastards! You can’t take my fucking ship—”

“Which was already taken,” said Jean.

“I come a thousand miles to shake your bloody hands,” Locke screamed, “and you show up two hours after they put us overboard!”

“Not even half that,” said Jean.

“Bloody fucking limp-cocked witless laggard pirates!”

“Thieves prosper,” said Jean, biting his knuckles as he snorted with laughter.

The battle, if it could be called that, didn’t last five minutes. Someone on the quarterdeck brought the Messenger around, luffing straight into the wind, killing what little speed she’d had. All her sails were taken in, and she soon drifted gently with one of the marauder’s boats tied up at her side. Another boat hurried back to the ship that had birthed it. That vessel, under a far lazier press of sail than it had set out to snatch up the Messenger, then came round on a starboard tack and began to bear down in the general direction of Locke and Jean—an ominous monster toying with its next tiny meal.

“I think this might be one of those ‘good news, bad news,’ situations,” said Jean, cracking his knuckles. “We may need to ready ourselves to repel boarders.”

“With what? One stiletto and hurtful insinuations about their mothers?” Locke clenched his fists; his anger had become excitement. “Jean, if we get aboard that ship and talk our way into her crew, we’re back in the game, by the gods!”

“They might just mean to kill us and take the boat.”

“We’ll see,” said Locke. “We’ll see. First we’ll exchange courtesies. Have ourselves some diplomatic interaction.”

The pirate vessel came on slowly as the sun sank toward the west and the color of sky and water alike seemed to deepen by a shade. She was indeed black-hulled, witchwood, and larger than the Red Messenger even at a glance. Sailors crowded her yardarms and deck railings; Locke felt a pang of envy to see such a large and active crew. She sliced majestically through the water, then luffed up as orders were shouted from the quarterdeck. Sails were reefed with precise and rapid movements; she slowed to a crawl, blocked their view of the Red Messenger, and presented her larboard side at a distance of about twenty yards.

“Ahoy the boat,” cried a woman at the rail. She was rather short, Locke could see—dark-haired, partially armored, backed up by at least a dozen armed and keenly interested sailors. Locke felt his skin crawl under their scrutiny, and he donned a cheerful mask.

“Ahoy the brig,” he shouted. “Fine weather, isn’t it?”

“What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

Locke rapidly considered the potential advantages of the pleading, cautious, and cocky approaches, and decided that cocky was the best chance they had of making a memorable impression. “Avast,” he cried, standing up and hoisting his stiletto over his head, “you must perceive we hold the weather gauge, and you are luffed up with no hope of escape! Your ship is ours, and you are all our prisoners! We are prepared to be gracious, but don’t test us.”

There was an outbreak of laughter on the deck of the ship, and Locke felt his hopes rise. Laughter was good; laughter like that rarely preceded bloody slaughter, at least in his experience.

“You’re Captain Ravelle,” shouted the woman, “aren’t you?”

“I, ah, see my reputation precedes me!”

“Previous crew of your previous ship might have mentioned you.”

“Shit,” Locke muttered.

“Would you two care to be rescued?”

“Yes, actually,” said Locke. “That would be a damn polite thing for you to do.”

“Right, then. Have your friend stand up. Both of you get all your clothes off.”

“What?”

An arrow hissed through the air, several feet above their heads, and Locke flinched.

“Clothes off! You want charity, you entertain us first! Get your big friend up and get naked, both of you!”

“I don’t believe this,” said Jean, rising to his feet.

“Look,” shouted Locke as he began to slip out of his tunic, “can we just drop them in the bottom of the boat? You don’t want us to throw them overboard, right?”

“No,” said the woman. “We’ll keep ’em plus the boat, even if we don’t keep you. Breeches off, gentlemen! That’s the way!”

Moments later Locke and Jean stood, precariously balanced in the wobbling boat, stark naked with the rising evening breeze plainly felt against their backsides.

“Gentlemen,” yelled the woman. “What’s this? I expect to see some sabers, and instead you bring out your stilettos!”

The crew behind her roared with laughter. Crooked Warden! Locke realized others had come up along the larboard rail. There were more sailors just standing there pointing and howling at him and Jean than there were in the entire crew of the Red Messenger.

“What’s the matter, boys? Thoughts of rescue not enticing enough? What’s it take to get a rise out of you down there?”

Locke responded with a two-handed gesture he’d learned as a boy, one guaranteed to start fights in any city-state in the Therin world. The crowd of pirates returned it, with many creative variations.

“Right, then,” cried the woman. “Stand on one leg. Both of you! Up on one!”

“What?” Locke put his hands on his hips. “Which one?”

“Just pick one of two, like your friend’s doing,” she replied.

Locke lifted his left foot just above the rowing bench, putting his arms out for balance, which was becoming steadily harder to keep. Jean did the same thing beside him, and Locke was absolutely sure that from any distance they looked a perfect pair of idiots.

“Higher,” said the woman, “that’s sad. You can do better than that!”

Locke hitched his knee up half a foot more, staring defiantly up at her. He could feel the vibrations of fatigue and the unstable boat alike in his right leg; he and Jean were seconds away from capping embarrassment with embarrassment.

“Fine work,” the woman shouted. “Make ’em dance!”

Locke saw the dark blurs of the arrows flash across his vision before he heard the flat snaps of their release. He dove to his right as they thudded into the middle of the boat, realizing half a second too late that they’d not been aimed at flesh and blood. The sea swallowed him in an instant; he hit unprepared and upside down, and when he kicked back to the surface he gasped and sputtered at the unpleasant sensation of salt water up his nose.

Locke heard rather than saw Jean spit a gout of water as he came up on the other side of the boat. The pirates were roaring now, falling over themselves, holding their sides. The short woman kicked something, and a knotted rope fell through an entry port in the ship’s rail.

“Swim over,” she yelled, “and pull the boat with you.”

By clinging to the gunwales and paddling awkwardly, Locke and Jean managed to push the little boat over to the ship, where they fell into shadow beneath her side. The end of the knotted rope floated there, and Jean gave Locke a firm shove toward it, as though afraid they might yank it up at any second.

Locke hauled himself up against the fine-grained black wood of the hull, wet and naked and fuming. Rough hands grasped him at the rail and heaved him aboard. He found himself looking at a pair of weathered leather boots, and he sat up.

“I hope that was amusing,” he said, “because I’m going to—”

One of those boots struck him in the chest and shoved him back down to the deck. Wincing, he thought better of standing and instead studied the boot’s owner. The woman was not merely short—she was petite, even from the perspective of someone literally beneath her heel. She wore a frayed sky-blue tunic over a loose black leather vest decorated with slashes that had more to do with near misses than high fashion. Her dark hair, which piled curl upon curl, was tightly bound behind her neck, and the belt at her waist carried a minor arsenal of fighting knives and sabers. There was obvious muscle on her shoulders and arms, an impression of strength that made Locke quickly stifle his anger.

“Going to what?”

“Lie here on the deck,” he said, “and enjoy the fine afternoon sun.”

The woman laughed; a second later Jean was pulled up over the side and thrown down beside Locke. His black hair was plastered to his skull, and water streamed from the bristles of his beard.

“Oh my,” said the woman. “Big one and a little one. Big one looks like he can handle himself a bit. You must be Master Valora.”

“If you say so, madam, I suppose I must be.”

“Madam? Madam’s a shore word. Out here to the likes of you, it’s lieutenant.”

“You’re not the captain of this ship, then?”

The woman eased her boot off Locke’s chest and allowed him to sit. “Not even hardly,” she said.

“Ezri’s my first,” said a voice behind Locke. He turned, slowly and carefully, to regard the speaker.

This woman was taller than the one called Ezri, and broader across her shoulders. She was dark, with skin just a few shades lighter than the hull of her ship, and she was striking, but not young. There were lines about her eyes and mouth that proclaimed her somewhere near forty. Those eyes were cold and that mouth was hard—clearly, she didn’t share Ezri’s sense of mischief about the two unclothed prisoners dripping water on her deck.

Her night-colored braids, threaded with red and silver ribbons, hung in a mane beneath a wide four-cornered cap, and despite the heat she wore a weather-stained brown frock coat, lined along the insides with brilliant gold silk. Most astonishingly, an Elderglass mosaic vest hung unbuckled beneath her coat. That sort of armor was rarely seen outside of royal hands—each little slat of Elderglass had to be joined by a latticework of metal, since humans knew no arts to meld the glass to itself. The vest glittered with reflected sunlight, more intricate than a stained-glass window—a thousand fingernail-sized chips of gleaming glory outlined in silver.

“Orrin Ravelle,” she said. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Nor should you have,” said Locke. “May we have the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

“Del,” she said, turning away from Locke and Jean to look at Ezri, “get that boat in. Give their clothes the eye, take anything interesting, and get them dressed again.”

“Your will, Captain.” Ezri turned and began giving instructions to the sailors around her.

“As for you two,” the captain said, returning her gaze to the two drenched thieves, “my name is Zamira Drakasha. My ship’s the Poison Orchid. And once you’re dressed, someone will be along to haul you below and throw you in the bilge hold.”

CHAPTER NINE

THE POISON ORCHID

1

THEIR PRISON was at the very bottom of the Poison Orchid, on what was ironically the tallest deck on the ship, a good ten feet from lower deck to ceiling. However, the pile of barrels and oilcloth sacks crammed into the compartment left nothing but a coffin-dark crawlspace above their uneven surface. Locke and Jean sat atop this uncomfortable mass of goods with their heads against the ceiling. The lightless room stank of muck-soaked orlop ropes, of moldering canvas, of stale food and ineffective alchemical preservatives.

This was technically the forward cargo stowage; the bilge proper was sealed behind a bulkhead roughly ten feet to their left. Not twenty feet in the opposite direction the curved black bow of the ship met wind and water. The soft waves they could hear were lapping against the ship’s sides three or four feet above their heads.

“Nothing but the friendliest people and the finest accommodations on the Sea of Brass,” said Locke.

“At least I don’t feel too disadvantaged by the darkness,” said Jean. “Lost my bloody optics when I took that tumble into the water.”

“Thusfar today, we’ve lost a ship, a small fortune, your hatchets, and now your optics.”

“At least our setbacks are getting progressively smaller.” Jean cracked his knuckles, and the sound echoed strangely in the darkness. “How long do you suppose we’ve been down here?”

“Hour, maybe.” Locke sighed, pushed himself away from the starboard bulkhead, and began the laborious process of finding a vaguely comfortable niche to slide into, amidst barrel-tops and sacks of hard, lumpy objects. If he was going to be bored, he might as well be bored lying down. “But I’d be surprised if they mean to keep us here for good. I think they’re just … marinating us. For whatever comes next.”

“You making yourself comfortable?”

“I’m fighting the good fight.” Locke shoved a sack out of the way, and at last had enough space to rest in. “That’s better.”

A few seconds later, there came the creaking tread of many pairs of feet just overhead, followed by a scraping noise. The grating to the deck above (which had been wrapped in oilcloth to seal them in darkness) was being pulled. A wan light intruded into the blackness, and Locke squinted.

“Doesn’t that just figure,” he muttered.

“Cargo inspection,” came a familiar voice from above. “We’re looking for anything out of place. You two qualify.”

Jean crawled over to the pale square of light and looked up. “Lieutenant Ezri?”

“Delmastro,” she said. “Ezri Delmastro, hence Lieutenant Delmastro.”

“My apologies. Lieutenant Delmastro.”

“That’s the spirit. How do you like your cabin?”

“Could smell worse,” said Locke, “but I think I’d have to spend a few days pissing on everything to get there.”

“Stay alive until our supplies start to run low,” said Delmastro, “and you’ll drink some things that’ll make this stench a happy memory. Now, usually I’d drop a ladder, but it’s only three feet. I think you can manage. Come up slow; Captain Drakasha’s got a sudden eagerness to have a word with you.”

“Does that offer include dinner?”

“You’re lucky it includes clothes, Ravelle. Get up here. Smallest first.”

Locke crawled past Jean and heaved himself up through the hatch, into the moderately less stifling air of the orlop deck. Lieutenant Delmastro waited with eight of her crewfolk, all armed and armored. Locke was seized from behind by a burly woman as he stood up in the passageway. A moment later Jean was helped up and held by three sailors.

“Right.” Delmastro seized Jean’s wrists and snapped a pair of blackened-steel manacles around them. It was Locke’s turn next; she fit the cold restraints and fastened them without gentleness. Locke gave the manacles a quick professional appraisal. They were oiled and rust-free, and too tight to wiggle out of even if he had time to make some painful adjustments to his thumbs.

“Captain’s finally had a chance to talk to some of your old crew at length,” said Delmastro. “Mighty curious, is what I’d call her.”

“Ah, that’s wonderful,” said Locke. “Another fine chance to explain myself to someone. How I do so love explaining myself.”

Their wary escort herded them along, and soon they were on deck in the very last light of dusk. The sun was just passing beneath the western horizon, a bloodred eye closing lazily under lids of faintly red cloud. Locke gulped the fresh air gratefully, and was again struck by the impression of population that hung about the Poison Orchid. She was crammed with crew, men and women alike, bustling about below or working on deck by the light of an increasing number of alchemical lanterns.

They had come up amidships. Something clucked and fluttered in a dark box—a chicken coop, Locke realized—just forward of the mainmast. At least one bird was pecking the mesh of its cage in agitation.

“I sympathize,” whispered Locke.

The Orchid crewfolk led him to the stern a few steps ahead of Jean. On the quarterdeck, just above the companionway leading down to the stern cabins, a group of sailors once again restrained Jean at some signal from Delmastro.

“This invitation’s for Ravelle only,” she said. “Master Valora can wait up here until we see how this is to go.”

“Ah,” said Locke. “Will you be comfortable up here, Jerome?”

“ ‘Cold walls do not a prison make,’ ” recited Jean with a smile, “ ‘nor iron bands a bondsman.’ ”

Lieutenant Delmastro looked at him strangely, and after a few seconds replied, “ ‘Bold words from the tongues of the newly chained will fly—like sparks from flint, with as much real heat, and as long a life.’ ”

“You know The Ten Honest Turncoats,” said Jean.

“As do you. Very interesting. And … completely beside the point.” She gave Locke a gentle push toward the companionway. “Stay here, Valora. Lift a finger in an unfriendly fashion and you’ll die where you stand.”

“My fingers will be on their best behavior.”

Down the companionway Locke stumbled, into a dark space nearly the twin of that on the Red Messenger, though larger. If Locke’s quick estimate was correct, the Poison Orchid was half again as long as his former ship. There were little canvas-door cabins, two to a side, and a sturdy witchwood door to the stern cabin, currently closed tight. Ezri pushed Locke firmly aside and knocked on this door three times.

“It’s Ezri, with the question mark,” she shouted.

A moment later the door was unbolted from within, and Delmastro motioned for Locke to precede her.

Captain Drakasha’s cabin, in contrast to “Ravelle’s,” showed every evidence of long, comfortable habitation. Richly lit by faceted alchemical jewel-lamps in gold frames, the space was piled with layers of tapestries and silk pillows. Several sea chests supported a lacquered tabletop covered with empty dishes, folded maps, and navigational instruments of obvious quality. Locke felt a pang when he saw his own chest, wide open on the floor beside Drakasha’s chair.

The shutters had been drawn away from the stern windows. Drakasha sat before them, her coat and armor discarded, holding a girl of three or four on her knees. Through the windows, Locke could see the Red Messenger, shadowed in the growing darkness, crawling with the bobbing lights of what must be repair parties.

Locke glanced to his left to see who’d opened the door, looked down, and found himself meeting the gaze of a curly-haired boy who looked barely older than the girl held by Zamira. Both children had her coal-black hair, and something of her features, but their skin was somewhat lighter, like desert sand in shadow. Ezri tousled the boy’s hair affectionately as she nudged Locke farther into the cabin, and the boy stepped away shyly.

“There,” said Zamira, ignoring the newcomers for the moment and pointing out the stern windows. “Can you see that, Cosetta? Do you know what that is?”

“Ship,” said the little girl.

“That’s right.” Zamira smiled.… No, Locke corrected himself, she positively smirked. “Mommy’s new ship. From which Mommy has taken a lovely little pile of gold.”

“Gold,” said the little girl, clapping.

“Indeed. But look at the ship, love. Look at the ship. Can you tell mommy what those tall things are? Those tall things that reach for the sky?”

“They … um … ha! No.”

“No, you don’t know, or no, you are being mutinous?”

“Moot nust!”

“Not on Mommy’s ship, Cosetta. Look again. Mommy’s told you what they are before, hasn’t she? They reach for the sky, and they carry the sails, and they are the …”

“Mast,” said the girl.

“Masts. But close enough. And how many are there? How many masts does Mommy’s new little ship have? Count them for Mommy.”

“Two.”

“How clever you are! Mommy’s new ship has two masts, yes.” Zamira leaned close to her daughter’s face, so that they were touching noses, and Cosetta giggled. “Now,” said Zamira, “find me something else that comes in two.”

“Um …”

“Here in the cabin, Cosetta. Find Mommy two of something.”

“Um …”

The girl looked around, sticking most of her left hand into her mouth as she did so, before seizing upon the pair of sabers that rested, in their scabbards, against the wall just beneath the stern window.

“Sword,” said Cosetta.

“That’s right!” Zamira kissed her on the cheek. “Mommy has two swords. At least where you can see them, love. Now, will you be a good girl and go above with Ezri? Mommy needs to speak to this man alone for just a bit. Paolo will go, too.”

Ezri moved across the cabin to take Cosetta into her arms, and the little girl clung to her with obvious pleasure. Paolo followed Ezri like a shadow, keeping the lieutenant between himself and Locke, peeking out from behind her legs when he dared to look at all.

“You sure you want to be alone back here, Captain?”

“I’ll be fine, Del. Valora’s the one I’d be worried about.”

“He’s manacled, with eight hands standing by.”

“Good enough, I think. And the Red Messenger’s men?”

“All under the forecastle. Treganne’s giving them the eyeball.”

“Fine. I’ll be along soon enough. Take Paolo and Cosetta off to Gwillem and let them sit on the quarterdeck. Nowhere near the rails, mind.”

“Aye.”

“And tell Gwillem that if he tries to give them unwatered beer again I’ll cut his heart out and piss in the hole.”

“I’ll quote that in full, Captain.”

“Off with the lot of you. If you give Ezri and Gwillem any trouble, loves, Mommy will not be pleased.”

Lieutenant Delmastro withdrew from the cabin, taking the two children and closing the door behind her. Locke wondered how to approach this meeting. He knew next to nothing about Drakasha; no weak spots to exploit, no prejudices to twist. Coming clean about the various layers of deception he was working under was probably a mistake. Best to act fully as Ravelle, for the time being.

Captain Drakasha picked up her sheathed sabers and turned her full regard upon Locke for the first time. He decided to speak first, in a friendly fashion.

“Your children?”

“How little escapes the penetrating insight of the veteran intelligence officer.” She slid one of her sabers out of its scabbard with a soft metallic hiss and gestured toward Locke with it. “Sit.”

Locke complied. The only other chair in the cabin was next to the table, so he settled into it and folded his manacled hands in his lap. Zamira eased herself into her own chair, facing him, and set the drawn saber across her knees.

“Where I come from,” she said, “we have a custom concerning questions asked over a naked blade.” She had a distinct, harmonious accent, one that Locke couldn’t place. “Are you familiar with it?”

“No,” said Locke, “but I think the meaning is clear.”

“Good. Something is wrong with your story.”

“Nearly everything is wrong with my story, Captain Drakasha. I had a ship and a crew and a pile of money. Now I find myself hugging a sack of potatoes in a bilge hold that smells like the bottom of an unwashed ale cup.”

“Don’t hope for a lasting relationship with the potatoes. I just wanted you out of the way while I spoke to some of the Messenger’s crewmen.”

“Ah. And how is my crew?”

“We both know they’re not your crew, Ravelle.”

“How is the crew?”

“Tolerably well, little thanks to you. They lost the nerve for a fight as soon as they saw our numbers. Most of them seemed downright eager to surrender, so we took the Messenger with nothing more than a few bruises and some hurt feelings.”

“Thank you for that.”

“We weren’t kind for your sake, Ravelle. In fact, you’re damned fortunate we were even nearby. I like to cruise the wake of the summer’s-end storms. They tend to spit out juicy morsels in no condition to refuse our hospitality.”

Drakasha reached down into Locke’s sea chest, shuffled the contents, and withdrew a small packet of papers. “Now,” she said, “I want to know who Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra are.”

“Cover identities,” said Locke. “False faces we used for our work back in Tal Verrar.”

“In the archon’s service?”

“Yes.”

“Nearly everything in here is signed ‘Kosta.’ Small letters of credit and reference … work order for some chairs … receipt for clothing in storage. The only document with the name Ravelle on it is this commission as a Verrari sea-officer. Should I be calling you Orrin or Leocanto? Which one’s the false face?”

“You might as well just call me Ravelle,” said Locke. “I’ve been on the officer’s list under that name for years. It’s how I drew my pay.”

“Are you Verrari-born?”

“Mainland. A village called Vo Sarmara.”

“What did you do before you served the archon?”

“I was what you’d call a patient man.”

“Is that a profession now?”

“I mean a master of scales and balances, for a merchant syndicate. I was the patient man because I did the weighting, you see?”

“Droll. A syndicate in Tal Verrar?”

“Yes.”

“So you surely worked for the Priori.”

“That was part of the, ah, original incentive for Stragos’ people to bring me into their fold. After my usefulness as an agent in the syndicate hit a wall, I was given new duties.”

“Hmm. I spoke at length with Jabril. Long enough to have no trouble believing that your naval commission really is a fake. Do you have any experience under arms?”

“No formal military training, if that’s what you mean.”

“Curious,” said Drakasha, “that you had the authority to lay claim to a ship of war, even a small one.”

“When we move slowly enough to avoid upsetting anyone, captains of intelligence have excessive powers of requisition. Or at least we did. I suspect my remaining peers will be shackled with a bit of unwanted oversight because of what I’ve done.”

“Tragic. Still … it’s curious again that when you were at my feet you had to ask my name. I’d have thought that my identity would be obvious to anyone in Stragos’ service. How long were you with him?”

“Five years.”

“So you came after the Free Armada was lost. Nonetheless, as a Verrari—”

“I had a vague description of you,” said Locke. “Little more than your name and the name of your ship. I can assure you, had the archon ever thought to have your portrait painted for our benefit, no man in his service would stay ignorant of your looks.”

“Excellent form. But you would do well to consider me dead to flattery.”

“That’s a pity. I’m so good at it.”

“A third curious thing occurs to me. You seemed genuinely surprised to see my children aboard.”

“It’s, ah, merely that I found it strange you’d have them with you. Out here at sea. Company to the hazards of … all this.”

“Where else might I be expected to keep an eye on them?” Zamira fingered the hilt of her drawn saber. “Paolo’s four. Cosetta’s three. Is your intelligence really so out of date that you didn’t know about them?”

“Look, my job was in-city operations against the Priori and other dissenters. I didn’t pay much attention to naval affairs beyond drawing my official salary.”

“There’s a bounty of five thousand solari on my head. Mine, and every other captain that survived the War for Recognition. I know that accurate descriptions of myself and my family were circulated in Tal Verrar last year; I got my hands on some of the leaflets. Do you expect me to believe that someone in your position could be this ignorant?”

“I hate to sting your feelings, Captain Drakasha, but I told you. I was a landsman—”

“Are.”

“… am and was, and my eyes were on the city. I had little enough time to study the basics of survival when I started getting ready to steal the Messenger.”

“Why do that, though? Why steal a ship and go to sea? Something completely outside your confessed experience? If you had your eyes on the land and the city, why didn’t you do something involving the land or the city?”

Locke licked his lips, which had become uncomfortably dry. He’d pounded a dossier of background information on Orrin Ravelle into his head, but the character had never been designed for an interrogation from this perspective. “It might sound odd,” said Locke, “but it was the best I could do. As it turned out, my fake commission as a sea-officer gave me the most leverage to hurt the archon. Stealing a ship was a grander gesture than stealing, say, a carriage.”

“And what did Stragos do to earn this grand gesture?”

“I’ve sworn an oath never to speak of the matter.”

“Convenient.”

“Just the opposite,” said Locke. “As I wish I could put you at ease.”

“At ease? How could anything you’ve told me put me at ease? You lie, and add flourishes to old lies, and refuse to discuss your motives for embarking on an insane venture. If you won’t give me answers, I have to presume that you’re a danger to this vessel, and that I risk offending Maxilan Stragos by taking you in. I can’t afford the consequences. I think it’s time to put you back where I found you.”

“The hold?”

“The open sea.”

“Ah.” Locke frowned, then bit the inside of his right cheek to contain a laugh. “Ah, Captain Drakasha, that was very well done. Amateurish, but creative. Someone without my history might have fallen for it.”

“Damn.” Drakasha smiled tightly. “I should have drawn the curtains over the stern windows.”

“Yes. I can see your people swarming over the Messenger as we speak. I presume your prize crew is unfucking the rigging so she can make more than a toddler’s crawl, right? If you gave one speck of rat shit for offending the archon, you’d be sinking that ship, not refurbishing it for sale.”

“True,” said Drakasha.

“Which means—”

“Which means that I’m still asking questions, Ravelle. Tell me about your accomplice, Master Valora. A particular friend?”

“An old associate. He helped me in Tal Verrar with … objectionable work.”

“Just an associate?”

“I pay him well and trust him with my business, yes.”

“Curiously educated.” Zamira pointed up at the cabin ceiling; a narrow skylight had vents slightly cracked to let in air from the quarterdeck. “I heard him and Ezri quoting Lucarno to one another a few minutes ago.”

“The Tragedy of the Ten Honest Turncoats,” said Locke. “Jerome is … fond of it.”

“He can read. According to Jabril, he’s not a seaman, but he can do complex sums. He speaks Vadran. He uses trader’s terms and knows his way around cargo. So I’d guess that he comes from prosperous merchant stock.”

Locke said nothing.

“He was with you before you worked for the archon, wasn’t he?”

“He was a servant of the Priori, yes.” It seemed that fitting Jean into Drakasha’s presumptions wouldn’t be as hard as Locke had feared. “I brought him with me when I joined the archon’s cause.”

“But not as a friend.”

“Just a very good agent.”

“My appropriately amoral spy,” said Drakasha. She stood up, moved beneath the skylight, and raised her voice. “On deck, there!”

“Aye, Captain?” Ezri’s voice.

“Del, bring Valora down here.”

A few moments later, the door to the cabin swung open and Jean entered, followed by Lieutenant Delmastro. Captain Drakasha suddenly unsheathed her second saber. The empty scabbards clattered to the deck, and she pointed one blade at Locke.

“The instant you rise from that chair,” she said, “you die.”

“What’s going—”

“Quiet. Ezri, I want Valora dealt with.”

“Your will, Captain.”

Before Jean could do anything, Ezri gave him a sharp kick to the back of his right knee, so fast and well placed that Locke winced. She followed this up with a hard shove, and Jean fell to his hands and knees.

“I might still have a use for you, Ravelle. But I can’t let you keep your agent.” Drakasha took a step toward Jean, raising her right-hand saber.

Locke was out of the chair before he could help himself, throwing himself at her, trying to tangle her arms in his manacle chain.

“No!” he screamed. The cabin spun wildly around him, and then he was on the floor with a dull ache coursing through his jaw. His mind, working a second or two behind the pace of events, gradually concluded that Drakasha had bashed his chin with the hilt of one of her sabers. He was now on his back, with that saber hovering just above his neck. Drakasha seemed ten feet tall.

“Please,” Locke sputtered. “Not Jerome. It’s not necessary.”

“I know,” said Drakasha. “Ezri?”

“Looks like I owe you ten solari, Captain.”

“You should’ve known better,” said Drakasha, grinning. “You heard what Jabril had to say about these two.”

“I did, I did.” Ezri knelt over Jean, a look of genuine concern on her face. “I just didn’t think Ravelle had it in him.”

“This sort of thing rarely goes just one way.”

“Should’ve known that, too.”

Locke raised his hands and pushed Drakasha’s blade aside. She yielded. He rolled over, stumbled to his knees, and grabbed Jean by one arm, ignoring his throbbing jaw. He knew it wasn’t broken, at least.

“Are you okay, Jerome?”

“Fine,” said Jean. “Scraped my hands a bit.”

“I’m sorry,” Ezri said.

“No worries,” said Jean. “That was a good hit. Not much else you could have done to knock down someone my size.” He stumbled to his feet with Locke and Ezri’s help. “A kidney punch, maybe.”

Ezri showed off the set of iron knuckles around the fingers of her right hand. “That was the contingency plan.”

“Damn, am I glad you didn’t do that. But you could’ve.… I might have fallen backwards if you hadn’t shoved fast enough. Hooking one foot around my shin from behind—”

“Thought about it. Or a good stiff jab to the sensitive spot in your armpit—”

“And an arm twist, yeah. That would’ve—”

“But I don’t trust that against someone so big; the leverage is wrong unless—”

Drakasha cleared her throat loudly, and Jean and Ezri fell silent, almost sheepishly.

“You lied to me about Jerome, Ravelle.” She retrieved her sword-belt and slid her sabers into their scabbards with a pair of sharp clacks. “He’s no hired agent. He’s a friend. The sort who’d refuse to let you get thrown off a ship by yourself. The sort you’d try to protect, even though I told you it would mean your death.”

“Clever,” said Locke, feeling a faint warmth rising on his cheeks. “So that’s what this was all about.”

“More or less. I needed to know what sort of man you were before I decided what to do with you.”

“And what have you decided?”

“You’re reckless, vain, and too clever by half,” she said. “You suffer from the delusion that your prevarications are charming. And you’re just as willing as Jerome is to die stupidly on behalf of a friend.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Well … perhaps I’ve grown fond of the ugly lump over the years. Does that mean we’re going back to the hold, or to the open sea?”

“Neither,” said Drakasha. “You’re going to the forecastle, where you’ll eat and sleep with all the other crewmen from the Red Messenger. I’ll peel your other lies apart at leisure. For the time being, I’m satisfied that if you’ve got Jerome to look after, you’ll be sensible.”

“And so we’re what? Slaves?”

“No one aboard this ship takes slaves,” said Drakasha with a dangerous edge in her voice. “We do execute our fair share of smart-asses, however.”

“I thought I was a charming prevaricator.”

“Grasp this,” said Drakasha. “Your whole world consists of the few inches of empty deck I allow you, and you’re gods-damned lucky to have them. Ezri and I will explain the situation to all of you at the forecastle.”

“And our things? The papers, I mean? The personal documents? Keep the gold, but—”

“Keep it? You really mean that? What a sweetheart this man is, Ezri.” Drakasha used her right boot to tip the cover of Locke’s sea chest closed. “Let’s call your papers a hostage to your good behavior. I have a shortage of blank parchment, and two children who’ve recently discovered the joys of ink.”

“Point thoroughly taken.”

“Ezri, haul them up on deck and get their manacles off. Let’s get back to acting as though we have somewhere important to be.”

2

ON THE quarterdeck they were met by a harried-looking woman of middle years, short and broad, with a finger-length halo of white hair above the lines of a face that had obviously contributed many years of scowls to the world. Her wide, predatory eyes were in constant motion, like an owl unable to decide whether it was bored or hungry.

“You might have caught a less wretched bunch, had you looked nearly anywhere,” she said without preamble.

“And you might have noticed it hasn’t exactly been a buyer’s market for prizes recently.” Zamira bore the woman’s manner with the ease of what must have been a very old familiarity.

“Well, if you want to use frayed hemp to weave a line, don’t blame the rope maker when it snaps.”

“I know better than to blame you for anything, Scholar. It leads to weeks of misery for everyone. How many?”

“Twenty-eight at the forecastle,” she said. “Eight had to be left aboard the prize. Broken bones in every case. Not safe to move them.”

“Will they last to Port Prodigal?”

“Assuming their ship does. Assuming they do as I told them, which is a bold—”

“That’s the best we can do for them, I’m sure. Condition of the twenty-eight?”

“I’m sure you heard me say ‘wretched,’ which derives from a state of wretchedness, which is in turn caused by their being wretches. I could use a number of other highly technical terms, only some of them completely imaginary—”

“Treganne, my patience is as long-vanished as your good looks.”

“Most of them are still suffering from long enclosure. Poor sustenance, little exercise, and nervous malaise. They’ve been eating better since leaving Tal Verrar, but they’re exhausted and battered. A handful are in what I’d call decent health. An equal number are not fit for any work at all until I say otherwise. I won’t bend on that … Captain.”

“I won’t ask you to. Disease?”

“Miraculously absent, if you mean fevers and contagions. Also little by way of sexual consequences. They’ve been locked away from women for months, and most of them are Eastern Therin. Very little inclination to lie with one another, you know.”

“Their loss. If I have further need of you—”

“I’ll be in my cabin, obviously. And mind your children. They appear to be steering the ship.”

Locke stared at the woman as she stamped away. One of her feet had the hollow, heavy sound of wood, and she walked with the aid of a strange cane made of stacked white cylinders. Ivory? No—the spine of some unfortunate creature, fused together with shining seams of metal.

Drakasha and Delmastro turned toward the ship’s wheel, a doubled affair like the one aboard the Messenger, currently tended by an unusually tall young man who was all sharp, gangling angles. At either side stood Paolo and Cosetta, not actually touching the wheel but mimicking his movements and giggling.

“Mumchance,” said Drakasha as she stepped over and pulled Cosetta away from the wheel, “where’s Gwillem?”

“Craplines.”

“I told him he was on sprat duty,” said Ezri.

“I’ll have his fucking eyes,” said Drakasha.

Mumchance seemed unruffled. “Man’s gotta piss, Captain.”

“Gotta piss,” mumbled Cosetta.

“Hush.” Zamira reached around Mumchance and snatched Paolo back from the wheel as well. “Mum, you know full well they’re not to touch the wheel or the rails.”

“They wasn’t touching the wheel, Captain.”

“Nor are they to dance at your side, cling to your legs, or in any other way assist you in navigating the vessel. Clear?”

“Savvy.”

“Paolo,” said Drakasha, “take your sister back to the cabin and wait for me there.”

“Yes,” said the boy, his voice as faint as the sound of two pieces of paper sliding together. He took Cosetta’s hand and began to lead her aft.

Drakasha hurried forward once again, past small parties of crewfolk working or eating, all of whom acknowledged her passing with respectful nods and waves. Ezri pushed Locke and Jean along in her wake.

Near the chicken coops, Drakasha crossed paths with a rotund but sprightly Vadran a few years older than herself. The man was wearing a dandified black jacket covered in tarnished brass buckles, and his blond-gray hair was pulled into a billowing ponytail that hung to the seat of his breeches. Drakasha grabbed him by the front of his tunic with her left hand.

“Gwillem, what part of ‘watch the children for a few minutes’ did Ezri fail to make clear?”

“I left them with Mum, Captain—”

“They were your problem, not his.”

“Well, you trust him to steer the ship, why not trust him to—”

“I do trust him with my loves, Gwillem. I just have a peculiar attachment to having orders followed.”

“Captain,” said Gwillem in a low voice, “I had to drop some brown on the blue, eh? I could’ve brought them to the craplines, but I doubt you would have approved of the education they’d have received.”

“Hold it in, for Iono’s sake. I only took a few minutes. Now go pack your things.”

“My things?”

“Take the last boat over to the Messenger and join the prize crew.”

“Prize crew? Captain, you know I’m not much good—”

“I want that ship eyeballed and inventoried, bowsprit to taffrail. Account for everything. When I haggle with the Shipbreaker over it, I want to know exactly how far the bastard is trying to cheat me.”

“But—”

“I’ll expect your written tally when we rendezvous in Port Prodigal. We both know there was hardly any loot to sling over and count today. Get over there and earn your share.”

“Your will, Captain.”

“My quartermaster,” Zamira said when Gwillem had trudged away, swearing. “Not bad, really. Just prefers to let work sort of elude him whenever possible.”

At the bow of the ship was the forecastle deck, raised perhaps four and a half feet above the weather deck, with broad stairs on either side. In between those stairs a wide, uncovered opening led to a dark area that was half compartment and half crawlspace beneath the forecastle. It was seven or eight yards long by Locke’s estimate.

The forecastle deck and stairs were crowded with most of the Red Messenger’s men, under the casual guard of half a dozen of Zamira’s armed crewfolk. Jabril, sitting next to Aspel at the front of the crowd, seemed deeply amused to see Locke and Jean again. The men behind him began to mutter.

“Shut up,” said Ezri, taking a position between Zamira and the newcomers. Locke, not quite knowing what to do, stood off to one side with Jean and waited for instructions. Drakasha cleared her throat.

“Some of us haven’t met. I’m Zamira Drakasha, captain of the Poison Orchid. Lend an ear. Jabril told me that you took ship in Tal Verrar thinking you were to be pirates. Anyone having second thoughts?”

Most of the Messenger’s men shook their heads or quietly muttered denials.

“Good. I am what your friend Ravelle pretended to be,” Drakasha said, reaching over and putting one of her arms around Locke’s shoulders. She smiled theatrically, and several of the Messenger’s less-battered men chuckled. “I have no lords or masters. I fly the red flag when I’m hungry and a false flag when I’m not. I have one port of call: Port Prodigal in the Ghostwinds. Nowhere else will have me. Nowhere else is safe. You live on this deck, you share that peril. I know some of you don’t understand. Think of the world. Think of everywhere in the world that isn’t this ship, save one rotten little speck of misery in the blackest asshole of nowhere. That’s what you’re renouncing. Everything. Everyone. Everywhere.”

She released Locke, and seemed to note the somber expressions of the Messenger’s crew with approval. She pointed at Ezri.

“My first mate, Ezri Delmastro. We call her ‘lieutenant’ and so do you. She says it, I back it. Never presume otherwise.

“You’ve met our ship’s physiker. Scholar Treganne tells me you could be worse and you could be better. There’ll be rest for those that need it. I can’t use you if you’re in no condition to work.”

“Are we being invited to join your crew, Captain Draksaha?” asked Jabril.

“You’re being offered a chance,” said Ezri. “That’s all. After this, you’re not prisoners, but you’re not free men. You’re what we call the scrub watch. You sleep here, in what we call the undercastle. Worst place on the ship, more or less. If there’s a filthy shit job to be had, you’ll do it. If we’re short blankets or clothes, you’ll go without. You’re last for meals and drinks.”

“Every member of my crew can give you an order,” said Drakasha, picking up as Ezri finished. Locke had a notion that they’d honed this routine together over time. “And every one of them will expect to be obeyed. We’ve no formal defaults; cop wise or slack off and someone will just beat the hell out of you. Raise enough fuss that I have to notice and I’ll throw you over the side. Think I’m kidding? Ask someone who’s been here a while.”

“How long do we have to be on the scrub watch?” asked one of the younger men near the back of the crowd.

“Until you prove yourselves,” said Drakasha. “We raise anchor in a few minutes and sail for Port Prodigal. Anyone who wants to leave when we get there, be gone. You won’t be sold; this isn’t a slaving ship. But you’ll get no pay save drink and rations. You’ll walk away with empty pockets, and in Prodigal, slavery might be kinder. At least someone would give a shit that you lived or died.

“If we cross paths with another sail on the way down,” she continued, “I’ll give thought to taking her. And if we fly a red flag, that’s your chance. You’ll go in first; you’ll board the prize before any of us. If there’s fire or bows or razor nets or gods-know-what, you’ll taste it first and bleed first. If you survive, grand. You’re crew. If you refuse, we dump you in Port Prodigal. I only keep a scrub watch on hand as long as I have to.”

She nodded to Ezri.

“As of now,” said Delmastro, “you can have the forecastle and the weather deck far back as the mainmast. Don’t go below or touch a tool without instructions. Touch a weapon, or try to take one from one of the crew, and I guarantee you’ll die on the instant. We’re touchy about that.

“You want to get cozy with a member of the crew, or they offer to get cozy with you, do what you will as long as you’re off duty and you stay off the bloody weather deck. Out here, what’s given is given. You try to take something by force, you’d better pray you die in the attempt, because we’re touchy about that, too.”

Zamira took over again and pointed at Locke and Jean. “Ravelle and Valora will be rejoining you.” A few of the men grumbled, and Zamira rested her hands on her saber hilts. “Mind your fucking manners. You put them over the side and vowed to let Iono be their judge. I showed up about an hour later. That settles that; anyone who thinks they know better than the Lord of the Grasping Waters can jump over the rail and take it up with Him in person.”

“They’re scrub watch like the rest of you,” said Ezri.

Still, the men didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic, and Zamira cleared her throat. “This is an equal-shares ship.”

That got their attention.

“Ship’s quartermaster goes by the name of Gwillem. He counts the take. Thirty percent goes to the ship so we don’t slink about with rotting canvas and cordage. Rest gets split evenly, one share per beating heart.

“You don’t touch a centira from what we already took out of your old ship. No apologies there. But if you get your chance on the way to Port Prodigal, and you’re crew when we sell the Messenger off to the Shipbreaker, you’ll get a share of that, and that’ll set you up nicely. If you’re crew.”

Locke had to admire her for that; it was a sensible policy, and she’d brought it into the lecture at a moment calculated to deflect dissension and worry. Now the Red Messenger wouldn’t just be an unhappy memory vanishing over the horizon in the hands of a prize crew; it might be a waiting pile of silver.

Zamira turned and headed aft, leaving Delmastro to finish the show. As murmurs of conversation began to rise, the petite lieutenant yelled, “Shut up! That’s the business, then. There’ll be food in a while and a half-ration of beer to settle you down some. Tomorrow I’ll start sorting those of you with particular skills and introducing you to some work.

“There’s one last thing the captain didn’t mention.” Ezri paused for several seconds and made sure that everyone was listening attentively. “The younger Drakashas. Captain has a boy and a girl. Mostly they’re in her cabin, but sometimes they’ve got the run of the ship. What they are to you is sacred. I mean this, more than I mean anything else I’ve said tonight. Say so much as an unkind word to them and I’ll nail your cock to the foremast and leave you there to die of thirst. The crew thinks of them as family. If you have to break your neck to keep them safe, then it’s in your best interest to break your bloody neck.”

Delmastro seemed to take everyone’s silence as a sign that they were duly impressed, and she nodded. A moment later, Drakasha’s voice sounded from the quarterdeck, magnified by a speaking trumpet: “Up anchor!”

Delmastro lifted a whistle that hung around her neck on a leather cord and blew it three times. “At the waist,” she hollered in an impossibly loud voice, “ship capstan bars! Stand by to raise anchor! Scrub watch to the waist, as able!”

At her urging, most of the Messenger’s former crew rose and began shuffling toward the Orchid’s waist. A large work party was already gathering there, between the foremast and the chicken coops, fitting long capstan bars in their places by lantern light. A woman was scattering sand on the deck from a bucket. Locke and Jean fell in with Jabril, who smiled wryly.

“Evening, Ravelle. You look a bit … demoted.”

“I’m happy enough,” said Locke. “But honestly, Jabril, I leave the Messenger in your hands for what, an hour? And look what happens.”

“It’s a bloody improvement,” said someone behind Locke.

“Oh, I agree,” said Locke, deciding that the next few days might be infinitely more pleasant for everyone if Ravelle were to swallow anything resembling pride over his brief career as a captain. “I agree with all my gods-damned heart.”

Ezri shoved her way through the gathering crowd and vaulted atop the capstan barrel; it was wide enough that she could sit cross-legged upon it, which she did. She blew her whistle twice more and yelled, “Rigged below?”

“Rigged below,” rose an answering cry from one of the hatches.

“Take your places,” said Ezri. Locke squeezed in next to Jean and leaned against one of the long wooden bars; this capstan was wider than the one aboard the Messenger, and an extra twenty or so sailors could easily crowd in to work it. Every place was filled in seconds.

“Right,” said Ezri, “heave! Slow to start! Heave! Slow to start! Feet and shoulders! Faster, now—make the little bitch spin round and round! You know you want to!”

Locke heaved at his bar, feeling the grit shift and crunch beneath him, poking uncomfortably at the sensitive spots between his toes and the balls of his bare feet. But nobody else seemed to be complaining, so he bit his lip and bore it. Ezri was indeed spinning round and round; clank by clank, the anchor cable was coming in. A party formed at the larboard bow to secure it. After several minutes of shoving, Ezri brought the capstan party to a halt with one short blast on her whistle.

“ ’Vast heaving,” she cried. “Secure larboard anchor!”

“Cast to the larboard tack,” came Drakasha’s amplified voice; “fore and main topsails!”

More running, more whistles, more commotion. Ezri hopped to her feet atop the capstan and bellowed a quick succession of orders: “Hands aloft to loose fore and aft topsails! Brace mainyards round for the larboard tack! Foreyards braced abox!” There was more, but Locke stopped listening as he tried to make sense of what was happening. The Poison Orchid had been drifting by a single anchor in a calm sea, with a light breeze out of the northeast, and she’d drifted down so that the wind was dead ahead. What little he understood of Ezri’s orders told him that the ship would be slipping a bit aback, then turning east and bringing the wind over her larboard bow.

“Fore and aft watches, at the rails! Top-eyes, wide awake, now!” Ezri leapt down onto the deck. Dark shapes were surging up the ratlines handover-hand; blocks and tackles creaked in the growing darkness, and still more crew were coming up through the hatches to join the tumult. “Scrub watch! Scrub watch, get to the undercastle and stay out of the bloody way! Not you two.” Ezri grabbed Locke and Jean as they moved with the Messenger’s men, and she pointed them aft. “Tool locker, under the starboard stairs abaft the mainmast. Get brooms and sweep all this sand back into its bucket. After you unship the capstan bars.”

They did just that, tedious work by wavering alchemical light, frequently interrupted by busy or discourteous crewfolk. Locke worked with a scowl until Ezri stepped up between him and Jean and whispered, “Don’t mind this. It’ll make things a hell of a lot easier with your old crew.”

Damned if she wasn’t right, Locke thought; a little extra humiliation heaped on Ravelle and Valora might be just the thing to stifle the old crew’s resentment.

“My compliments,” he whispered.

“I know my business,” she said brusquely. “See everything back to where you found it, then go to the undercastle and stay there.”

Then she was gone, into the work parties overseeing a dozen delicate operations. Locke returned the brooms to the tool locker, then threaded his way forward with Jean just behind. Overhead, canvas snapped and rolled, ropes creaked as strain was added or adjusted, and men and women called softly to one another as they worked with nothing but thin air for dozens of yards beneath them.

The Poison Orchid slid slowly onto the larboard tack. She put the last faint halo of the lost sun behind her, as though sailing out of some ghostly golden portal, and gathered way beneath the first stars of evening, which waxed steadily brighter in the inky eastern sky.

Locke was pleasantly surprised to discover that Jabril had held a spot for him and Jean; not one of the more desirable ones near the entrance to the undercastle, but enough spare deck to squeeze up against the larboard bulkead, in relative darkness. Others with more favorable positions seemed not to begrudge them a moment of space as they crawled and stumbled past. One or two men muttered greetings; at worst, a few, like Mazucca and Aspel, maintained an unfriendly silence.

“Looks like you two really have joined the rest of us galley slaves,” said Jabril.

“Galley slaves is what we’d be, if Ravelle hadn’t gotten us outta Windward Rock,” said someone Locke didn’t recognize. “May be a dumb fuck, but we should show him fellowship for that.”

Thanks for speaking up when we were being thrown off the ship, Locke thought.

“Aye, I agree about the dumb fuck part,” said Mazucca.

“And we’ll all mind the fellowship part,” said Jean, using the slow, careful voice he reserved for people he was trying to avoid hitting. “Orrin’s not alone, is he?”

“Dark in here,” said Mazucca. “Lots of us, squeezed in together. You think you can move fast enough, Valora? You think you can stay awake long enough for it to matter? Twenty-eight on two—”

“If it was clear deck between you and me,” said Jean, “you’d piss your breeches the moment I cracked my knuckles.”

“Jerome,” said Locke, “easy. We can all—”

There was the sound of a scuffle in the darkness, and a heavy thud. Mazucca gave a strangled squawk.

“Baldy, you stupid bastard,” hissed an unknown voice, “you raise a hand against them and Drakasha will kill you, savvy?”

“You’ll make it worse for all of us,” said Jabril. “You never heard of Zamira Drakasha? Piss her off and we might lose our chance to be crew. You do that, Mazucca, you find out what twenty-eight on one feels like. Fuckin’ promise.”

There were murmurs of agreement in the darkness, and a sharp gasp as whoever had been holding Mazucca let go.

“Peace,” he gasped. “I won’t … I won’t ruin things. Not me.”

The night was warm, and the heat of thirty men in close confinement rapidly grew stifling despite the small ventilation grating in the middle of the forecastle deck. As Locke’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he became able to pick out the shadowed shapes of the men around him more clearly. They lay or sat flank to flank like livestock. The ship reverberated with activity around them. Feet pounded the forecastle deck; crewfolk moved about and laughed and shouted on the deck below. There was a slapping hiss of waves parting before the bow, and the constant sound of toil and shouted orders from aft.

In time, there was a cursory meal of lukewarm salted pork and half a leather jack of skunkish swill vaguely descended from ale. The food and drink were passed awkwardly through the crowd; knees and elbows met stomachs and foreheads on a continual basis until everyone was dealt with. Then came the equally punishing task of passing jacks and tin bowls back, and then of men crawling over one another to use the craplines. Locke finally settled for good into his sliver of deck space against Jean’s back, and had a sudden thought.

“Jabril, did anyone find out what day it is?”

“Twelfth of Festal,” said Jabril. “I asked Lieutenant Delmastro when I was brought aboard.”

“Twelve days,” muttered Jean.

“Yeah,” Locke sighed. Twelve days gone. Not two weeks since they’d set out, with every man here deferring to him and Jean as heroes. Twelve days for the antidote to wane in strength. Gods, the archon … how the hell was he going to explain what had happened to the ship? Some nautical technicality?

“Squiggle-fucked the rightwise cock-swabber with a starboard jib,” he whispered to himself, “when I should’ve used a larboard jib.”

“What?” muttered Jean and Jabril simultaneously.

“Nothing.”

Soon enough the old instincts of a Catchfire orphan asserted themselves. Locke made a pillow of the crook of his left arm and closed his eyes. In moments the noise and heat and bustle of the men around him, and the thousand noises of the unfamiliar ship, were nothing more than a vague background to his light but steady sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

ALL SOULS IN PERIL

1

BY THE SEVENTEENTH OF FESTAL, Jean had come to dread the sight and smell of the ship’s vinegar as much as he’d come to appreciate his glimpses of her lieutenant.

His morning task, on most days, was to fill one bucket with the foul red stuff and another with seawater, and set to swabbing the deck and bulkheads along the full length of the main deck, at least where he could reach. Fore and aft were long compartments called crew berths, and one would be in use at any given time, crammed with four or five dozen people in and out of hammocks, their snores mingling like the growls of caged beasts. That berth Jean would carefully avoid, instead swabbing out ship’s stores (what the crew called the “delicates room,” for its rack of glass bottles under netting), the main-deck hold and armory, and the empty crew berth—though even when empty each berth contained a mess of barrels, crates, and nettings that had to be laboriously shifted.

Once the reek of watered vinegar was fully mingled with the usual belowdecks stench of old food, bad liquor, and all things unwashed, Jean would usually move throughout the lowest two decks, the orlop and the bilge, swinging a large yellow alchemical light before him to help dissipate the miasmas that caused disease. Drakasha was a great one for the health of her crew; most of the sailors pierced their ears with copper to ward off cataracts and drank pinches of white sand in their ale to strengthen their bellies against rupture. The lower decks were lighted at least twice a day, much to the amusement of the ship’s cats. Unfortunately, this meant climbing, crawling, scrambling, and shoving past all manner of obstacles, including busy crewfolk. Jean was always careful to be polite and make his obeisance by nodding as he passed.

This crew was always in motion; this ship was always alive. The more Jean saw and learned on the Poison Orchid, the more convinced he became that the maintenance schedule he’d set as first mate of the Red Messenger had been hopelessly naïve. No doubt Caldris would have spoken up eventually, had he lived long enough to notice.

There seemed to be no such thing, in Captain Drakasha’s opinion, as a state of adequate repair for a ship at sea. What was checked or inspected one watch was checked again the next, and the next, day after day. What was braced was then rebraced, what could be mended was remended. The pump and capstan mechanisms were greased daily with fat scraped from the cooking pots; the masts were “slushed” top to bottom with the same brown gunk, for protection against the weather. Sailors wandered in constant, attentive parties, inspecting plank seams or wrapping canvas around rigging where the ropes chafed against one another.

The Orchids were divided into two watches, Red and Blue. They would work in six-hour shifts, one watch minding the ship while the other rested. The Red watch, for example, had duty from noon till the sixth hour of the evening, and would come back on duty from midnight till the sixth hour of the morning. Crew on the off watch could do as they pleased, unless the call of “all hands” summoned them to the deck for some strenuous or dangerous undertaking.

The scrub watch didn’t fit into this scheme; the former men of the Red Messenger were worked from dawn to dusk, and took their meals after they were dismissed, rather than around noon with the actual crew.

For all their grumbling, Jean didn’t get the sense that the Orchids genuinely resented their new shipmates. In fact, he suspected that the ex-Messengers were taking up most of the less interesting chores, leaving the Orchids that much more time to sleep, or mend personal effects, or gamble, or fuck without a hint of shame in their hammocks or under their blankets. The lack of privacy aboard ship was still a major astonishment to Jean; he was neither a prude nor a virgin, but his idea of the right place had always involved stone walls and a firmly locked door.

A lock would mean little on a ship like this, where most any noise was a shared noise. There were a pair of men on the Blue watch who could be heard from the taffrail if they were doing it in the forward berth, and a woman on the Red watch who screamed the damnedest things in Vadran, usually just as Jean was drifting off to sleep on the deck above her. He and Locke had puzzled over her grammar and concluded that she didn’t actually speak Vadran. Sometimes, her performances were followed by applause.

That aside, the crew seemed to take pride in their discipline. Jean witnessed no fights, few serious arguments, and no out-of-place drunkenness. Beer or wine was had in a respectable fashion at every meal, and by some complicated scheme that Jean had yet to work out, each member of the crew was allowed, about once a week, to go on what was called the Merry Watch, a sort of watch-within-a-watch. The Merry Watch would set up on the main deck, and be allowed a bit of freedom at the ship’s waist (especially for throwing up). They could drink more or less as they saw fit, and were excused even from all-hands calls until they’d recovered.

“It’s not … exactly what I expected,” said Jean as Ezri stood at the larboard rail one morning, pretending not to watch him touch up the gray paint on the bottom of the ship’s smallest boat. She did that, every now and again. Was he imagining things? Was it his quoting Lucarno? He’d avoided quoting anything else at her, even when the opportunity had presented itself. Better to be a mystery, in his book, than to make a cheap refrain of something that had caught her attention.

Thirteen gods, he thought with a start, am I angling myself for a pass at her? Is she—

“Pardon?” she said.

Jean smiled. Somehow he’d guessed she wouldn’t mind his speaking without invitation. “Your ship. It’s not exactly what I expected. From what I read.”

“From what you read?” She laughed, crossed her arms, and regarded him almost slyly. “What’d you read?”

“Let me think.” He dipped his brush in the gray alchemical slop and tried to look busy. “Seven Years between the Gale and the Lash.”

“Benedictus Montcalm,” she said. “Read that one. Mostly bullshit. I think he traded drinks for stories off real sailors until he had his fill.”

“How about True and Accurate History of the Wanton Red Flag?”

“Suzette vela Ducasi! I know her!”

“Know her?”

“Know of her. Crazy old bitch wound up in Port Prodigal. Scribes for coppers, drinks every coin she gets. Barely speaks decent Therin anymore. Just haunts the gutter and curses her old publishers.”

“Those are all the books I can remember,” said Jean. “Not much of a taste for histories, I’m afraid. So, how’d you manage to read everything you have?”

“Ahhh,” she said, tossing her hair backward with a flick of her neck. She wasn’t scrawny, thought Jean—no angles on Ezri, just healthy curves and muscle. Had to be healthy, to knock him down as she had, even by surprise. “Out here, the past is a currency, Jerome. Sometimes it’s the only one we have.”

“Mysterious.”

“Sensible.”

“You already know a bit about me.”

“And fair’s fair, is it? Thing is, I’m a ship’s officer and you’re a dangerous unknown.”

“That sounds promising.”

“I thought so too.” She smiled. “More to the point, I’m a ship’s officer and you’re scrub watch. You’re not even real yet.” She framed him with her hands and squinted. “You’re just a sort of hazy something on the horizon.”

“Well,” he said, and, aware that he sounded like a nitwit even as he repeated himself, “ah, well.”

“But you were curious.”

“I was?”

“About the ship.”

“Oh. Yeah, I was. I just wondered … now that I’ve seen a fair bit of it—”

“Where’s the singing, where’s the dancing on the yardarms, where’s the ale casks fore and aft, where’s the drinking and puking sunrise to sunset?”

“More or less. Not exactly a navy, you know.”

“Drakasha is former navy. Syrune. She doesn’t talk about it much, but she doesn’t try to hide her accent anymore. She did, once.”

Syrune, thought Jean, an island empire even more easterly than Jerem and Jeresh; proud and insular dark-skinned folk who took their ships seriously. If Drakasha was one of them, she’d come from a tradition of sea-officers that some said was as old as the Therin Throne.

“Syrune,” he said. “That explains some things. I thought the past was a currency?”

“She’d’ve let you have that bit for free,” said Ezri. “Trust me, if history’s a coin, she’s sitting on a gods-damned fortune.”

“So she, uh, bends the ship to her old habits?”

“More like we let ourselves be bent.” Ezri gestured to him to keep painting, and he returned to work. “Brass Sea captains are special. They have status, on the water and off. There’s a council of them in Prodigal. But each ship … the brethren sort of go their own way. Some captains get elected.

Some only rule when it’s time to take arms. With Drakasha … she rules because we know she’s our best chance. At anything. They don’t fuck around in Syrune.”

“So you keep naval watches, and drink like nervous husbands, and mind your manners?”

“You don’t approve?”

“Gods’ blood, I damn well approve. It’s just tidier than I imagined, is all.”

“You wouldn’t call anything we do naval if you’d ever served on a real ship of war. Most of our crew have, and this is a slacker’s paradise by comparison. We keep our habits because most of us have been aboard other pirate ships, too. Seen the leaks that gain a little bit every day. Seen the mechanisms rusting. Seen the rigging fraying. What good’s slacking all the time if the ship comes apart beneath you while you sleep?”

“So you’re a prudent bunch.”

“Yeah. Look, the sea either makes you prudent, or it kills you. Drakasha’s officers take an oath. We’re sworn that this ship goes down in battle, or by the will of the gods. Not for want of work, or canvas, or cord. That’s a holy vow.” She stretched. “And not for want of paint, either. Give the whole thing another coat, and look sharp about it.”

Officers. Jean reviewed the Orchid’s officers as he worked, to keep his mind off Ezri. There was Drakasha, obviously. She kept no watch but appeared when and as she saw fit. She seemed to be on deck at least half the day, and materialized like magic when anything interesting happened. Beneath her, Ezri … dammit, no thoughts concerning Ezri. Not now.

Mumchance, the sailing master, and his little crew of trusted wheel-hands. Drakasha might allow ordinary crewfolk to hold the helm in steady weather, but for any operation of skill, it was Mum and his bunch or nobody. Roughly equal with Mum were the quartermaster—currently assigned to the Red Messenger—and the physiker, Treganne, who would likely never admit to being equal with anyone who didn’t have a temple with their name on it. Drakasha had the great cabin, naturally, and the four highest officers were allowed little closet rooms in the companionway, canvas-walled things like his old cabin.

Then there was a carpenter, a sailmaker, a cook, and a boatswain. The only privilege of being a petty officer seemed to be the right to boss a few other crewfolk about from time to time. There was also a pair of … under-lieutenants, Jean supposed. Ezri called them her watch chiefs, and they were Ezri when Ezri wasn’t around. Utgar had the Red watch and a woman called Nasreen led the Blue, but Jean had yet to meet her, since she’d been entrusted with the Messenger’s prize crew.

It seemed that all the menial, back-and-forth mucking about was giving Jean—and the rest of the scrub watch—the chance to learn the ship’s hierarchy, along with its layout. He supposed that was by design.

The weather had been consistent since their capture. Steady light breezes from the northeast, clouds that came and went like a tavern dancer’s favor, endless low waves that made the sea gleam like a million-faceted sapphire. The sun was a pounding heat by day, and enclosure stifled them at night, but Jean was conditioned to this work by now. He was as brown as Paolo and Cosetta. Locke, too, seemed to be making the best of it—tanned and bearded and genuinely wiry, for once, rather than merely slender. His size and an unwise boast about his agility had gotten him assigned to mastslushing duty, foremast and main, each and every morning.

Their food still came late after each long day, and though charmless it was more than ample. They had a full liquor ration now, too. As much as Jean hated to admit it, even to himself, he didn’t mind this turn of events so very much. He could work and sleep in confidence that the people ruling the ship knew their business; he and Locke no longer had to run everything on improvisation and prayer. If not for the damned log, with its relentless record of day after day passing them by, day after day of the antidote waning, it would have been a good time. A good and timeless interval, with Lieutenant Delmastro to puzzle over.

But neither he nor Locke could stop counting the days.

2

ON THE eighteenth of Festal, Bald Mazucca snapped.

He’d given no warning; though he’d been sullen in the undercastle each night, he was one among many tired and short-tempered men, and he’d made no further threats toward anyone, crew or scrub watch.

It was dusk, two or three hours into the Blue watch’s duty, and lanterns were going up across the ship. Jean was sitting next to Locke by the chicken coops, unraveling old rope into its component yarns. Locke was shredding these into a pile of rough brown fibers. Tarred, this stuff would become oakum, and be used for everything from caulking seams to stuffing pillows. It was a miserably tedious job, but the sun was almost gone and the end of duty for the day was nearly at hand.

There was a clatter from somewhere near the undercastle, followed by swearing and laughter. Bald Mazucca stomped into sight, carrying a mop and a bucket, with a crewman Jean didn’t recognize at his heels. The crewman said something else that Jean didn’t catch, and then it happened—Mazucca whirled and flung the heavy bucket at him, catching him right in the face. The crewman fell on his backside, stunned.

“Gods damn you,” Mazucca cried, “d’you think I’m a fuckin’ child?”

The crewman fumbled at his belt for a weapon—a short club, Jean saw. But Mazucca’s blood was up, and the crewman was still recovering from the blow. In a moment, Mazucca had kicked him in the chest and snatched the club for himself. He raised it above his head, but that was as far as he got. Three or four crewfolk hit him simultaneously, knocking him to the deck and wrestling the club from his hand.

Heavy footsteps beat rapidly from the quarterdeck to the waist. Captain Drakasha had come without being summoned.

As she flew past, Jean—his rope work quite forgotten—felt his stomach flutter. She had it. She wore it like a cloak. The same aura that he’d once seen in Capa Barsavi, something that slept inside until it was drawn out by anger or need, so sudden and so terrible. Death itself was beating a tread upon the ship’s planks.

Drakasha’s crewfolk had Mazucca up and pinned by the arms. The man who’d been hit by the bucket had retrieved his club and was rubbing his head nearby. Zamira came to a halt and pointed at him.

“Explain yourself, Tomas.”

“I was … I was … sorry, Cap’n. Just having some fun.”

“He’s been hounding me all fuckin’ afternoon,” said Mazucca, subdued but nowhere near calm. “Hasn’t done a lick of work. Just follows me around, kicks my bucket, takes my tools, messes up my shit and sets me to fixing it again.”

“True, Tomas?”

“I just … it was just fun, Cap’n. Teasing the scrub watch. Didn’t mean nothing. I’ll stop.”

Drakasha moved so fast Tomas didn’t even have time to flinch until he was already on his way back to the deck, his nose broken. Jean had noted the elegant upward sweep of her arm and the precise use of the palm—he’d been on the receiving end of that sort of blow at least twice in his life. Tomas, stupid ass that he was, had his sympathy.

“Agggh,” said Tomas, spraying blood.

“The scrub watch are like tools,” said Drakasha. “I expect them to be kept in a useful trim. Maintained. You want to have fun, you make sure it’s responsible fun. I’m halving your share of the Red Messenger loot, and your share of the sale.” She gestured to the women standing behind him. “You two. Haul him aft and find Scholar Treganne.”

As Tomas was being dragged toward the quarterdeck for a surprise visit to the ship’s physiker, Drakasha turned to Mazucca.

“You heard my rules, first night you were on my ship.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Captain Drakasha, he just—”

“You did hear. You did hear what I said, and you understood.”

“I did, I was angry, I—”

“Death to touch a weapon. I made that clear as a cloudless sky, and you did it anyway.”

“Look—”

“I’ve got no use for you,” she said, and her right arm darted out to close around Mazucca’s throat. The crewfolk released him, and he locked his hands around Drakasha’s forearm, to no avail. She began dragging him toward the starboard rail. “Out here, you lose your head, you make one dumb gods-damned mistake, you can take the whole ship down. If you can’t keep your wits when you’ve been told what’s at stake, clear and simple, you’re just ballast.”

Kicking and gagging, Mazucca tried to fight back, but Drakasha hauled him inexorably toward the side of the weather deck. About two yards from the rail, she gritted her teeth, drew her right arm back, and flung Mazucca forward, putting the full power of hip and shoulder into the push. He hit hard, flailing for balance, and toppled backward. A second later there was the sound of a splash.

“This ship has ballast enough.”

Crewfolk and scrub watch alike ran to the starboard rail. After a quick glance at Locke, Jean got up to join them. Drakasha remained where she was, arms at her side, her sudden rage evaporated. In that, too, she seemed like Barsavi. Jean wondered if she would spend the rest of the night sullen and brooding, or even drinking.

The ship had been making a steady four or five knots, and Mazucca didn’t appear to be a strong swimmer. He was already five or six yards to the side of the ship, and fifteen or twenty yards back, off the quarterdeck. His arms and head bobbed against the rippling darkness of the waves, and he hollered for help.

Dusk. Jean shuddered. A hungry time on the open sea. The hard light of day drove many things deep beneath the waves, made the water nearly safe for hours on end. All that changed at twilight.

“Shall we fish him out, Captain?” A crewman had stepped up beside her, and he spoke in a voice so low that only those nearby could hear.

“No,” said Drakasha. She turned and began to walk slowly aft. “Sail on. Something will be along for him soon enough.”

3

ON THE nineteenth, at half past noon, Drakasha shouted for Locke to come to her cabin. Locke ran aft as fast as he could, visions of Tomas and Mazucca vivid in his mind.

“Ravelle, what the unhallowed hells is this?”

Locke paused to take in the scene. She’d rigged her table in the center of the cabin. Paolo and Cosetta were seated across from one another, staring at Locke, and a deck of playing cards was spread in an unfathomable pattern between them. A silver goblet was tipped over in the middle of the table … a goblet too large for little hands. Locke felt a flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, but looked closer nonetheless.

As he’d suspected … a mouthful or so of pale brown liquor had spilled onto the tabletop from the goblet, and fallen across a card. That card had dissolved into a puddle of soft, completely unmarked gray material.

“You took the cards out of my chest,” he said. “The ones in the double-layered oilcloth parcel.”

“Yes.”

“And you were drinking a fairly strong liquor with your meal. One of your children spilled it.”

“Caramel brandy, and I spilled it myself.” She produced a dagger and poked at the gray material. Although it had a liquid sheen, it was hard and solid, and the tip of the dagger slid off it as though it were granite. “What the hell is this? It’s like … alchemical cement.”

“It is alchemical cement. You didn’t notice that the cards smelled funny?”

“Why the hell would I smell playing cards?” She frowned. “Children, don’t touch these anymore. In fact, go sit on your bed until Mommy can wash your hands.”

“It’s not dangerous,” said Locke.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Paolo, Cosetta, put your hands in your laps and wait for Mommy.”

“They’re not really cards,” said Locke. “They’re alchemical resin wafers. Paper-thin and flexible. The card designs are actually painted on. You wouldn’t believe how expensive they were.”

“Nor would I care. What the hell are they for?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Dip one in strong liquor and it dissolves in a few seconds. Suddenly you’ve got a little pat of alchemical cement. Mash up as many cards as you need. The stuff dries in about a minute, hard as steel.”

“Hard as steel?” She eyed the gray splotch on her fine lacquered tabletop. “How does it come off?”

“Um … it doesn’t. There’s no solvent. At least not outside of an alchemist’s lab.”

“What? Gods damn it, Ravelle—”

“Captain, you’re being unfair. I didn’t ask you to take those cards out and play with them. Nor did I spill liquor on them.”

“You’re right,” said Drakasha with a sigh. She looked tired, Locke thought. The faint frown lines around her mouth looked as though they’d had a long recent workout. “Gather these up and throw them overboard.”

“Captain, please. Please.” Locke held his hands out toward her. “Not only are they expensive, they’d be … damned impossible to duplicate. It’d take months. Let me just roll them back up in oilcloth and put them in the chest. Please think of them as part of my papers.”

“What do you use them for?”

“They’re just part of my little bag of tricks,” he said. “All I have left of it, really. One last, important little trick. I swear to you, they’re absolutely no threat to you and your ship.… You have to spill booze on them, and even then they’re just an annoyance. Look, if you save them for me, and find me some knives with scalpel edges, I’ll devote all my time to getting that shit off your table. Prying from the sides. Even if it takes all week. Please.”

As it turned out, it took him ten hours, scraping away with infinite care atop the forecastle, as though he were performing surgery. He worked without rest, first by sunlight and then by the glow of multiple lanterns, until the devilishly hard stuff had been scraped off with nothing but a ghost upon the lacquer to show for it.

When he finally claimed his minuscule sleeping space, he knew his hands and forearms would ache well into the next day.

It was worth it, and had been worth every minute of work, to preserve the existence of that deck of cards.

4

ON THE twentieth, Drakasha gave up on the easterly course and put them west by north with the wind on the starboard beam. The weather held; they cooked by day and sweated by night, and the ship sailed beneath streams of flit-wraiths that hung over the water like arches of ghostly green light.

On the twenty-first, as the promise of dawn was just graying the eastern sky, they had their chance to prove themselves.

Locke was knocked out of a too-short sleep by an elbow to the ribs. He awoke to confusion; the men of the scrub watch were shifting, stumbling, and muttering all around him.

“Sail ho,” said Jean.

“Heard it from the masthead just a minute ago,” said someone near the door. “Two points off the starboard quarter. That’s well east and a little north of us, hull down.”

“That’s good,” said Jabril, yawning. “The dawn glimpse.”

“Dawn?” It still seemed dark, and Locke rubbed his sleep-blurred eyes. “Dawn already? Since I no longer have to pretend to know what the hell I’m doing, what’s a dawn glimpse?”

“Sun’s coming up over the horizon, see?” Jabril seemed to relish the chance to lecture Locke. “Over in the east. We’re still in shadow over here, to the west a’ them. Hard to see us, but we got a good eye on them with that faint light behind their masts, savvy?”

“Right,” said Locke. “Seems like a good thing.”

“We’re for her,” said Aspel. “We’ll move in and take her. This ship is loaded with crew, and Drakasha’s a bloody-handed bitch.”

“It’s a fight for us,” said Streva. “We’ll go first.”

“Aye, and prove ourselves,” said Aspel. “Prove ourselves and be quits with this scrub watch shit.”

“Don’t be tying silver ribbons on your cock just yet,” said Jabril. “We don’t know her heading, or what speed she makes, or what her best point of sailing is. She might be a ship of war. Might even be part of a squadron.”

“Be fucked, Jabbi,” said someone without real malice. “Don’t you want to be gone from scrub watch?”

“Hey, time comes to board her, I’ll row the boat naked and attack the bastards with my good fuckin’ looks. Just wait and see if she’s prey, is all I’m sayin’.”

There was noise and commotion on deck; orders were shouted. The men at the entrance strained to hear and see everything.

“Delmastro’s sending people up the lines,” said one of them. “Looks like we’re going to come north a few points. They’re doing it quick-like.”

“Nothing’s more suspicious than a sudden change of sail, if they see us,” said Jabril. “She wants us to be nearer their course before we’re spotted, so it looks natural.”

Minutes passed; Locke blinked and settled back down against his familiar bulkhead. If action wasn’t imminent, there was always time for a few more minutes of sleep. From the groaning and shuffling around him, he wasn’t alone in that opinion.

He awoke a few minutes later—the sky seen through the ventilation hatch was lighter gray—to Lieutenant Delmastro’s voice coming from the undercastle entrance.

“… where you are for now. Keep quiet and out of sight. It’s about five minutes to the switchover from Red to Blue, but we’re suspending regular watches for action. We’ll be sending Red down in bits and pieces, and half of Blue will come up to replace them. We want to look like a merchant brig, not a prowler with a heavy crew.”

Locke craned his neck to look out over the shadowy shapes around him. Just past Delmastro, in the predawn murk, he could see crewfolk at the waist wrestling several large barrels toward the ship’s larboard rail.

“Smoke barrels on deck,” called a woman.

“No open flames on deck,” shouted Ezri. “No smoking. Alchemical lights only. Pass the word.”

Minutes passed, and the light of dawn grew steadily. Locke nonetheless found his eyelids creeping back downward. He sighed relaxed, and—

“On deck there,” came a shout from the foremast head. “Send to the captain she’s got three masts, and she’s northwest by west. Topsails.”

“Aye, three masts, northwest by west, topsails,” shouted Ezri. “How does she bear?”

“Broad on the starboard beam, aft a point maybe.”

“Keep sharp. Is she still hull down?”

“Aye.”

“The moment she lifts her skirts over that horizon, you peek and tell us what’s under them.” Ezri returned to the undercastle and pounded loudly on the bulkhead beside the entrance. “Scrub watch, rouse up. Stretch your legs and use the craplines, then get back under here. Be quick. We’ll be fighting or running soon enough. Best to have your innards in good order.”

It was less like moving with a crowd than being squeezed from a tube. Locke found himself pushed onto deck, and he curled his back and stretched. Jean did likewise, then stepped up beside Delmastro. Locke raised an eyebrow; the little lieutenant seemed to tolerate Jean’s conversation to the same extent that she disdained his. So long as one of them was getting information from her, he supposed.

“Do you really think we’ll be running?” asked Jean.

“I’d prefer not.” Delmastro squinted over the rail, but even from Locke’s perspective the new ship couldn’t be seen on deck just yet.

“You know,” said Jean, “it’s to be expected that you won’t see anything from down there. You should let me put you on my shoulders.”

“A short joke,” said Delmastro. “How remarkably original. I’ve never heard the like in all my days. I’ll have you know I’m the tallest of all my sisters.”

“Sisters,” said Jean. “Interesting. A bit of your past for free?”

“Shit,” she said, scowling. “Leave me alone, Valora. It’s going to be a busy morning.”

Men were returning from the craplines. Now that the press had lessened, Locke climbed the stairs and made his way forward to do his own business. He had sufficient unpleasant experience by now to elbow his way to the weather side—damned unfortunate things could happen to those on the lee craplines in any kind of wind—of the little wooden brace, which crossed the bowsprit just a yard or two out from the forepeak. It had ratlines hanging beneath it like a miniature yardarm, and against these Locke braced his feet while he undid his breeches. Waves pounded white against the bow, and spray rose to splash the backs of his legs.

“Gods,” he said, “to think that pissing could be such an adventure.”

“On deck, there,” came the cry from the foremast a moment later. “She’s a flute, she is. Round and fat. Holding course and sail as before.”

“What colors?”

“None to be seen, Lieutenant.”

A flute. Locke recognized the term—a round-sterned merchantman with a homely curved bow. Handy for cargo, but a brig like the Orchid could dance around it at will. No pirate or military expedition would make use of such a vessel. As soon as they could draw her in, it seemed they’d have their fight.

“Ha,” he muttered, “and here I am, caught with my breeches down.”

5

THE SUN rose molten behind their target, framing the low black shape in a half-circle of crimson. Locke was on his knees at the starboard rail of the forecastle, trying to stay unobtrusive. He squinted and put a hand over his eyes to cut the glare. The eastern sky was a bonfire aura of pink and red; the sea was like liquid ruby spreading in a stain from the climbing sun.

A dirty black smear of smoke rose from the lee side of the Poison Orchid’s waist, a few yards wide, an ominous intrusion into the clean dawn air. Lieutenant Delmastro was tending the smoke barrels herself. The Orchid was making way under topsails with her main and forecourses furled; conveniently, it was both a logical plan of sail for this breeze and the first precaution they would have taken if the ship were really on fire.

“Come on, you miserable twits,” said Jean, who was seated beside him. “Glance left, for Perelandro’s sake.”

“Maybe they do see us,” said Locke. “Maybe they just don’t give a damn.”

“They haven’t changed a sail,” said Jean, “or we would’ve heard about it from the lookouts. They must be the most incurious, myopic, dim-witted buggers that ever set canvas to mast.”

“On deck there!” The foremast lookout sounded excited. “Send to the captain she’s turning to larboard!”

“How far?” Delmastro stepped away from her smoke barrels. “Is she coming about to head right for us?”

“No, she’s come about three points around.”

“They want to have a closer look,” said Jean, “but they’re not hopping into the hammock with us just yet.”

There was a shout from the quarterdeck, and a moment later Delmastro blew her whistle three times.

“Scrub watch! Scrub watch to the quarterdeck!”

They hurried aft, past crewfolk removing well-oiled bows from canvas covers and stringing them. As Delmastro had promised, about half the usual watch was on deck; those involved in preparing weapons were crouched down or hiding behind the masts and the chicken coops. Drakasha was waiting for them at the quarterdeck rail, and she started speaking the moment they arrived.

“They still have time and room enough to put about. It’s a flute, and I doubt they could run from us forever in any weather, but they could make us work for the catch. My guess is six or seven hours, but who wants to be bored for that long? We’ll pose as a charter brig on fire and see if we can’t entice them to do the sociable thing.

“I offered a chance to prove yourselves, so you’re the teeth of the trap. You’ll fight first. Good on you if you come back. If you don’t want to fight, get under the forecastle and stay scrub watch until we’re quits with you.

“As for me, I woke up hungry this morning. I mean to have that fat little prize. Who among you would fight for a place on my ship?”

Locke and Jean thrust their arms into the air, along with everyone nearby. Locke glanced quickly around and saw that nobody seemed to be declining their chance.

“Good,” said Drakasha. “We’ve three boats, seating about thirty. You’ll have them. Your task will be to look innocent at first; stay near the Orchid. At the signal, you’ll dash out and attack from the south.”

“Captain,” said Jabril, “what if we can’t take her ourselves?”

“If numbers or circumstances are against you, hold fast to whatever scrap of deck you can. I’ll bring the Orchid alongside and grapple to her. Nothing that ship carries can stand against a hundred fresh boarders.”

A fine comfort that’ll be, to those of us already dead or dying, Locke thought. The reality of what they were about to do had only just come home to him, and he felt an anxious fluttering in his stomach.

“Captain!” One of the lookouts was hailing from the maintop. “She’s sent up Talishani colors!”

“She might be lying,” muttered Jabril. “Decent bluff. If you’re going to fly a false flag, Talisham’s got a bit of a navy. And nobody’s at war with ’em right now.”

“Not too clever, though,” said Jean. “If she had escorts in sight, why not fly it at all times? Only someone with cause to be worried hides their colors.”

“Aye. Them and pirates.” Jabril grinned.

Captain Drakasha shouted across the crowd. “Del! Have one of your smoke barrels sent over to the starboard rail. Just forward of the quarterdeck stairs.”

“You want smoke from the weather rail, Captain?”

“A good smudge right across the quarterdeck,” said Drakasha. “If they want to chat with signal flags, we need an excuse to keep mum.”

The lanky sailing master, holding the wheel a few feet behind Drakasha, cleared his throat loudly. She smiled, then seemed to have an idea. Turning to a sailor on her left, she said, “Get three signal pennants from the flag chest and let them fly from the stern. Yellow over yellow over yellow.”

“All souls in peril,” said Jean. “That’s a come-hither look, and no fooling.”

“I thought it was just a distress signal,” said Locke.

“Should’ve read the book more closely. Three yellow pennants says we’re so hard up that we’ll legally grant them salvage rights to anything we don’t carry on our persons. They save it, they own it.”

Delmastro and her crew had moved a smoke barrel into position at the starboard rail, and lit it with a bit of twist-match. Gray tendrils of smoke began to snake up and over the quarterdeck, chasing the darker black cloud rising from the lee side. At the taffrail, a pair of sailors was sending up three fluttering yellow pennants.

“Extra lookouts aloft and at the rails to give Mumchance a hand,” called Drakasha. “Archers up one at a time. Keep your weapons down in the tops; stay out of sight if you can, and play meek until I give the signal.”

“Captain!” The mainmast lookouts were shouting down once more. “She’s turned to cut our path, and she’s adding sail!”

“Funny how tender-hearted they get as soon as they see that signal,” said Drakasha. “Utgar!”

A fairly young Vadran, the skin of his shaved head red-baked over a braided black beard, appeared just beside Lieutenant Delmastro.

“Hide Paolo and Cosetta on the orlop deck,” said Zamira. “We’re about to cause an argument.”

“Aye,” he said, and hurried up the quarterdeck stairs.

“As for you,” said Drakasha, returning her attention to the scrub watch, “hatchets and sabers are set out at the foremast. Take your choice and wait to help send the boats down.”

“Captain Drakasha!”

“What is it, Ravelle?”

Locke cleared his throat and offered a silent prayer to the Nameless Thirteenth that he knew what he was doing. The time for a gesture was now; if he didn’t do something to restore a bit of prestige to Ravelle, he’d end up as just another member of the crew, shunned for his past failure. He needed to be respected if he expected to achieve any part of his mission. That meant a grand act of foolishness.

“It’s my fault that these men nearly died aboard the Messenger. They were my crew, and I should have looked after them better. I’d like the chance to do that now. I want … the first seat on the lead boat.”

“You expect me to let you command the attack?”

“Not command,” said Locke. “Just go up the side first. Whatever’s there to bleed us, let it bleed me first. Maybe I can spare whoever comes up next.”

“That means me as well,” said Jean, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder, somewhat protectively. “I go where he goes.”

Gods bless you, Jean, thought Locke.

“If it’s your ambition to stop a crossbow bolt,” said Drakasha, “I won’t say no.” She seemed a bit taken aback, however, and she gave the tiniest fraction of an approving nod to Locke as the crowd began to break up and head forward for their weapons.

“Captain!” Lieutenant Delmastro stepped forward, her hands and forearms covered in soot from the smoke barrels. She glanced at Locke and Jean as she spoke. “Just who is leading the cutting-out boats anyway?”

“Free-for-all, Del. I’m sending one Orchid per boat to hold them; what the scrub watch does after they climb the sides is their business.”

“I want the boats.”

Drakasha stared at her for several seconds, and said nothing. She was wreathed in gray smoke from the waist down.

“I had nothing to do when we took the Messenger, Captain,” Delmastro said hastily. “In fact, I haven’t had any real fun with a prize for weeks.”

Drakasha flicked her gaze over Jean and frowned. “You crave an indulgence.”

“Aye. But a useful one.”

Drakasha sighed. “You have the boats, Del. Mind you, Ravelle gets his wish.”

Translation: If he takes an arrow for anyone, make sure it’s you, thought Locke.

“You won’t regret it, Captain. Scrub watch! Arm yourselves and meet me at the waist!” Delmastro dashed up the quarterdeck stairs, past Utgar, who was leading the Drakasha children along with one clinging tightly to either hand.

“You’re a bold and stupid fellow, Ravelle,” said Jabril. “I think I almost like you again.”

“… at least he can fight, we know that much,” Locke heard one of the other men saying. “You should’ve seen him take care of the guard the night we got the Messenger. Pow! One little punch folded him right up. He’ll show us a thing or two this morning. You wait.”

Locke was suddenly very glad he’d already pissed everything he had to piss.

At the waist, an older crew-woman stood watch on small barrels packed full of the promised hatchets and sabers. Jean drew out a pair of hatchets, hefted them, and frowned as Locke hesitated before the barrels.

“You have any idea what you’re doing?” he whispered.

“None whatsoever,” said Locke.

“Take a saber and try to look comfortable.”

Locke drew a saber and gazed at it as though immensely satisfied.

“Anyone with a belt,” shouted Jean, “grab a second weapon and tuck it in. You never know when you or someone else might need it.”

As half a dozen men took his advice, he sidled up to Locke and whispered again. “Stay right beside me. Just … keep up with me and stand tall. Maybe they won’t have bows.”

Lieutenant Delmastro returned to their midst, wearing her black leather vest and bracers, as well as her knife-packed weapon belt. Locke noticed that the curved handguards of her sabers were studded with what looked like jagged chips of Elderglass.

“Here, Valora.” She tossed a leather fighting collar to Jean and held her tightly tailed hair up to leave her neck fully exposed. “Help a girl out.”

Jean placed the collar around her neck and clasped it behind her head. She tugged it once, nodded, and put up her arms. “Listen up! Until we make an unfriendly move, you’re wealthy passengers and land-sucking snobs, sent out in the boats to save your precious skins.”

A pair of crewmen were making the rounds of the scrub watch, handing out fine hats, brocaded jackets, and other fripperies. Delmastro seized a silk parasol and shoved it into Locke’s hands. “There you go, Ravelle. That might deflect some harm.”

Locke shook the folded parasol over his head with exaggerated belligerence, and got some nervous laughter in exchange.

“Like the captain said, it’ll be one Orchid per boat, to make sure they come back even if you don’t,” said Delmastro. “I’ll take Ravelle and Valora with me, in the little boat you donated from the Messenger. Plus you and you.” She pointed to Streva and Jabril. “Whatever else happens, we’re first to the side and first up.”

Oscarl, the boatswain, appeared with a small party of assistants carrying lines and blocks to begin rigging hoisting gear.

“One thing more,” said Delmastro. “If they ask for quarter, give it. If they drop their weapons, respect it. If they carry on fighting, slaughter them where they fucking stand. And if you start to feel sorry for them, just remember what signal we had to fly to get them to lend aid to a ship on fire.”

6

FROM THE water, the illusion of that fire seemed complete to Locke’s eyes. All the smoke barrels were going now; the ship trailed a black-and-gray cloud that all but enveloped its quarterdeck. The figure of Zamira appeared now and again, her spyglass briefly catching the sun before she vanished back into the darkness. A team of crewmen had rigged small pumps and canvas hoses amidships (at the rail, where they could best be seen), and they were directing streams of water at the cloud of smoke, though actually doing nothing but washing the deck.

Locke sat at the bow of the little boat, feeling vaguely ridiculous with his parasol in hand and a cloth-of-silver jacket draped over his shoulders like a cape. Jean and Jabril shared the forward rowing bench, Streva and Lieutenant Delmastro were behind them, and a very small crewman named Vitorre—little more than a boy—crouched in the stern to take over from them when they boarded the flute.

That ship, her curiously round and wallowing hull-curves now plainly visible, was angled somewhat away from them to the north. Locke estimated that it would cross paths with the Poison Orchid, or very nearly so, in about ten minutes.

“Let’s start rowing for her,” said Delmastro. “They’ll expect it by now.”

Their boat and the two larger ones had been keeping station about a hundred yards southeast of the Orchid. As the four rowers in the lead boat began to pull north, Locke saw the others catch their cue and follow.

They bobbed and slipped across the foot-high waves. The sun was up and its heat was building; it had been half past the seventh hour of the morning when they’d left the ship. The oars creaked rhythmically in their locks; now they were abreast with the Orchid, and the newcomer was about half a mile to their northeast. If the flute caught wind of the trap and tried to flee to the north, the ship would loose canvas to fly after it. If it tried to flee south, however, it would be up to the boats to slip into its path.

“Ravelle,” said Delmastro, “at your feet, the breaching shears. You see them?”

Locke looked down. Tucked away beneath his seat was an ugly-looking hinged device with a pair of wooden handles. These handles worked a metal jaw.

“I think so.”

“Bows aren’t our biggest problem. The most trouble they can give us is if they rig razor nets against boarding; we’ll slash ourselves to pieces trying to climb on deck. If those nets are rigged, you must use those shears to cut a slit for us to get in.”

“Or die trying,” he said. “I think I get it.”

“But the good news is, rigging razor nets is a pain in the ass. And they won’t be up at all if they’re expecting to send out boats and receive passengers. If we can just get close enough before we tip our hand, they won’t have time to use them.”

“What’s the signal to tip our hand?”

“You won’t miss it. Trust me.”

7

ZAMIRA DRAKASHA stood at the starboard quarterdeck rail, taking a break from the smoke. She studied the approaching flute through her glass; there was elaborate ornamentation on the stubby forepeak, and a somewhat whimsical gold-and-black paint scheme along her tall sides. That was agreeable; if she was well maintained she was likely to be carrying a respectable cargo and a bit of coin.

A pair of officers stood at the bow, studying her ship through their own glasses. She waved in what she hoped was an encouraging fashion, but received no response.

“Well, fine,” she muttered. “You’ll be rendering your courtesies soon enough.”

The small dark shapes of crew rushed about on the flute, now just a quarter mile distant. Her sails were shuddering, her hull elongating in Zamira’s view—were they running? No, just killing momentum, turning a point or two to starboard, aiming to get close but not too close. She could see a pump-and-hose team at work amidships, shooting a stream of water upward to wet the flute’s lower sails. Very sensible, when coming anywhere near a fire at sea.

“Signal party,” she said, “stand ready.”

“Aye, Captain,” came a chorus of voices from within the smoke-shrouded portion of the quarterdeck.

Her own boats were cutting the waves between the two ships. There was Ravelle in the lead with his parasol, looking a bit like a thin silver mushroom with a soft white cap. And there was Valora, and there was Ezri … damn it. Ezri’s request had given her little choice but to acquiesce or look foolish in front of the scrub watch. There’d be words for that little woman … if the gods blessed Zamira enough to send her lieutenant back alive.

She studied the flute’s officers, who’d moved from the bow to the larboard rail. Wide fellows, it seemed, a bit overdressed for the heat. Her eyes were not what they’d been twenty-five years ago.… Were they prodding one another, looking more intently through their glasses?

“Captain?” asked a member of the signal party.

“Hold,” she said. “Hold …” Every second closed the gap between the Orchid and her victim. They’d slowed and turned, but leeway would bring them closer still … closer still. One of them pointed, then grabbed the other by the shoulder and pointed again. Their glasses flew up in unison.

“Ha!” Zamira cried. Not a chance they could slip away now. She felt new zeal lending strength to her every step and motion; she felt half her years seem to fall from her shoulders. Gods, the moment they realized just how fucked they were was always sweet. She slammed her spyglass shut, snatched her speaking trumpet from the deck, and hollered across the length of the ship.

“Archers ready at the tops! All hands on deck! All hands on deck and man the starboard rail! Stifle smoke barrels!”

The Poison Orchid shuddered; seven dozen hands were pounding up the ladders, surging out of the hatchways, armed and armored, screaming as they came. Archers stepped out from behind the masts, knelt on their fighting platforms, and nocked arrows to their gleaming bows.

Zamira didn’t need her glass to see the shapes of officers and crew running about frantically on the flute’s deck.

“Let’s give ’em something that’ll really make ’em piss their breeches,” she shouted, not bothering with the speaking trumpet. “Hoist our crimson!”

The three yellow pennants streaming above the quarterdeck shuddered, then plummeted straight down into the gray haze. From out of the last of the black and boiling smoke rose a broad red banner, bright as the morning sun looming above a storm.

8

“WITH A will,” shouted Lieutenant Delmastro, “with a will!” As the bloodred flag rose to its full prominence above the stern of the Orchid and the first of the horde of maniacally cheering crewfolk began to crowd her starboard rail, the three boats surged across the waves.

Locke shed his parasol and jacket, tossing them overboard before remembering that they were worth quite a bit of money. He breathed in excited gasps, glancing over his shoulder at the fast-approaching side of the flute, a sheer wooden surface that loomed like a floating castle. Dear gods, he was going into battle. What the fuck was the matter with him?

He bit the insides of his cheeks for concentration and held on to the gunwales with white knuckles. Damn it, this was no grand gesture. He couldn’t afford this. He breathed deep to steady himself.

Locke Lamora was small, but the Thorn of Camorr was larger than any of this. The Thorn couldn’t be touched by blade or spell or scorn. Locke thought of the Falconer, bleeding at his feet. He thought of the Gray King, dead beneath his knife. He thought of the fortunes that had run through his fingers, and he smiled.

Steadily, carefully, he drew his saber and began to wave it in the air. The three boats were nearly abreast now, slashing white triangles of wake on the sea, a minute from their target. Locke meant to hit it wearing the biggest lie of his life like a costume. He might be dead in a few moments, but until then, by the gods, he was the Thorn of Camorr. He was Captain Orrin fucking Ravelle.

“Orchids! Orchids!” He made a statue of himself at the bow of the boat, thrusting with his saber as though he meant to ram the flute and punch a hole in her side all by himself. “Pull for the prize! Pull for yourselves! Follow me, Orchids! Richer and cleverer than everyone else!”

The Poison Orchid slipped ahead of the last of her smoke, streaming gray lines from her quarterdeck, as though evading the grasp of some godlike ghostly hand. The teeming crewfolk at her rail cheered again, and then fell silent together. The ship’s sails began to flutter. Drakasha was tacking, with haste, to bring the ship sharply around to starboard. If she pulled it off she would snug up, on the larboard tack, right alongside the flute at knife-fighting distance.

The sudden silence of the Orchids allowed Locke to hear noises from the flute for the first time—orders, panic, arguments, consternation. And then, over everything else, a tinny and desperate voice shouting through a speaking trumpet:

“Save us! For the love of the gods, please … please get over here and save us!”

“Shit. That’s a little different than what we usually get,” said Delmastro.

Locke had no time to think; they were up to the flute’s hull, bumping hard against the wall of wet planks on her lee side. The ship was slightly heeled over, creating the illusion that she was about to topple and crush them. Miraculously, there were shrouds and a boarding net within easy reach. Locke leapt for the net, sword arm raised.

“Orchids,” he cried as he climbed the rough, wet hemp in an exaltation of fear. “Orchids! Follow me!”

The moment of truth; his left hand found the deck at the top of the boarding net. Gritting his teeth, he swept upward with his saber, clumsily and viciously, in case anyone was waiting at the edge of the deck. Then he heaved himself up, rolled under the rail—he’d missed the entry port by a few yards—and stumbled to his feet, screaming like a madman.

The deck was all chaos, and none of it meant for him. There were no razor nets, no archers, no walls of polearms or swords waiting to receive the boarders. Crewmen and -women ran about in a panic. An abandoned fire hose lay on the deck at Locke’s feet like a dead brown snake, gurgling seawater into a spreading puddle.

A crewman skidded through that puddle and slammed into him, flailing. Locke raised his saber, and the crewman cringed, throwing up his hands to show that they were empty.

“We tried to surrender,” the crewman gasped. “We tried! They wouldn’t let us! Gods, help us!”

“Who? Who wouldn’t let you surrender?”

The crewman pointed to the ship’s raised quarterdeck, and Locke whirled to see what was there.

“Aw, hell,” he whispered.

There had to be at least twenty of them, all men, cast from the same mold. Tanned, stocky, muscular. Their beards were neatly trimmed, their shoulder-length hair bound in rattling strings of beads. Their heads were wrapped with bright green cloths, and Locke knew from past experience that what looked like thin, dark sleeves covering their arms was actually holy verse, tattooed so thickly in black and green ink that every trace of the skin beneath was lost.

Jeremite Redeemers. Religious maniacs who believed that they were the only possible salvation for the sins of their wicked island. They made themselves living sacrifices to the Jeremite gods, wandering the world in exile groups, living polite as monks until someone, anyone, threatened them.

Their sacred vow was to kill or be killed when offered violence; to die honorably for Jerem, or to ruthlessly exterminate anyone who raised a hand against them. All of them were looking very, very intently at Locke.

“The heathen offers a red cleansing!” A Redeemer at the head of the group pointed at Locke and hoisted his brass-studded witchwood club. “Wash our souls in heathen blood! Slay for holy Jerem!”

Weapons high, they rushed the quarterdeck stairs and surged down them, fixed on Locke, all the while demonstrating just how madmen really screamed. A crewman tried to stumble out of their way and was swatted down, his skull cracking like a melon beneath the club of the leader. The others trampled his body as they charged.

Locke couldn’t help himself. The spectacle of that onrushing, battle-hardened, completely insane death was so far beyond anything in his experience, he coughed out a burst of startled laughter. He was scared to the marrow, and in that there was sudden, absolute freedom. He raised his one useless saber and flung himself into a countercharge, feeling light as dust on a breeze, hollering as he ran. “Come, then! Face Ravelle! The gods have sent your doom, motherfuckers!”

He should have died a few seconds later. It was Jean, as usual, who had other plans.

The Jeremite leader bore down on Locke, twice his weight worth of murderous fanatic, blood and sunlight gleaming on the studs of his raised club. Then there was a hatchet where his face had been, the handle protruding from the shattered hollow of an eye. Impact, not with the club but with the suddenly senseless corpse, slammed Locke to the deck and knocked the air from his lungs. Hot blood sprayed across his face and neck, and he struggled furiously to free himself from beneath the twitching body. The deck around him was suddenly full of shapes kicking, stomping, screaming, and falling.

The world dissolved into disconnected images and sensations. Locke barely had time to catalog them as they flashed by.

Axes and spears meant for him sinking into the body of the Jeremite leader. A desperate lunge with his saber, and the shock of impact as it sank into the unprotected hollow of a Redeemer’s thigh. Jean hauling him to his feet. Jabril and Streva pulling other Orchids onto the deck. Lieutenant Delmastro, fighting beside Jean, turning a Redeemer’s face to raw red paste with the glass-studded guard of one of her sabers. Shadows, movements, discordant shouts.

It was impossible to stay next to Jean; the press of Redeemers was too thick, the number of incoming blows too great. Locke was knocked down again by a falling body, and he rolled to his left, slashing blindly, frantically as he went. The deck and the sky spun around him until suddenly he was rolling into thin air.

The grating was off the main cargo hatch.

Desperately he checked himself, scrambling back to his right before he toppled in. A glimpse into the main-deck hold had revealed a trio of Redeemers there, too. He stumbled to his feet and was immediately attacked by another Jeremite; parrying slash after slash, he sidestepped left and tried to slip away from the edge of the cargo hatch. No good; a second antagonist appeared, blood-drenched spear at the ready.

Locke knew he’d never be able to fight or dodge the pair of them with an open grate behind his feet. He thought quickly. The flute’s crew had been in the process of shifting a heavy barrel from the main-deck hold when the attack had come. That cask, four or five feet in diameter, hung in a netting above the mouth of the cargo hatch.

Locke lashed out wildly at his two opponents, aiming only to force them back. Then he spun on his heels and leapt for all he was worth. He struck the hanging cask with a head-jarring thud and clung to the netting, his legs kicking like those of a man treading water. The cask swung like a pendulum as he scrambled atop it.

From here, he briefly enjoyed a decent view of the action. More Orchids were pouring into the fray from the ship’s larboard side, and Delmastro and Jean were pushing the main body of Redeemers back up the quarterdeck stairs. Locke’s side of the deck was a tangled swirl of opponents; green cloths and bare heads above weapons of every sort.

Suddenly, the Jeremite with the spear was jabbing at him, and the blackened-steel head of the weapon bit wood inches from his leg. Locke flailed back with his saber, realizing that his suspended haven wasn’t as safe as he’d hoped. There were shouts from below; the Redeemers in the hold had noticed him, and meant to do something about him.

It was up to him to do something crazy first.

He leapt up, holding fast to one of the lines by which the cask was suspended from a winding-tackle, and dodged another spear thrust. No good trying to cut all the lines leading down from the tackle. That could take minutes. He tried to remember the patterns of ropes and blocks Caldris had drilled into him. His eyes darted along the single taut line that fell from the winding-tackle to a snatch-block at one corner of the cargo hatch. Yes—that line led across the deck, disappearing beneath the throng of combatants. It would run to the capstan, and if it was cut …

Gritting his teeth, he gave the taut line a good slash with the forte of his blade, feeling the saber bite hemp. A thrown hatchet whizzed past his shoulder, missing by the width of his little finger. He slashed the line again, and again, driving the blade with all the force he could muster. At the fourth stroke, it unraveled with a snap, and the weight of the cask broke it clean in two. Locke rode the barrel down into the hold, his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Someone screamed, saving him the trouble of doing so himself.

The cask struck with a resounding crash. Locke’s momentum smacked him down hard against its upper surface. His chin struck wood and he was tossed sideways, landing in an undignified heap on the deck. Warm, smelly liquid washed over him—beer. The cask was gushing it.

Locke climbed back to his feet, groaning. One Redeemer hadn’t moved fast enough, and was splayed out beneath the cask, clearly dead. The other two had been knocked sideways by the impact, and were feeling around groggily for their weapons.

He stumbled over and slit their throats before they knew he was even back on his feet. It wasn’t fighting, just thief’s work, and he did it mechanically. Then he blinked and looked around for something to clean the blade on; an old and natural thief’s habit that nearly got him killed.

A heavy dark shape splashed into the beer beside him. One of the Jeremites who’d been troubling him above, the one with the spear, had leapt the six or seven feet down into the hold. But the gushing beer was treacherous; the Redeemer’s feet went out from under him as he landed, and he toppled onto his back. Coldly resigned, Locke drove his saber into the man’s chest, then pried the spear from his dying hands.

“Undone by drink,” he whispered.

The fight continued above. For the moment, he was alone in the hold with his shoddy little victory.

Four dead, and he’d cheated every one, using luck and surprise and plain skullduggery to do what would have been impossible in a stand-up fight. Knowing that they would never have given or accepted quarter should have made it easier, but the wild abandon of a few minutes before had drained clean away. Orrin Ravelle was a fraud after all; he was plain Locke Lamora once again.

He threw up behind a pile of canvas and netting, using the spear to hold himself up until the heaving stopped.

“Gods above!”

Locke wiped his mouth as Jabril and a pair of Orchids slipped down through the cargo hatch, holding to the rim of the deck rather than leaping. They didn’t seem to have caught him puking.

“Four of ’em,” continued Jabril. His tunic had been partly torn away above a shallow cut on his chest. “Fuck me, Ravelle. I thought Valora scared the piss out of me.”

Locke took a deep breath to steady himself. “Jerome. Is he all right?”

“Was a minute ago. Saw him and Lieutenant Delmastro fighting on the quarterdeck.”

Locke nodded, then gestured aft with his spear. “Stern cabin,” he said. “Follow me. Let’s finish this.”

He led them down the length of the flute’s main deck at a run, shoving unarmed, cowering crewfolk out of the way as he passed. The armored door to the stern cabin was shut, and behind it Locke could hear the sound of frantic activity. He pounded on the door.

“We know you’re in there,” he yelled, and then turned to Jabril with a tired grin. “This seems awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“You won’t get through that door,” came a muffled shout from within.

“Give it some shoulder,” said Jabril.

“Let me try being terribly clever first,” said Locke. Then, raising his voice: “First point, this door may be armored, but your stern windows are glass. Second point, open this fucking door by the count of ten or I’ll have every surviving crewman and woman put to death on the quarterdeck. You can listen while you’re doing whatever it is you’re doing in there.”

A pause; Locke opened his mouth to begin counting. Suddenly, with the ratcheting clack of heavy clockwork, the door creaked open and a short, middle-aged man in a long black jacket appeared.

“Please don’t,” he said. “I surrender. I would have done it sooner, but the Redeemers wouldn’t have it. I locked myself in after they chased me down here. Kill me if you like, but spare my crew.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Locke. “We don’t kill anyone who doesn’t fight back. Though I suppose it’s nice to know you’re not a complete asshole. Ship’s master, I presume?”

“Antoro Nera, at your service.”

Locke grabbed him by his lapels and began dragging him toward the companionway. “Let’s go on deck, Master Nera. I think we’ve dealt with your Redeemers. What the hell were they doing aboard, anyway? Passengers?”

“Security,” muttered Nera. Locke stopped in his tracks.

“Are you that fucking dim-witted, that you didn’t know they’d go berserk the first time someone dangled a fight in front of their noses?”

“I didn’t want them! The owners insisted. Redeemers work for nothing but food and passage. Owners thought … perhaps they’d scare off anyone looking for trouble.”

“A fine theory. Only works if you advertise their presence, though. We didn’t know they were aboard until they were charging us in a fucking phalanx.”

Locke went up the companionway, dragging Nera behind him, followed by Jabril and the others. They emerged into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck. One of the men was hauling down the flute’s colors, and he was knee-deep in bodies.

There were at least a dozen of them. Redeemers, mostly, with their green head-cloths fluttering and their expressions strangely satisfied. But here and there were unfortunate crewfolk, and at the head of the stairs a familiar face—Aspel, the front of his chest a bloody ruin.

Locke glanced around frantically and sighed when he saw Jean, apparently untouched, crouched near the starboard rail. Lieutenant Delmastro was at his feet, her hair unbound, blood running down her right arm. As Locke watched, Jean tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of his own tunic and began binding one of her wounds.

Locke felt a pang that was half relief and half melancholy; usually it was him that Jean was picking up in bloody pieces at the end of a fight. Ducking away from Jean had been a matter of split-second necessity in the heat of the struggle. He realized that he was strangely disquieted that Jean hadn’t followed him, relentlessly at his heels, looking after him as always.

Don’t be an ass, he thought. Jean had his own bloody problems.

“Jerome,” he said.

Jean’s head darted around, and his lips nearly formed an “L” sound before he got himself under control. “Orrin! You’re a mess! Gods, are you all right?”

A mess? Locke looked down and discovered that nearly every inch of his clothing was soaked in blood. He ran a hand over his face. What he’d taken for sweat or beer came away red on his palm.

“None of it’s mine,” he said. “I think.”

“I was about to come looking for you,” said Jean. “Ezri … Lieutenant Delmastro …”

“I’ll be fine,” she groaned. “Bastard tried to hit me with a mizzenmast. Just knocked the wind out of me.”

Locke spotted one of the huge brass-studded clubs lying on the deck near her, and just beyond it, a dead Redeemer with one of Delmastro’s characteristic sabers planted in his throat.

“Lieutenant Delmastro,” said Locke, “I’ve brought the ship’s master. Allow me to introduce Antoro Nera.”

Delmastro pushed Jean’s hands away and crawled past him for a better view. Lines of blood ran from cuts on her lip and forehead.

“Master Nera. Well met. I represent the side that’s still standing. Appearances to the contrary.” She grinned and wiped at the blood above her eyes. “I’ll be responsible for arranging larceny once we’ve secured your ship, so don’t piss me off. Speaking of which, what ship is this?”

“Kingfisher,” said Nera.

“Cargo and destination?”

“Tal Verrar, with spices, wine, turpentine, and fine woods.”

“That and a fat load of Jeremite Redeemers. No, shut up. You can explain later. Gods, Ravelle, you have been busy.”

“Too fucking right,” said Jabril, slapping him on the back. “He killed four of them himself in the hold. Rode a beer cask down on one, and must’ve fought the other three straight up.” Jabril snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

Locke sighed, and felt his cheeks warming. He reached up and put a bit of the blood back where he’d found it.

“Well,” said Delmastro, “I won’t say that I’m not surprised, but I am pleased. You’re not fit to tend so much as a fishing boat, Ravelle, but you can lead boarding parties whenever you like. I think we just redeemed about half of Jerem.”

“You’re too kind,” said Locke.

“Can you get this ship into order for me? Clear the decks of crewfolk and put them all under guard at the forecastle?”

“I can. Will she be all right, Jerome?”

“She’s been smacked around and cut up a bit, but—”

“I’ve had worse,” she said. “I’ve had worse, and I’ve certainly given it back. You can go with Ravelle if you like.”

“I—”

“Don’t make me hit you. I’ll be fine.”

Jean stood up and came over to Locke, who shoved Nera gently toward Jabril.

“Jabril, would you escort our new friend to the forecastle while Jerome and I scrape up the rest of his crew?”

“Aye, be pleased to.”

Locke led Jean down the quarterdeck stairs, into the tangle of bodies amidships. More Redeemers, more crewfolk … and five or six of the men he’d pulled out of Windward Rock three weeks before. He was uncomfortably aware that the survivors all seemed to be staring at him. He caught snatches of their conversation:

“… laughing, he was …”

“Saw it as I came up the side. Charged them all by himself …”

“Never seen the like.” That was Streva, whose left arm looked broken. “Laughed and laughed. Fucking fearless.”

“… ‘the gods send your doom, motherfuckers.’ That’s what he told them. I heard it.…”

“They’re right, you know,” whispered Jean. “I’ve seen you do some brave and crazy shit, but that was … that was—”

“It was all crazy and none brave. I was out of my fucking head, get it? I was so scared shitless I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“But in the hold below—”

“I dropped a cask on one,” said Locke. “Two more got their throats slit while they were still dumb. The last was kind enough to slip in beer and make it easy. Same as always, Jean. I’m no bloody warrior.”

“But now they think you are. You pulled it off.”

They found Mal, slumped against the mainmast, unmoving. His hands were curled around the sword buried in his stomach, as though he were trying to keep it safe. Locke sighed.

“I have what you might call mixed feelings about that right now,” he said.

Jean knelt down and pushed Mal’s eyelids closed. “I know what you mean.” He paused, seeming to weigh his words before continuing. “We have a serious problem.”

“Really? Us, problems? What ever could you mean?”

“These people are our people. These people are thieves. Surely you see it too. We can’t sell them out to Stragos.”

“Then we’ll die.”

“We both know Stragos means to kill us anyway—”

“The longer we string him along,” said Locke, “the closer we get to pulling off some part of our mission, the closer we are to a real antidote. The more time we get, the greater the chance he’ll slip … and we can do something.”

“We can do something by siding with our own kind. Look around you, for the gods’ sake. All these people do to live is steal. They’re us. The mandates we live by—”

“Don’t fucking lecture me about propriety!”

“Why not? You seem to need it—”

“I’ve done my duty by the men we brought from Tal Verrar, Jean. But they and all of these people are strangers. I aim to have Stragos weeping for what he’s done, and if I have to spare them to achieve that, by the gods, I’ll spare them. But if I have to sink this ship and a dozen like it to bring him down, I’ll damn well do that, too.”

“Gods,” Jean whispered. “Listen to yourself. I thought I was Camorri. You’re the pure essence. A moment ago you were morose for the sake of these people. Now you’d fucking drown them all for the sake of your revenge!”

“Our revenge,” said Locke. “Our lives.”

“There has to be another way.”

“What do you propose, then? Stay out here? Spend a merry few weeks in the Ghostwinds, and then politely die?”

“If necessary,” said Jean.

The Poison Orchid, under reduced sail, drew near the stern of the Kingfisher, putting herself between the flute and the wind. The men and women lining the Orchid’s rail let loose with three raucous cheers, each one louder than the last.

“Hear that? They’re not cheering the scrub watch,” said Jean. “They’re cheering their own. That’s what we are, now. Part of all this.”

“They’re str—”

“They’re not strangers,” said Jean.

“Well.” Locke glanced aft, at Lieutenant Delmastro, who’d risen to her feet and taken the Kingfisher’s wheel. “Maybe some of them are less strange to you than they are to me.”

“Now, wait just a—”

“Do what you have to do to pass the time out here,” said Locke, scowling. “But don’t forget where you come from. Stragos is our business. Beating him is our business.”

“ ‘Pass the time’? Pass the gods-damned time?” Jean sucked in an angry breath. He clenched his fists, and for a second looked as though he might grab Locke and shake him. “Gods, I see what’s twisting under your skin. Look, you may be resigned to the fact that the only woman you’ll ever consider is years gone. But you’ve been screwed down so tight about that, for so long, that you seem to think the rest of the world keeps your habits.”

Locke felt as though he’d been stabbed. “Jean, don’t you even—”

“Why not? Why not? We carry your precious misery with us like a holy fucking relic. Don’t talk about Sabetha Belacoros. Don’t talk about the plays. Don’t talk about Jasmer, or Espara, or any of the schemes we ran. I lived with her for nine years, same as you, and I’ve pretended she doesn’t fucking exist to avoid upsetting you. Well, I’m not you. I’m not content to live like an oath-bound monk. I have a life outside your gods-damned shadow.”

Locke stepped back. “Jean, I don’t … I didn’t—”

“And quit calling me Jean, for fuck’s sake.”

“Of course,” said Locke coldly. “Of course. If we keep this up we’ll be breaking character for good. I can prowl below myself. You get back to Delmastro. She’s holding on to that wheel to stay on her bloody feet.”

“But—”

“Go,” said Locke.

“Fine.” Jean turned to leave, then paused one last time. “But understand—I can’t do it. I’ll follow you to any fate, and you know it, but I can’t fuck these people over, even for our own sake. And even if you think it’s for our sake … I can’t let you do it, either.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you have a lot to think about,” said Jean, and he stomped away.

Small parties of sailors had begun slipping over from the Orchid. Utgar rushed up to Locke, red-faced with excitement, leading a group of crewfolk carrying lines and fend-offs to help hold the ships alongside one another.

“Sweet Marrows, Ravelle, we just found out about the Redeemers,” Utgar said. “Lieutenant told us what you did. Fuckin’ amazing! A job well done!”

Locke glanced at the body of Mal resting against the mainmast, and at Jean’s back as he approached Delmastro with his hands out to hold her up. Not caring who saw, he flung his saber down at the deck planks, where it stuck tip-first, quivering from side to side.

“Oh, indeed,” he said. “It seems I win again. Hooray for winning.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ALL ELSE, TRUTH

1

“BRING THE PRISONERS FORWARD,” said Captain Drakasha.

It was full night on the deck of the Poison Orchid, and the ship rode at anchor beneath a star-pierced sky. The moons had not yet begun to rise. Drakasha stood at the quarterdeck rail, backlit by alchemical lamps, wearing a tarpaulin for a cloak. Her hair was covered by a ludicrous woolen wig, vaguely resembling the ceremonial hairpiece of a Verrari magistrate. The deck fore and aft was crowded with shadowed crewfolk, and in a small clear space amidships stood the prisoners.

Nineteen men from the Red Messenger had survived the morning’s fight. Now all nineteen stood, bound hands and feet, in an awkward bunch at the ship’s waist. Locke shuffled forward behind Jean and Jabril.

“Clerk of the court,” said Drakasha, “you have brought us a sad lot.”

“A sad lot indeed, Your Honor.” Lieutenant Delmastro appeared beside the captain, clutching a rolled scroll and wearing a ridiculous wig of her own.

“As wretched a pack of dissolute, cockless mongrels as I’ve ever seen. Still, I suppose we must try them.”

“Indeed we must, ma’am.”

“With what are they charged?”

“Such a litany of crimes as turns the blood to jam.” Delmastro opened the scroll and raised her voice as she read. “Willful refusal of the kind hospitality of the archon of Tal Verrar. Deliberate flight from the excellent accommodations provided by said archon at Windward Rock. Theft of a naval vessel with the stated intention of applying it to a life of piracy.”

“Disgraceful.”

“Just so, Your Honor. Now the next bit is rather confusing; some are charged with mutiny, while others are charged with incompetence.”

“Some this, some that? Clerk of the court, we cannot abide untidiness. Simply charge everyone with everything.”

“Understood. The mutineers are now incompetent and the incompetent are also mutineers.”

“Excellent. Very excellent, and so very magisterial. No doubt I shall be quoted in books.”

“Important books too, ma’am.”

“What else do these wretches have to answer for?”

“Assault and larceny beneath the red flag, Your Honor. Armed piracy on the Sea of Brass on the twenty-first instant of the month of Festal, this very year.”

“Vile, grotesque, and contemptible,” shouted Drakasha. “Let the record show that I feel as though I may swoon. Tell me, are there any who would speak in defense of the prisoners?”

“None, ma’am, as the prisoners are penniless.”

“Ah. Then under whose laws do they claim any rights or protections?”

“None, ma’am. No power on land will claim or aid them.”

“Pathetic, and not unexpected. Yet without firm guidance from their betters, perhaps it’s only natural that these rodents have shunned virtue like a contagious disease. Perhaps some small chance of clemency may be forthcoming.”

“Unlikely, ma’am.”

“One small matter remains, which may attest to their true character. Clerk of the court, can you describe the nature of their associates and consorts?”

“Only too vividly, Your Honor. They willfully consort with the officers and crew of the Poison Orchid.”

“Gods above,” cried Drakasha, “did you say Poison Orchid?”

“I did indeed, ma’am.”

“They are guilty! Guilty on every count! Guilty in every particular, guilty to the utmost and final extremity of all possible human culpability!” Drakasha tore at her wig, then flung it to the deck and jumped up and down upon it.

“An excellent verdict, ma’am.”

“It is the judgment of this court,” said Drakasha, “solemn in its authority and unwavering in its resolution, that for crimes upon the sea the sea shall have them. Put them over the side! And may the gods not be too hasty in conferring mercy upon their souls.”

Cheering, the crew surged forth from every direction and surrounded the prisoners. Locke was alternately pushed and pulled along with the crowd to the larboard entry port, where a cargo net lay upon the deck with a sail beneath it. The two were lashed together at the edges. The ex-Messengers were shoved onto the netting and held there while several dozen sailors under Delmastro’s direction moved to the capstan.

“Make ready to execute sentence,” said Drakasha.

“Heave up,” cried Delmastro.

A complex network of pulleys and tackles had been rigged between the lower yards of the foremast and mainmast; as the sailors worked the capstan, the edges of the net drew upward and the Orchids holding the prisoners stepped back. In a few seconds the ex-Messengers were off the deck, squeezed together like animals in a trap. Locke clung to the rough netting to avoid slipping into the center of the tangled mass of limbs and bodies. There was a generally useless bout of shoving and swearing as the net swung out over the rail and swayed gently in the darkness fifteen feet above the water.

“Clerk of the court, execute the prisoners,” said Drakasha.

“Give ’em a drop, aye!”

They wouldn’t, thought Locke, at the very same moment they did.

The net full of prisoners plunged, drawing unwilling yelps and screams from the throats of men who’d done murderous battle on the Kingfisher in relative silence. The pull on the edges of the net slackened as it fell, so at least they had more room to tumble and bounce when they hit the surface of the water—or, more accurately, the strangely yielding barrier of net and sail canvas with the water beneath it like a cushion.

They rolled around in a jumbled, shouting mass for a second or two while the edges of their trap settled down into the waves, and then the warm dark water was pouring in around them. Locke felt a brief moment of genuine panic—hard not to when the knots binding hands and feet were very real—but after a few moments the edges of the net-backed sail began to draw upward again, until they were just above the surface of the ocean. The water still trapped with the prisoners was about waist-deep to Locke, and now the sail canvas formed a sort of shielded pool for them to stand and flounder about in.

“Everyone all right?” That was Jean; Locke saw that he’d claimed the edge of the net directly across from him. There were half a dozen shoving, splashing men between them. Locke scowled at the realization that Jean was quite content to stay where he was.

“Fuckin’ jolly,” muttered Streva, holding himself upright by one arm. The other had been lashed to the front of his chest in a crude sling. Several of the ex-Messengers were nursing broken bones, and nearly all of them had cuts and bruises, but not one had been excused from this ritual by his injuries.

“Your Honor!” Locke glanced up at the sound of Delmastro’s voice. The lieutenant was peering down at them from the larboard entry port with a lantern in one hand; their net was resting in the water three or four feet from the Orchid’s dark hull. “Your Honor, they’re not drowning!”

“What?” Drakasha appeared next to Delmastro with her false wig back on her head, now more wildly askew than ever. “You rude little bastards! How dare you waste this court’s time with this ridiculous refusal to be executed! Clerk, help them drown!”

“Aye, ma’am, immediate drowning assistance. Deck pumps at the ready! Deck pumps away!”

A pair of sailors appeared at the rail with the aperture of a canvas hose held between them. Locke turned away just as the gush of warm salt water started pounding down on them all. Not so bad, he thought, just seconds before something more substantial than water struck the back of his head with a wet, stinging smack.

Bombardment with this new indignity—greased oakum, Locke quickly realized—was general and vigorous. Crewfolk had lined the rail and were flinging it down into the netted prisoners, a veritable rain of rags and rope fragments that had the familiar rancid stink of the stuff he’d spent several mornings painting the masts with. This assault continued for several minutes, until Locke had no idea where the grease ended and his clothes began, and the water in their little enclosure was topped with a sliding layer of foulness.

“Unbelievable,” shouted Delmastro. “Your Honor, they’re still there!”

“Not drowned?”

Zamira appeared at the rail once again and solemnly removed her wig. “Damnation. The sea refuses to claim them. We shall have to bring them back aboard.”

After a few moments, the lines above them drew taut and the little prison of net and canvas began to rise from the water. Not a moment too soon, it seemed—Locke shuddered as he felt something large and powerful brush against the barrier beneath his feet. In seconds they were mercifully above the tips of the waves and creaking steadily upward.

But their punishment was not yet over; they hung once more in the darkness when the net was hoisted above the rail, and were not brought back in above the deck.

“Free the spinning-tackle,” shouted Delmastro.

Locke caught sight of a small woman shimmying out onto the tangle of ropes overhead. She pulled a restraining pin from the large wooden tackle by which the net was suspended. Locke recognized the circular metal bearing within the tackle; heavily greased, it would allow even awkward and weighty cargoes to be spun with ease. Cargoes like them.

Crewfolk lined the rail and began to grab at the net and heave it along; in moments the prisoners were spinning at a nauseating rate, and the world around them flew by in glimpses—dark water … lamps on the deck … dark water … lamps on the deck …

“Oh, gods,” said someone, a moment before he noisily threw up. There was a sudden scramble away from the poor fellow, and Locke clung grimly to his place at the edge of the net, trying to ignore the kicking, shuddering, spinning mass of men.

“Clean ’em up,” shouted Delmastro. “Deck pumps away!”

The hard stream of salt water gushed into their midst once more, and they spun furiously. Locke intersected the spray every few seconds as each rotation of the net brought him around. His dizziness grew and grew as the minutes passed, and though it was becoming extremely fashionable, he focused every speck of dignity on simply not throwing up.

So intense was his dizziness and so swift was their deliverance that he didn’t even realize they’d been swung back onto the deck until the net he was clinging to collapsed into slackness. He toppled forward, onto netting and canvas above good, hard planks once again. The net had ceased spinning, but the world took its place, rotating in six or seven directions at once, all of them profoundly unpleasant. Locke closed his eyes, but that didn’t help. It merely made him blind as well as nauseous.

Men were crawling over him, moaning and swearing. A pair of crewfolk reached down and heaved Locke to his feet; his stomach nearly surrendered at that point and he coughed sharply to fight back his nausea. Captain Drakasha was approaching, her false wig and cloak discarded, and she was tilted at a funny angle.

“The sea won’t have you,” she said. “The water refuses to swallow you. It’s not yet your time to drown, praise Iono. Praise Ulcris!”

Ulcris was the Jereshti name for the god of the sea, not often heard in Therin lands or waters. There must be more eastern islanders aboard than I realized, thought Locke.

“Lord of the Grasping Waters shield us,” chanted the crew.

“So you’re here with us between all things,” said Drakasha. “The land won’t have you and the sea won’t claim you. You’ve fled, like us, to wood and canvas. This deck’s your firmament; these sails are your heavens. This is all the world you get. This is all the world you need.”

She stepped forward with a drawn dagger. “Will you lick my boots to claim a place on it?”

“No!” the ex-Messengers roared in unison. They’d been coached on this part of the ritual.

“Will you kneel and kiss my jeweled ring for mercy?”

“No!”

“Will you bend your knees to pretty titles on pieces of paper?”

“No!”

“Will you pine for land and laws and kings, and cling to them like a mother’s tit?”

“No!”

She stepped up to Locke and handed him the dagger.

“Then free yourself, brother.”

Still unsteady, and grateful for the aid of the crewfolk beside him, Locke used the blade to saw through the rope that bound his hands, and then bent over to cut the rope between his ankles. That accomplished, he turned and saw that all of the ex-Messengers were more or less upright, most of them held by one or two Orchids. Close at hand he could see several familiar faces—Streva, Jabril, a fellow called Alvaro … and just behind them, Jean, watching him uneasily.

Locke hesitated, then pointed to Jabril and held out the blade.

“Free yourself, brother.”

Jabril smiled, took the blade, and was finished with his bonds in a moment. Jean glared at him. Locke closed his eyes, not wanting to make further eye contact, and listened as the dagger made its passage through the group, from hand to hand. “Free yourself, brother,” they murmured, one after another. And then it was done.

“Unbound by your own hands, you are outlaw brethren of the Sea of Brass,” said Captain Drakasha, “and crewmen of the Poison Orchid.”

2

EVEN AN experienced thief will find occasion to learn new tricks if he lives long enough. That morning and afternoon, Locke had learned how to properly loot a captured ship.

Locke finished his last circuit belowdecks, reasonably certain there were no more Kingfisher crewfolk to round up, and stomped up the companionway to the quarterdeck. The bodies of the Redeemers there had been moved aside and stacked at the taffrail; the bodies of those from the Poison Orchid had been carried down to the waist. Locke could see several of Zamira’s crewfolk respectfully covering them with sail canvas.

He quickly surveyed the ship. Thirty or forty Orchids had come aboard, and were taking control of the vessel everywhere. They were up the ratlines, with Jean and Delmastro at the wheel, tending the anchors, and guarding the thirty or so surviving Kingfisher crewfolk atop the forecastle deck. Under Utgar’s supervision, the wounded Kingfishers and Orchids had been carried down to the waist near the starboard entry port, where Captain Drakasha and Scholar Treganne were just coming aboard. Locke hurried toward them.

“It’s my arm, Scholar. Hurts something awful.” Streva used his good arm to support his injured limb as he winced and held it out for Treganne’s inspection. “I think it’s broken.”

“Of course it’s broken, you cretinous turd,” she said, brushing past him to kneel beside a Kingfisher whose tunic was completely soaked in blood. “Keep waving it like that and it’ll snap right off. Sit down.”

“But—”

“I work from worst chance to best,” Treganne muttered. She knelt on the deck beside the injured Kingfisher, using her cane to brace herself until she was on both knees. Then she gave the cane a twist. The handle separated from the cane’s full length, revealing a dagger-sized blade that Treganne used to slice the sailor’s tunic open. “I can move you up on my list by kicking your head a couple times. Still want prompt attention?”

“Um … no.”

“You’ll keep. Piss off.”

“There you are, Ravelle.” Captain Drakasha stepped past Treganne and the injured and grabbed Locke by the shoulder. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Have I?”

“You’re as useless as an ass without a hole when it comes to running a ship, but I’ve heard the damnedest things about how you fought just now.”

“Your sources exaggerate.”

“Well, the ship’s ours and you gave us her master. Now that we’ve plucked our flower, we need to sip the nectar before bad weather or another ship comes along.”

“Will you be taking the Kingfisher as a prize?”

“No. I don’t like having more than one prize crew out at a time. We’ll shake her down for valuables and useful cargo.”

“Then burn her or something?”

“Of course not. We’ll leave the crew stores enough to make port and watch them scamper for the horizon. You look confused.”

“No objections, Captain, it’s just … not as downright bastardly as I was expecting.”

“You don’t think we respect surrenders because we’re kindly people, do you, Ravelle?” Drakasha grinned. “I don’t have much time to explain, but it’s like this. If not for those gods-damned Redeemers, these people”—she waved a hand at the injured Kingfishers waiting for Treganne’s attention—“wouldn’t have given or taken a scratch. Four out of five ships we take, I’d say, if they can’t rig razornets and get bows ready, they just roll right over for it. They know we’ll let ’em slip off with their lives once we’re done. And the common sailors don’t own one centira of the cargo, so why should they swallow a blade or a crossbow bolt for it?”

“I guess it does make sense.”

“To more people than us. Look at this shambles. Redeemers for security? If those maniacs hadn’t been available for free, this ship wouldn’t have any real guards. I guarantee it. No sense in it for the owners. These long voyages, four or five months from the far east back to Tal Verrar with spices, rare metals, wood—an owner can lose two ships out of three, and the one that arrives will pay for the two that don’t. With profit to spare. And if they get the actual ship back, even sans cargo, so much the better. That’s why we don’t sink and burn like mad. As long as we show some restraint, and don’t get too close to civilization, the folks holding the purse strings think of us as a natural hazard, like the weather.”

“So with the, ah, plucking and sipping the nectar bit, where do we start?”

“Most worthwhile thing at hand is the ship’s purse,” said Drakasha. “Master keeps it for expenses. Bribes and so forth. Finding it’s always a pain in the ass. Some throw it overboard; others hide it somewhere dank and unlikely. We’ll probably have to slap this Nera around for a few hours before he spits truth.”

“Damnation.” Behind them, Treganne let her patient slump to the deck and began wiping her bloody hands on his breeches. “No good on this one, Captain. I can see straight through to his lungs behind the wound.”

“He’s dead for sure?” said Locke.

“Well, heavens, I wouldn’t know, I’m just the fucking physiker. But I heard in a bar once that dead is the accepted thing to be when your lungs are open to daylight,” said Treganne.

“Uh … yes. I heard the same thing. Look, will anyone else here die without your immediate full attention?”

“Not likely.”

“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, “Master Nera has something of a soft heart. Might I take the liberty of suggesting a plan …?”

A few moments later, Locke returned to the waist, holding Antoro Nera by one arm. The man’s hands had been bound behind his back. Locke gave him a good shove toward Zamira, who stood with one saber unsheathed. Behind her, Treganne worked feverishly over the corpse of the newly deceased sailor. The slashed and bloody tunic had been disposed of, and a clean one drawn over the corpse’s chest. Only a small red spot now marked the lethal wound, and Treganne gave every impression that the unmoving form was still within her power to save.

Drakasha caught Nera and set her blade against his upper chest.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” she said, sliding the curved edge of her weapon toward Nera’s unprotected neck. He whimpered. “Your ship’s badly out of trim. Too much weight of gold. We need to find and remove the master’s purse as quick as we can.”

“I, uh, don’t know exactly where it is,” said Nera.

“Right. And I can teach fish to fart fire,” said Drakasha. “You get one more chance, and then I start throwing your injured overboard.”

“But … please, I was told—”

“Whoever told you anything wasn’t me.”

“I … I dont—”

“Scholar,” said Drakasha, “can you do anything for the man you’re working on?”

“He won’t be dancing anytime soon,” said Treganne, “but yes, he’ll pull through.”

Drakasha shifted her grip on Nera and held him by his tunic collar with her free hand. She took two steps to her right and, barely looking, drove her saber down into the dead sailor’s neck. Treganne flinched backward and gave the corpse’s legs a little push to make it look as though they’d kicked. Nera gasped.

“Medicine is such an uncertain business,” said Drakasha.

“In my cabin,” said Nera. “A hidden compartment by the compass above my bed. Please … please don’t kill any more of—”

“I didn’t, actually,” said Drakasha. She withdrew her saber from the corpse’s throat, wiped it on Nera’s breeches, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Your man died a few minutes ago. My leech says she can save the rest of your injured without trouble.”

She spun Nera around, slashed the rope that bound his hands, and shoved him toward Locke with a grin. “Return him to his people, Ravelle, and then kindly relieve his secret compartment of its burden.”

“Your will, Captain.”

After that, they began taking the Kingfisher apart more eagerly than newlyweds tearing off layers of formal clothing in their first moment of privacy. Locke felt his fatigue vanishing as he became absorbed in what was essentially one vast robbery, for more physical material than he’d ever stolen before in his life. He was passed from duty to duty among Orchids who laughed and clowned with real spirit, but worked with haste and precision for all that.

First they snatched up anything portable and reasonably valuable—bottles of wine, Master Nera’s formal wardrobe, bags of coffee and tea from the galley, and several crossbows from the Kingfisher’s tiny armory. Drakasha herself appraised the ship’s collection of navigational instruments and hourglasses, leaving Nera the bare minimum required to safely work his vessel back to port.

Next, Utgar and the boatswain scoured the flute from stem to stern, using the surviving scrub watch as mules to haul off stores and equipment of nautical use: alchemical caulk, good sail canvas, carpenter’s tools, barrels of pitch, and loop after loop of new rope.

“Good shit, hey,” said Utgar, as he weighed Locke down with about fifty pounds of rope and a box of metal files. “Much too expensive in Port Prodigal. Always best to get it at what we call the broadside discount.”

Last but not least came the Kingfisher’s cargo. All the main-deck hatch gratings were pulled, and a nearly incomprehensible network of ropes and pulleys was rigged on and between the two ships. By noon, crates and casks and oilcoth-wrapped bundles were being lighted along to the Poison Orchid. It was everything Nera had promised and more—turpentine, oiled witchwood, silks, crates of fine yellow wine padded with sheepskins, and barrel after barrel of bulk spices. The smell of cloves, nutmeg, and ginger filled the air; after an hour or two of work at the hoists Locke was brown with a sludge that was half sweat and half powdered cinnamon.

At the fifth hour of the afternoon Drakasha called a halt to the forcible transfusion of wealth. The Poison Orchid rode lower in the gleaming water and the lightened flute rolled freely, hollowed out like an insect husk about to fall from a spider’s jaws. Drakasha’s crew hadn’t stripped her clean, of course. They left the Kingfishers their casks of water, salted meat, cheap ale, and pink-piss ration wine. They even left a few crates and parcels of valuables that were too deeply or inconveniently stowed for Drakasha’s taste—nonetheless, the sack was thorough. Any land-bound merchant would have been well pleased to have a ship unloaded at the dock with such haste.

A brief ceremony was held at the taffrail of the Kingfisher; Zamira blessed the dead of the two vessels in her capacity as a lay priestess of Iono. Then the corpses went over the side, sewn into old canvas with Redeemer weapons weighing them down. The Redeemers themselves were then thrown overboard without a word.

“Ain’t disrespectful,” said Utgar when Locke whispered to him about this. “Far as they believe, they get consecrated and blessed and all that fine stuff by their own gods the moment they die. No hard feelings if you just tip the heathens over the side afterward. Helpful thing to know if you ever have to kill a bunch of ’em again, hey?”

At last, the day’s long business was truly concluded; Master Nera and his crew were released to tend to their own fortunes once again. While Drakasha’s archers kept watch from their perches on the yardarms, the network of lines and fend-offs between the two ships was pulled apart. The Poison Orchid hauled up her boats and loosed her sails. In minutes, she was making seven or eight knots to the southwest, leaving the Kingfisher adrift in disarray behind her.

Locke had seen little of Jean all day, and both of them had seemed to work to studiously preserve their separation. Just as Locke had thrown himself into manual labor, Jean had remained with Delmastro on the quarterdeck. They didn’t come close enough to speak again until the sun fell beneath the horizon, and the scrub watch was herded together and bound for their initiation.

3

ALL THE new initiates and half the ship’s old company were on the Merry Watch, fueled by rack after rack of the fine eastern wines they’d plucked from the Kingfisher. Locke recognized some of the labels and vintages. Stuff that wouldn’t sell in Camorr for less than twenty crowns a bottle was being sucked down like beer, or poured into the hair of celebrating men and women, or simply spilled on deck. The Orchids, men and women alike, were mixing eagerly with the ex-Messengers now. Dice games and wrestling matches and song-circles had erupted spontaneously. Propositions spoken and unspoken were everywhere. Jabril had vanished belowdecks with a crew-woman at least an hour before.

Locke took it all in from the shadows of the starboard side, just below the raised quarterdeck. The starboard stairs weren’t flush with the rail; there was space enough for a lean person to wedge comfortably between the two. “Ravelle” had been greeted warmly and eagerly enough when he’d circulated on deck, but now that he’d found a cozy exile nobody seemed to be missing him. In his hands was a large leather jack full of blue wine that was worth its weight in silver, untouched.

Across the great mass of laughing, drinking sailors, Locke could make out Jean at the ship’s opposite rail. While Locke watched, the shape of a woman, much shorter, approached him from behind and reached out toward him. Locke turned away.

The water slipped past, a black gel topped with curls of faintly phosphorescent foam. The Orchid was setting a good pace through the night. Laden, she yielded less than before to the chop of the sea, and was parting these little waves like they were air.

“When I was a lieutenant apprentice,” said Captain Drakasha, “on my first voyage with an officer’s sword, I lied to my captain about stealing a bottle of wine.”

She spoke softly. Startled, Locke looked around and saw that she was standing directly over him, at the forward quarterdeck rail.

“Not just me,” she continued. “All eight of us in the apprentices’ berth. We ‘borrowed’ it from the captain’s private stores and should have been smart enough to pitch it over the side when we’d finished.”

“In the … navy of Syrune, this was?”

“Her Resplendent Majesty’s Sea Forces of Syrune Eternal.” Drakasha’s smile was a crescent of white against darkness, faint as the foam topping the waves. “The captain could have had us whipped, or reduced in rank, or even chained up for formal trial on land. Instead she had us strike down the royal yard from the mainmast. We had a spare, of course. But she made us scrape the varnish off the one we’d taken down.… This is a spar of oak, you know, ten feet long and thick as a leg. The captain took our swords and said they’d be restored if and only if we ate the royal yard. Tip to tip, every last splinter.”

“Ate it?”

“A foot and a quarter of sturdy oak for each of us,” said Drakasha. “How we did it was our business. It took a month. We tried everything. Shaving it, scraping it, boiling it, pulping it. We had a hundred tricks to make it palatable, and we forced it down, a few spoonfuls or chips a day. Most of us got sick, but we ate the yard.”

“Gods.”

“When it was over, the captain said she’d wanted us to understand that lies between shipmates tear the ship apart, bit by bit, gnawing at it just as we’d gnawed the royal yard down to nothing.”

“Ah.” Locke sighed and at last took a sip of his warm, excellent wine. “I take it this means I’m due for a bit more dissection, then?”

“Come join me at the taffrail.”

Locke rose, knowing it wasn’t a request.

4

“I NEVER knew that dispensing justice could be so tiring,” said Ezri, appearing at Jean’s right elbow as he stood staring out over the Orchid’s larboard rail. One of the moons was just starting to rise in the south, half a silver-white coin peeking above the night horizon, as though lazily considering whether it was worth rising at all.

“You’ve had a long day, Lieutenant.” Jean smiled.

“Jerome,” she said, reaching out to set a hand upon his right forearm, “if you call me ‘lieutenant’ again tonight, I’ll kill you.”

“As you wish, Lieu … La … something-other-than-’Lieutenant’-that-starts-with-’Lieu,’ honest.… Besides, you already tried to execute me once this evening. Look how that turned out.”

“Best way possible,” she said, now leaning against the rail beside him. She wasn’t wearing her armor, just a thin tunic and a pair of calf-length breeches without hose or shoes. Her hair was free, waves of dark curls rustling in the breeze. Jean realized that she was putting most of her weight against the rail and trying hard not to show it.

“Uh, you got a little too close to a few blades today,” he said.

“I’ve been closer. But you, now … you’re … you’re a very good fighter, do you know that?”

“It’s been s—”

“Gods, how wretched was that? Of course you’re a good fighter. I meant to say something much wittier, honest.”

“Then consider it said.” Jean scratched his beard and felt a warm, welcome sort of nervousness fluttering in his stomach. “We can both pretend. All of the, um, effortlessly witty nonsense I’ve been practicing on the barrels in the hold for days has taken flight, too.”

“Practicing, hmmm?”

“Yeah, well.… That Jabril, he’s a sophisticated fellow, isn’t he? Need a bit of conversation to catch his attention, won’t I?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you know I only fancied men? Tall men?”

“Oooh, I kicked you to the deck once, Valora, and I’m about to—”

“Ha! In your condition?”

“My condition is the only thing saving your life at the moment.”

“You wouldn’t dare heap abuse on me in front of half the crew—”

“Of course I would.”

“Well, yes. True.”

“Look at this lovely, noisy mess. I don’t think anyone would even notice if I set you on fire. Hell, down in the main-deck hold there’s couples going at it packed tighter than spears in the arms lockers. You want real peace and quiet any time tonight, closest place you might find it is two or three hundred yards off one of the bows.”

“No, thanks. I don’t know how to say ‘stop eating me’ in shark.”

“Well then, you’re stuck here with us. And we’ve been waiting for you lot to get off the scrub watch for long enough.” She grinned up at him. “Tonight everyone gets to know everyone else.”

Jean stared at her, eyes wide, not knowing what to say or do next. Her grin became a frown.

“Jerome, am I … doing something wrong?”

“Wrong?”

“You keep sort of moving away. Not just with your body, but with your neck. You keep …”

“Oh, hell.” Jean laughed, reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, and felt himself burst into an uncontrollable twit-grin when she reached up to hold it there. “Ezri, I lost my optics when you … made us swim, the day we came aboard. I’m what they call near-blind. I guess I didn’t realize it, but I’ve been fidgeting to keep you in focus.”

“Oh, gods,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Keeping you in focus is worth the trouble.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Jean felt the anxious pressure in his stomach migrating upward to fill his chest, and he took a deep breath. “Look, we almost got killed today. Fuck these games. Do you want to have a drink with me?”

5

“WATCH,” SAID Drakasha.

Locke stood at the taffrail, looking down into the ship’s phosphorescent wake between the glow of two stern lanterns. Those lanterns were glowing glass orchids the size of his head, transparent petals drooping delicately toward the water.

“Gods,” said Locke, shuddering.

Between the wake and the lanterns, there was just enough light for him to spot it—a long black shadow sliding beneath the Poison Orchid’s trail of disturbed water. Forty or fifty feet of something sinuous and sinister, using the ship’s wake to conceal itself. Captain Drakasha had one boot up on the taffrail and an expression of casual pleasure on her face.

“What the hell is it?”

“Five or six possibilities,” said Drakasha. “Might be a whaleworm or a giant devilfish.”

“Is it following us?”

“Yes.”

“Is it … um, dangerous?”

“Well, if you drop your drink over the rail, don’t jump in after it.”

“Don’t you think you should maybe let it have a few arrows?”

“I might, if only I were sure that this was the fastest it could swim.”

“Good point.”

“Fling arrows at all the strange things you see out here, Ravelle, and all you do is run out of arrows.” She sighed and glanced around to ensure that they were more or less alone. The closest crewman was at the wheel, eight or nine yards forward. “You made yourself very useful today.”

“Well, the alternative just didn’t suit.”

“I thought I was abetting a suicide when I agreed to let you lead the boats.”

“You nearly were, Captain. It was … Look, it was inches from disaster the whole way, that fight. I don’t even remember half of it. The gods blessed me by allowing me to avoid soiling my breeches. Surely you know what it’s like.”

“I do. I also know that sometimes these things aren’t accidents. You and Master Valora have … excited a great deal of comment for what you did in that battle. Your skills are unusual for a former master of weights and measures.”

“Weighing and measuring is a boring occupation,” said Locke. “A man needs a hobby.”

“The archon’s people didn’t hire you by accident, did they?”

“What?”

“I said I’d peel this strange fruit you call a story, Ravelle, and I have been. My initial impression of you wasn’t favorable. But you’ve … done better. And I think I can understand how you kept your old crew in thrall despite your ignorance. You seem to have a real talent for improvised dishonesty.”

“Weighing and measuring is a very, very boring—”

“So you’re a master of a sedentary occupation who just happened to have a talent for espionage? And disguise? And command? Not to mention your skill at arms, or that of your close and unusually educated friend Jerome?”

“Our mothers were so very proud of us.”

“You weren’t hired away from the Priori by the archon,” said Drakasha. “You were double agents. Planted provocateurs, intended to enter the archon’s service. You didn’t steal that ship because of some insult you won’t speak of; you stole it because your orders were to damage the archon’s credibility. To do something big.”

“Uh …”

“Please, Ravelle. As if there could be any other reasonable explanation.”

Gods, what a temptation, Locke thought. A mark actually inviting me to step into her own misconception, free and clear. He stared at the phosphorescent wake, at the mysterious something swimming beneath it. What to do? Take the opening, cement the Ravelle and Valora identities in Drakasha’s mind, work from there? Or … his cheeks burned as the sting of Jean’s rebuke rose again in his memory. Jean hadn’t just criticized him on theological grounds, or because of Delmastro. It was a matter of approaches. Which would be more effective?

Treat this woman as a mark, or treat her as an ally?

Time was running out. This conversation was the point of decision; follow his instincts and play her, or follow Jean’s advice and … attempt to trust her. He thought furiously. His own instincts—were they always impeccable? Jean’s instincts—arguments aside, had Jean ever done anything but try to protect him?

“Tell me something,” he said very slowly, “while I weigh a response.”

“Perhaps.”

“Something half the size of this ship is probably staring at us as we speak.”

“Yes.”

“How do you stand it?”

“You see things like this often enough, you get used—”

“Not just that. Everything. I’ve been at sea a grand total of six or seven weeks in my life. How long have you been out here?”

She stared at him, saying nothing.

“Some things about myself,” said Locke, “I won’t tell you just because you’re the captain of this ship, even if you throw me back in the hold or pitch me over the side. Some things … I want to know who I’m talking to first. I want to talk to Zamira, not to Captain Drakasha.”

Still she remained silent.

“Is that asking so very much?”

“I’m nine and thirty,” she said at last, very quietly. “I first sailed when I was eleven.”

“Nearly thirty years, then. Well, like I said, I’ve been out here a few weeks. And in that time—storms, mutiny, seasickness, battles, flit-wraiths … hungry damn things lurking all over the place, waiting for someone to dip a toe in the water. It’s not that I haven’t enjoyed myself at times; I have. I’ve learned things. But … thirty years? And children as well? Don’t you find it all … chancy?”

“Do you have children, Orrin?”

“No.”

“The instant I decide that you are presuming to lecture me on their behalf, this conversation will end with you going over this rail to make the acquaintance of whatever’s down there.”

“That’s not at all what I meant. It’s just—”

“Have people on land acquired the secret of living forever? Have they abolished accidents? Have they ceased to have weather in my absence?”

“Of course not.”

“How much more danger are my children truly in than some poor bastard conscripted to fight in his duke’s wars? Or some penniless family dying of a plague with their neighborhood quarantined, or burnt to the ground? Wars, disease, taxes. Bowing heads and kissing boots. There’s plenty of hungry damn things prowling on land, Orrin. It’s just that the ones at sea tend not to wear crowns.”

“Ah—”

“Was your life a paradise before you sailed the Sea of Brass?”

“No.”

“Of course not. Listen well. I thought that I’d grown up in a hierarchy where mere competence and loyalty were enough to maintain one’s station in life,” she whispered. “I gave an oath of service and imagined that oath was binding in both directions. I was a fool. And I had to kill an awful lot of men and women to escape the consequences of that foolishness. Would you really ask me to place my trust, and my hopes for Paolo and Cosetta, in the same bullshit that nearly killed me before? Which system of laws should I bend to, Orrin? Which king or duke or empress should I trust like a mother? Which of them is a better judge of my life’s worth than I am? Can you point them out to me, write a letter of introduction?”

“Zamira,” said Locke, “please don’t make me out to be some sort of advocate for things that I’m not; it seems to me that my whole life has been spent in the willful disdain of what you’re talking about. Do I strike you as a law-and-order sort of fellow?”

“Admittedly not.”

“I’m just curious, is all. I do appreciate this. Tell me now—what about the Free Armada? Your so-called War for Recognition? Why profess such hatred for … laws and taxes and all those strictures, if that was essentially what you were fighting to emplace down here?”

“Ah.” Zamira sighed, removed her four-cornered hat, and ran her fingers through her breeze-tossed hair. “Our infamous Lost Cause. Our personal contribution to the glorious history of Tal Verrar.”

“Why did you start it?”

“Bad judgment. We all hoped … Well, Captain Bonaire was persuasive. We had a leader, a plan. Open mines on new islands, tap some of the safe forests for wood and resin. Pillage as we liked until the other powers on the Sea of Brass came wringing their hands to the bargaining table, and then beat the shit out of them with authorized trade. We imagined a realm without tariffs. Montierre and Port Prodigal swelling up with merchants and their imported fortunes.”

“Ambitious.”

“Idiotic. I was newly escaped from one sour allegiance and I leapt right into another. We believed Bonaire when she said that Stragos didn’t have the clout to come down and mount a serious fight.”

“Oh. Hell.”

“They met us at sea. Biggest action I ever saw, and the soonest lost. Stragos put hundreds of Verrari soldiers on his ships to back the sailors; we never stood a chance in close action. Once they had the Basilisk they stopped taking prisoners. They’d board a ship, scuttle it, and move on to the next. Their archers put shafts into anyone in the water, at least until the devilfish came.

“I needed every trick I had just to get the Orchid out. A few of us straggled back to Prodigal, beat to hell, and even before we got there the Verrari pounded Montierre into the sand. Five hundred dead in one morning.

After that, they sailed back home and I imagine there was a lot of dancing, fucking, and speeches.”

“I think,” said Locke, “you can take a city like Tal Verrar … and you can threaten its purse strings or its pride, and get away with it. But not if you threaten both at once.”

“You’re right. Maybe Stragos was impotent when Bonaire left the city; whatever he was, we united Tal Verrar’s interests behind him. We summoned him up like some demon out of a story.” She folded her arms over her hat and leaned forward, resting her elbows against the taffrail. “So, we stayed outlaws. No flowering for the Ghostwinds. No glorious destiny for Port Prodigal. This ship is our world now, and I only take her in when her belly’s too full to prowl.

“Am I making myself clear, Orrin? I don’t regret how I’ve lived these past few years. I move where I will. I set no appointments. I guard no borders. What land-bound king has the freedom of a ship’s captain? The Sea of Brass provides. When I need haste, it gives me winds. When I need gold, it gives me galleons.”

Thieves prosper, thought Locke. The rich remember.

He made his decision, and gripped the rail to avoid shaking.

“Only gods-damned fools die for lines drawn on maps,” said Zamira. “But nobody can draw lines around my ship. If they try, all I need to do to slip away is set more sail.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “But … Zamira, what if I were forced to tell you that that may no longer be the case?”

6

“HAVE YOU really been practicing on barrels, Jerome?”

They’d laid claim to a bottle of Black Pomegranate brandy from one of the crates broken open amidst the revelers, and taken it back to their spot by the rail.

“Barrels. Yes.” Jean took a sip of the stuff, dark as distilled night, with a sting like nettles beneath the sweetness. He passed the bottle back to her. “They never laugh, they never ridicule you, and they offer no distractions.”

“Distractions?”

“Barrels don’t have breasts.”

“Ah. So what have you been telling these barrels?”

“This bottle of brandy,” said Jean, “is still too full for me to begin embarrassing myself like that.”

“Pretend I’m a barrel, then.”

“Barrels don’t have br—”

“So I’ve heard. Find the nerve, Valora.”

“You want me to pretend that you’re a barrel so I can tell you what I was telling barrels back when I was pretending they were you.”

“Precisely.”

“Well.” He took another long sip from the brandy bottle. “You have … you have such hoops as I have never seen in any cask on any ship, such shiny and well-fit hoops—”

“Jerome—”

“And your staves!” He decided it was a good time to take another drink. “Your staves … so well planed, so tightly fit. You are as fine a cask as I have ever seen, you marvelous little barrel. To say nothing of your bung—”

“Ahem. So you won’t share your sweet nothings?”

“No. I am utterly emboldened in my cowardice.”

“ ‘Man! What a mouse he is made by conversation,’ ” Ezri recited. “ ‘Scorns gods, dares battle, and flinches from a maid’s rebuke! Merest laugh from merest girl is like a dagger felt, and like a dagger, makes a lodging of his breast. Turns blood to milkwater and courage to faint memory.’ ”

“Ohhhhh, Lucarno, is it?” Jean tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “ ‘Woman, your heart is a mapless maze. Could I bottle confusion and drink it a thousand years, I could not confound myself so much as you do between waking and breakfast. You are grown so devious that serpents would applaud your passage, would the gods but give them hands.’ ”

“I like that one,” she said. “The Empire of Seven Days, right?”

“Right. Ezri, forgive my asking, but how the hell do you—”

“It’s no more odd than the fact that you know any of this.” She took the bottle from him, tipped it back for a long draught, and then raised her free hand. “I know. I’ll give you a hint. ‘I have held the world from meridian to meridian in my hands and at my whim. I have received the confessions of emperors, the wisdom of magi, the lamentations of generals.’ ”

“You had a library? You have a library?”

“Had,” she said. “I was the sixth of six daughters. I imagine the novelty wore off. Mother and father could afford live companions for the older five. I made do with all the dead playmates in mother’s books.” With her next drink she drained the last of the bottle, and with a grin she tossed it overboard. “So what’s your excuse?”

“My education was, ah, eclectic. Did you ever … When you were little, do you remember a toy of wooden pegs, in various shapes, that would fit into matching holes on a wooden frame?

“Yes,” she said. “I got my sisters’ when they tired of it.”

“You might say that I was trained to be a professional square peg in a round hole.”

“Really? Is there a guild for that?”

“We’ve been working on getting a charter for years.”

“Did you have a library as well?”

“After a fashion. Sometimes we’d … borrow someone else’s without their knowledge or cooperation. Long story. But there’s one other reason. I’ll give you a verse of your own to guess. ‘After dark,’ ” he recited with a flourish, “ ‘an ass with an audience of one is called a husband; an ass with an audience of two hundred is called a success.’ ”

“You were … on stage,” she said. “You were a player! Professionally?”

“Temporarily,” said Jean. “Very temporarily. I was … well … we …,”He glanced aft and instantly regretted it.

“Ravelle,” Ezri said, then looked at Jean curiously. “You and he were … you two are having some sort of disagreement, aren’t you?”

“Can we not talk about him?” Jean, feeling bold and nervous at once, put a hand on her arm. “Just for tonight. Can he not exist?”

“We can indeed not talk about him,” she said, shifting herself so that her weight rested against his chest rather than the rail. “Tonight,” she said, “nobody else exists.”

Jean stared down at her, suddenly acutely aware of the beat of his own heart. The rising moonlight in her eyes, the feel of her warmth against him, the smell of brandy and sweat and salt water that was uniquely hers—suddenly the only thing he was capable of saying was, “Uhhhhhh …”

“Jerome Valora,” she said, “you magnificent idiot, must I draw you a diagram?”

“Of—”

“Take me to my cabin.” She curled the fabric of his tunic in one fist. “I have the privilege of walls and I intend to use it. At length.”

“Ezri,” Jean whispered, “never in a hundred, never in a thousand years would I say no, but you were cut half to ribbons today, and you can barely stand—”

“I know,” she said. “That’s the only reason I’m confident I’m not going to break you.”

“Oh, for that I’m going to—”

“I certainly hope you will.” She threw her arms wide. “First get me there.”

He picked her up with ease; she settled into his arms and wrapped hers around his neck. As Jean swung away from the rail and headed for the quarterdeck stairs, he found himself facing an arc of thirty or forty Merry Watch revelers. They raised their arms and began cheering wildly.

“Put your names on a list,” hollered Ezri, “so I can kill you all in the morning!” She smiled and turned her eyes back to Jean. “Or maybe it’ll have to wait for the afternoon.”

7

“JUST LISTEN,” said Locke. “Listen, please, with as open a mind as you can manage.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Your, ah, deduction about Jerome and myself is commendable. It does make sense, but for the parts that I’ve concealed until now. Starting with myself. I’m not a trained fighter. I’m a bloody miserable fighter. I have tried to be otherwise, but the gods know, it’s always comedy or tragedy before I can blink.”

“That—”

“Zamira. Heed this. I didn’t kill four men with anything resembling skill. I dropped a beer cask on a man too dumb to look up. I slit the throats of two more who got knocked aside by the cask. I did the fourth when he slipped in beer. When everyone else found the bodies, I let them make their own assumptions.”

“But I know for a fact that you charged those Redeemers all by yourself—”

“Yes. People who are about to die frequently go out of their minds. I should have died ten seconds into that fight, Zamira. It was Jerome who made it otherwise. Jerome and only Jerome.”

At that moment, a loud cheer abruptly rose above the noise of the near carnival at the ship’s waist. Locke and Zamira both turned in time to see Jean appear at the top of the quarterdeck stairs with Lieutenant Delmastro in his arms. Neither of them so much as glanced aft at Locke and the captain; a few seconds later they were vanishing down the companionway.

“Well,” said Zamira, “to win that heart, even for a night, your friend Jerome must be even more extraordinary than I thought.”

“He is extraordinary,” Locke whispered. “He continues to save my life, time and time again, even when I don’t deserve it.” He returned his gaze to the Orchid’s roiling, glowing, monster-haunted wake. “Which is always, more or less.”

Zamira said nothing, and after a few moments Locke continued.

“Well, after he did it again this morning, I slipped and fumbled and ran like hell until the fight was over. That’s all. Panic and dumb luck.”

“You still led the boats. You still went up first, not knowing what was waiting for you.”

“All bullshit. I’m a bullshit artist, Zamira. A false-facer. An actor, an impersonator. I didn’t have any noble motives when I made that request. My life just wasn’t worth much if I didn’t do something utterly crazy to win back some respect. I faked every second of composure anyone glimpsed this morning.”

“The fact that you consider that extraordinary only tells me that it really was your first actual battle.”

“But—”

“Ravelle, anyone in command feigns ease when death is near. We do it for those around us, and we do it for ourselves. We do it because the sole alternative is to die cringing. The difference between an experienced leader and an untested one is that only the untested one is shocked at how well they can pretend when their hand is forced.”

“I don’t believe this,” said Locke. “When I first came aboard, I couldn’t impress you enough to make you spit in my face. Now you’re making my excuses for me. Zamira, Jerome and I never worked for the Priori. I’ve never even met a Priori except in passing. The fact is that we’re still working for Maxilan Stragos as we speak.”

“What?”

“Jerome and I are thieves. Professional, independent thieves. We came to Tal Verrar on a very delicate job of our own design. The archon’s … intelligence services figured out who and what we were. Stragos poisoned us, a latent poison for which only he can supply the antidote. Until we get it or secure some other remedy, we’re his puppets.”

“To what possible end?”

“Stragos handed us the Red Messenger, allowed us to take a crew from Windward Rock, and built up a parchment trail concerning an imaginary disgruntled officer named Orrin Ravelle. He gave us our sailing master—the one whose heart seized on us before we hit the storm—and sent us out here on his business. That’s how we got the ship. That’s how we tweaked Stragos’ nose in such an unlikely fashion. All was to his design.”

“What’s he after? Someone in Port Prodigal?”

“He wants the same thing you gave him last time you crossed paths. He’s all but at war with the Priori, and he’s feeling his years. If he’s going to seize anything resembling popularity ever again, the time is now. He needs an enemy outside the city to bring his army and navy back into favor. That’s you, Zamira. Nothing would be more convenient for Stragos than a wider outbreak of piracy near his city in the next few months.”

“Which is exactly why the Brass Sea captains have avoided going anywhere near Tal Verrar for the last seven years! We learned our lesson the bitter way. If he comes looking for a brawl, we’ll duck and run before we’ll grant him one.”

“I know. And so does he. Our job—our mandate—is to find some way to stir up trouble down here regardless. To get you to fly the red flag close enough for common Verrari to see it from the public outhouses.”

“How the hell did you ever plan on accomplishing this?”

“I had some half-assed idea to spread rumors, offer bribes. If you hadn’t hit the Messenger, I would have tried to kindle a mess myself. But that was before we had any hint to the real state of things out here. Now Jerome and I obviously need your help.”

“To do what?”

“To buy time. To convince Stragos that we’re succeeding on his behalf.”

“If you think for one second that I’ll do anything to aid the archon—”

“I don’t,” said Locke, “and if you think for one second that I truly mean to aid him, you haven’t been listening. Stragos’ antidote is supposedly good for two months. That means Jerome and I must be in Tal Verrar in five weeks to get another sip. And if we have no progress to claim, he may simply decide to fold his investment in us.”

“If you have to leave us to return to Tal Verrar,” she said, “that’s unfortunate. But you can find an independent trader in Port Prodigal; they’re never more than a few days apart. We have arrangements with a number of them that call in Tal Verrar and Vel Virazzo. You’ll have enough money from your shares to buy passage.”

“Zamira, you have more wit than this. Listen. I have spoken personally to Stragos several times. Been lectured, is more the word. And I believe him. I believe that this is his last chance to put his foot down on the Priori and truly rule Tal Verrar. He needs an enemy, Zamira. He needs an enemy that he knows he can crush.”

“Then it would be madness to acquiesce to his plan by provoking him.”

“Zamira, this fight is coming to you regardless of your intentions. You are all he has. You are the only foe that suits. He’s already sacrificed a ship, a veteran sailing master, a galley crew’s worth of prisoners, and a considerable amount of his own prestige just to put Jerome and me in play. As long as we’re out here, as long as you’re helping us, then you’ll know exactly where his plans rest, because we’ll be running them from your ship. If you ignore us, I have no idea what he’ll try next. All I know is that he will have other designs, and you won’t be privy to them.”

“What good will it do me,” said Zamira, “to play along with you, and rouse Tal Verrar to the point that Stragos achieves his desire? We couldn’t best his fleet seven years ago, with twice our present numbers.”

“You’re not the weapon,” said Locke. “Jerome and I are the weapons. We have access to Stragos. All we need is an answer to the poison and we’ll turn on the son of a bitch like a scorpion in his breechclout.”

“For this I dangle my ship, my crew, and my children in easy reach of an enemy far beyond my strength?”

“Zamira, you spoke of the Sea of Brass as though it were a fairy kingdom, infinitely mutable, but you are lashed tight to Port Prodigal and you must know it. I don’t doubt that you could sail for any port in the world and fetch it safely, but could you live anywhere else as you do here? Sell your goods and captured ships as easily? Pay your crew so regularly? Know the waters and your fellow outlaws so well? Lurk in trade lanes half as far from the navy of any great power?”

“This is the strangest conversation I have had in years,” said Zamira, returning her hat to her head. “And probably the strangest request anyone has ever made of me. I have no way of knowing if anything you say is true. But I know this ship, and how fast she can run, if all else fails. Even Port Prodigal.”

“That is, of course, one option. Ignore me. Wait until Stragos finds some other way to have his war, or a likeness of a war. And then fly. To some other sea, some harder life. You said yourself you can’t beat the archon’s navy; you can’t strike at Stragos by force of arms. So consider this—every other choice you have will sooner or later turn into withdrawal and retreat. Jerome and I represent the sole means of attack that you will ever possess. With your help, we could destroy the archonate forever.”

“How?”

“That’s … sort of a work in progress.”

“Possibly the least reassuring thing you’ve—”

“If nothing else,” interrupted Locke, “we know that there are powerful forces in Tal Verrar balanced against the archon. Jerome and I could contact them, involve them somehow. If the archonate were abolished, the Priori would hold Tal Verrar by the purse strings. The last thing they’d want is embroilment in a useless war that might create another popular military hero.”

“Standing here at the stern of my ship, weeks away from Tal Verrar, how can you speak with any certainty of what can be done with that city’s merchants and politicians?”

“You said yourself that I had a talent for dishonesty. I often think it the only skill I have worthy of recommendation.”

“But—”

“Drakasha, this is intolerable!”

Locke and Zamira whirled, once again in unison, to find Scholar Treganne standing at the head of the companionway. She stepped toward them, limping without the support of her cane, and in her outthrust arms wriggled a chitinous black nightmare, multilegged and gleaming in the lantern light. A spider the size of a cat. She held it belly outward, and its gleaming fangs twitched indignantly.

“Dear gods, it certainly is,” said Locke.

“Treganne, what the hell is Zekassis doing out of her cage?”

“Your lieutenant has commenced an assault on the partition between our quarters,” hissed Treganne. “Intolerable noise and commotion! She was lucky to shatter only one cage with all of her knocking about, and luckier still that I was there to restrain this blameless lady—”

“So … wait, you keep that thing in your quarters?” Locke was relieved to discover that it hadn’t been prowling the ship, but only marginally so.

“Where do you think woundsilk comes from, Ravelle? Quit flinching; Zekassis is a delicate and timid creature.”

“Treganne,” said Drakasha, “as a physiker, you must be familiar with the courtship habits of the adult human female.”

“Yes, but six feet from my head is an insufferable intrusion—”

“Treganne, in my opinion, interrupting Ezri at the moment would be an insufferable intrusion. The quartermaster’s compartment across the passage is open. Fetch the carpenter to give Zek temporary accommodations, and pitch your hammock in Gwillem’s space.”

“I shall remember this indignity, Drakasha—”

“Yes, for approximately ten minutes, until some new vexation arises to claim your full attention.”

“Should Delmastro do herself some injury through her exertions,” said Treganne primly, “she may find another physiker to serve her needs. And I daresay that she may use her own abdomen to spin silk for her bandages—”

“I’m sure Ezri’s abdomen is otherwise occupied, Scholar. Please find someone to build that thing a home for the night. You won’t need to say much to convince them of your urgency.”

As Treganne stomped off in a huff with her delicate and timid creature waving its legs in protest, Locke turned back to Zamira with one eyebrow raised.

“Where did you ever—”

“The punishment for insolence to the Nicoran royal family is to be hung out to starve in an iron cage. We were in Nicora doing a bit of smuggling; Treganne was hanging there doing a bit of dying. Most of the time I don’t regret cutting her down.”

“Well. What do you say to my—”

“Mad proposal?”

“Zamira, I don’t need you to sail into Tal Verrar harbor. Just give me something to buy another few months of Stragos’ indulgence. Sack a ship or two near Tal Verrar. Quick and easy work. You know Jerome and I will be the first over the side for you. Just … let them run for the city and spread a bit of panic. Then send us in one night by boat, let us do our business, and we’ll be back with a better idea of how to turn the situation—”

“Attack ships flying the Verrari flag, then get close enough to the city to let you slip in by boat? Wait at anchor with a five thousand solari bounty on my head—”

“Now that is an injustice, Zamira, whatever else I’ve done to merit suspicion. If Jerome and I merely wanted to slip back to Tal Verrar, why would we have risked our necks in your attack this morning? And if I wanted to continue deceiving you or spying on you, why didn’t I just play along with your conclusion that we were agents of the Priori?

“Jerome and I quarreled this morning. If you spoke to Jabril before you pulled me out of your hold, you must know that I’m a divine of the Thirteenth, the Crooked Warden. You’re … our people, more or less. Our kind. It’s a matter of propriety. Jerome insisted that we tell you the truth, that we needed you as willing allies and not as dupes. I’m ashamed to say that I was too angry to agree. But he was right, and it’s not just fucking sentiment, it’s hard truth. I don’t think Jerome and I can pull this off unless you aid us with full knowledge of what we’re up to. And if you can’t or won’t do that, I think you’ve got a hell of a mess coming your way. Soon.”

Drakasha settled her right hand on the pommel of one of her sabers and closed her eyes, looking tired and vexed.

“Before anything else,” she said at last, “apart from all other considerations, we need to put in at Port Prodigal. I have cargo to sell, stores to buy, a prize to dispose of, and crew to meet up with. We’re several days out, and will be several days there. I will think on what you’ve said. One way or another, I’ll give you an answer after we’ve done our business there.”

“Thank you.”

“So it’s Leocanto, then?”

“Just keep calling me Ravelle,” said Locke. “Easier for everyone.”

“So be it. You’re on the Merry Watch and you won’t be shifted back to duty watches until tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you make good use of the night.”

“Well.” Locke glanced down at his leather cup of blue wine, suddenly thinking that maybe he could do with a few more, and perhaps a dice game to lose himself in for a few hours. “If the gods are kind I already have. Good night, Captain Drakasha.”

He left her alone at the taffrail, silently studying the monster that lurked in the Orchid’s wake.

8

“DID THAT hurt?” whispered Ezri, tracing a finger across the sweat-slick skin above Jean’s ribs.

“Did it hurt? Gods above, woman, no, that was—”

“I don’t mean that.” She gave him a firm poke in the scar that arced across his abdomen beneath his right breast. “That.”

“Oh, that. No, it was wonderful. Someone came after me with a pair of Thieves’ Teeth. Felt like a warm breeze on a fine spring day. I loved every second of—oof!”

“Ass!”

“Where did you get such sharp elbows? You grind those things against a whetstone, or—oof!”

Ezri lay on top of Jean on the demi-silk hammock that took up most of the space in her compartment. It was just barely long enough for him to lie with one arm above his head (brushing the interior bulkhead of the ship’s starboard side), and he could have spanned its width between his outstretched arms. An alchemical trinket the size of a coin provided a faint silver light. Ezri’s witchwood-dark curls were touched with fey highlights; scattered strands gleamed like threads of spider silk in moonlight. He ran his hands through that damp forest of hair, massaged her warm scalp with his fingernails, and she let her muscles go slack with a gratifying moan of relaxation.

The motionless air in the compartment was thick with sweat and the trapped heat of their first endless, frantic hour together. The place was also, Jean noticed for the first time, utterly wrecked. Their clothes were scattered in purest chaos. Ezri’s weapons and few possessions littered the deck like navigational hazards. A small net containing a few books and scrolls hung from a ceiling beam and tilted toward the compartment door, indicating that the whole ship was heeled over to larboard.

“Ezri,” he muttered, staring at the stiffened canvas partition that formed their left-hand “wall.” A pair of large feet and a pair of small feet had given it a serious denting. “Ezri, whose cabin did we nearly kick our way into a little while ago?”

“Oh … Scholar Treganne’s. Who told you to stop doing that to my hair? Oh, much better.”

“Will she be pissed off?”

“More so than usual?” Ezri yawned and shrugged. “She’s free to find a lover of her own and kick it back whenever she pleases. I’m too preoccupied to be diplomatic.” She kissed Jean’s neck, and he shivered. “Besides. Night hasn’t nearly run its course yet. We may yet kick the whole damn thing down if I have my way, Jerome.”

“Then it’s your way we’ll have,” said Jean, gently shifting the weight of her body until they were lying on their sides, face-to-face. He ran his hands as carefully as he could over the stiff bandages on her upper arms, the only thing she couldn’t in good sense take off. His hands moved to her cheeks, and then to her hair. They kissed for the sort of endless moment that only exists between lovers whose lips are still new territory to each other.

“Jerome,” she whispered.

“No. Do something for me, Ezri. In private. Never call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Call me my real name.” He kissed her neck, put his lips to one of her ears, and whispered into it.

“Jean …,” she repeated.

“Gods, yes. Say that again.”

“Jean Estevan Tannen. I like that.”

“Yours and yours alone,” Jean whispered.

“Something in return,” she said. “Ezriane Dastiri de la Mastron. Dame Ezriane of the House of Mastron. Nicora.”

“Really? You have an estate or something?”

“Doubt it. Spare daughters who run away from home don’t tend to receive holdings.” She kissed him again, then ruffled his beard with her fingertips. “In fact, with the letter I left Mother and Father, I’m sure I was disinherited at the best possible speed.”

“Gods. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She moved her fingers down to his chest. “These things happen. You keep moving. You find things here and there that help you forget.”

“You do indeed,” he whispered, and then they were too busy to talk for a good long while.

9

LOCKE WAS pulled out of his vivid thicket of dreams by a number of things: the rising heat of day, the pressure of three cups of wine in his bowels, the moans of the hungover men around him, and the sharp prick of claws from the heavy little creature sleeping on the back of his neck.

Struck by a sudden foggy memory of Scholar Treganne’s spider, he gasped in horror and rolled over, clutching at whatever was clinging to him. He blinked several times to clear the veil of slumber from his eyes, and found himself struggling not with a spider but with a kitten, narrow-faced and black-furred.

“The hell?” Locke muttered.

“Mew,” the kitten retorted, locking gazes with him. It had the expression common to all kittens, that of a tyrant in the becoming. I was comfortable, and you dared to move, those jade eyes said. For that you must die. When it became apparent to the cat that its two or three pounds of mass were insufficient to break Locke’s neck with one mighty snap, it put its paws on his shoulders and began sharing its drool-covered nose with his lips. He recoiled.

“That’s Regal,” said someone to Locke’s left.

“Regal? No, it’s ridiculous.” Locke tucked the kitten under his arm like a dangerous alchemical device. Its fur was thin and silky, and it began to purr noisily. The man who’d spoken was Jabril; Locke raised his eyebrows when he saw that Jabril was lying on his back, stark naked.

“His name,” said Jabril. “Regal. He’s got that white spot on his throat. And a wet nose, right?”

“The very one.”

“Regal. You been adopted, Ravelle. Ain’t that ironic?”

“My life’s ambition realized at last.” Locke glanced around the half-empty undercastle. Several of the new Orchids were snoring loudly; one or two were crawling to their feet, and at least one was sleeping contentedly in a pool of his own vomit. Or so Locke assumed. Jean was nowhere to be seen.

“And how was your evening, Ravelle?” Jabril pushed himself up on both elbows.

“Virtuous, I think.”

“My condolences.” Jabril smiled. “You ever met Malakasti from the Blue watch? Got the sorta red hair and the daggers tattooed on her knuckles? Gods, I don’t think she’s human.”

“You vanished early from the party, I’ll say that.”

“Yeah. She had some demands. And some friends.” Jabril massaged his temples with his right hand. “That boatswain from Red watch, fellow with no fingers on his left hand. Had no idea they taught gods-fearing Ashmiri lads them sorts of tricks. Whew.”

“Lads? I didn’t know you, ah, stalked that particular quarry.”

“Yeah, well, seems I’ll try anything once.” Jabril grinned. “Or five or six times, as it turns out.” He scratched his belly and seemed to become aware of his lack of clothes for the first time. “Hell. I remember owning breeches as recently as yesterday.…”

Locke emerged into sunlight a few minutes later with Regal still tucked under his arm. As Locke stretched and yawned, the cat did the same, attempting to wriggle out of Locke’s grasp and presumably climb back atop his head. Locke held the tiny fellow up and stared at him.

“I’m not getting attached to you,” he said. “Find someone else to share your drool with.” Well aware that any mistreatment of the little fellow might get him thrown over the side, he set the kitten down and nudged him with a bare foot.

“You sure you’re authorized to give orders to that cat?” Locke turned to find Jean standing on the forecastle steps, just finishing pulling a tunic on. “Gotta be careful. He might be a watchmate.”

“If he acknowledges any rank, I think he puts himself somewhere between Drakasha and the Twelve.” Locke stared up at Jean for several seconds. “Hi.”

“Hello …”

“Look, there’s a lot of tedious ‘I was an ass’ sort of conversation to stumble through, and I’m still feeling a bit victimized by that blue wine, so let’s just assume—”

“I’m sorry,” said Jean.

“No, that’s my job.”

“I meant … we really found our jagged edges again, didn’t we?”

“If there’s one thing a battle isn’t, it’s calming on the nerves. I don’t blame you for … what you said.”

“We can think of something,” said Jean, quietly and urgently. “Something together. I know you’re not … I didn’t mean to insult your …”

“I deserved it. And you were right. I spoke to Drakasha last night.”

“You did?”

“I told her.” Locke grimaced, stretched again, used the motion to cover a series of hand signals. Jean followed, his eyebrows rising.

Didn’t mention Bondsmagi, Sinspire, Camorr, real names. All else, truth.

“Really?” said Jean.

“Yes.” Locke stared down at the deck. “I said you were right.”

“And how did she—”

Locke mimed a roll of the dice, and shrugged. “We’re for Port Prodigal before anything else happens,” he said. “Chores to do. Then she said … she’ll let us know.”

“I see. And so …”

“Did you have a good night?”

“Gods, yes.”

“Good. About, ah, what I said yesterday—”

“You don’t need—”

“I do. It was the dumbest of all the things I said yesterday. Dumbest and least fair. I know I’ve been … hopeless for so long I wear it like armor. I don’t begrudge you anything you have. Savor it.”

“I do,” said Jean. “Believe me, I do.”

“Good. I’m no one you want to learn from.”

“Uh, so—”

“All’s well, Master Valora.” Locke smiled, pleased to feel the corners of his mouth creeping up of their own volition. “But that wine I was talking about …”

“Wine? Did you—”

“Craplines, Jerome. I need to piss before my innards explode. You’re blocking the stairs.”

“Ah.” Jean stepped down and slapped Locke on the back. “My apologies. Free yourself, brother.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

PORT PRODIGAL

1

THE POISON ORCHID BORE WEST BY SOUTH through muggy air and moderate seas, and the days rolled by for Locke in a rhythm of chores.

He and Jean were placed on the Red watch, which had been put under Lieutenant Delmastro’s direct oversight in Nasreen’s absence. Grand initiation ceremonies did nothing to sate the ship’s appetite for maintenance; the masts still needed to be slushed, the seams checked and rechecked, the decks swept, the rigging adjusted. Locke oiled sabers from the weapons lockers, heaved at the capstan to shift cargo for better trim, served ale at the midevening meals, and pulled rope fragments to oakum until his fingers were red.

Drakasha acknowledged Locke with terse nods, but said nothing, and summoned him to no more private conversations.

As full crew, the ex-Messengers had the right to sleep more or less where they would. Some opted for the main hold, especially those who claimed willing hammock-partners among the old Orchids, but Locke found himself comfortable enough with the now-roomier undercastle. He won a spare tunic in a game of dice and used it as a pillow, a luxury after days of bare deck alone. He slept like a stone statue after finishing each night’s watch just before the red light of dawn.

Jean, of course, slept elsewhere after the night watches.

They had no sightings through the twenty-fifth of the month, when the winds shifted and began to blow strongly from the south. Locke had collapsed into his usual spot against the undercastle’s larboard wall at sunrise, and then snored for several hours in the fashion of the eminently self-satisfied until some sort of commotion awoke him and he found Regal draped across his neck.

“Gah,” he said, and the kitten took this as a signal to perch his forepaws on Locke’s cheeks and begin poking his wet nose directly between Locke’s eyes. Locke seized the kitten, sat up, and blinked. His skull felt full of cobwebs; something had definitely woken him prematurely.

“Was it you?” he muttered, frowning and rubbing the top of Regal’s skull with two fingers. “We have to stop meeting like this, kid. I’m not getting attached to you.”

“Land ho,” came a faint cry from outside the undercastle. “Three points off the larboard bow!” Locke set Regal down, gave him an unambiguous nudge toward some other snoring sleeper, and crawled out into the morning light.

Activity on deck seemed normal; nobody was rushing about, or delivering urgent messages to Drakasha, or even crowding the rail to try to spot the approaching land. Someone slapped Locke on the back and he turned to find himself facing Utgar, who had a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. The Vadran nodded in a friendly fashion.

“You look confused, Red watch.”

“It’s just—I heard the cry. I thought there’d be more excitement. Will that be Port Prodigal?”

“Nah. It’s the Ghostwinds, right, but we’re just fetching the edges. Miserable places. Asp Island, Bastard Rock, the Opal Sands. Nowhere we’d want to touch. Two days yet to Prodigal, and with the winds like this, we’re not getting in the way we’d like, hey?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.” Utgar grinned, enjoying some private knowledge. “You’ll see for damn sure. Get your beauty sleep, right? You’re back on the masts in two hours.”

2

THE GHOSTWIND Isles gradually crowded in around the Orchid like a gang of muggers savoring their slow approach to a target. The horizon, once clear, sprouted islands thick with mist-capped jungle. Tall black peaks rumbled intermittently, belching lines of steam or smoke into the heavy gray skies. Rain washed down in sheets, not the merciless storms of the high seas but rather the indifferent sweat of the tropics, blood-warm and barely pushed by the jungle breeze.

The waters lightened with their passage west, from the cobalt of the deeps to sky blue to translucent aquamarine. The place was teeming with life; birds wheeled overhead, fish darted through the shallows in silver clouds, and sinuous shapes larger than men shadowed them. They stalked languidly in the Orchid’s wake as well: scythe sharks, blue widowers, bad-luck reefmen, daggerfins. Eeriest of all were the local wolf sharks, whose sand-colored backs made them vanish into the pale haze below the ship. It took a keen eye to spot the ghostly incongruities that betrayed their lurking, and they had the disconcerting habit of circling beneath the craplines.

Locke thanked the gods that they weren’t jumpers.

For a day and a half they sailed on, heeling over to dodge the occasional reef or smaller island. Drakasha and Delmastro seemed to know the area by heart and muttered over Drakasha’s charts only at rare intervals. Locke began to glimpse human detritus on the shoals and rocks—here a weathered mast, there the skeletal ribs of an ancient keel on the sandy bottom. On one afternoon watch, he spotted hundreds of crablike things the size of dogs congregating on the overturned bottom of a ship’s hull. As the Orchid passed, the creatures fled from their artificial reef en masse, making the water around it froth white. In moments they had vanished completely.

Locke went off that watch a few hours later, aware of a steadily growing tension in the crew around him. Something had changed. Drakasha paced the quarterdeck ceaselessly, ordered extra lookouts to the mastheads, and held whispered conferences with Delmastro and Mumchance.

“She won’t tell me what’s going on,” said Jean after Locke dropped what he thought was a subtle hint. “She’s all lieutenant and no Ezri at the moment.”

“That in itself tells us something,” said Locke. “Tells us to curb our good cheer.”

Drakasha mustered all hands at the evening watch change. All the Orchids—one vast, sweaty, anxious mass of men and women—fixed their eyes on the quarterdeck rail and waited for the captain’s words. The sun was a disk of burning copper crowning jungle heights dead ahead; the colors of fire were creeping up layer by layer through the clouds, and all around them the islands were falling into shadow.

“Well,” said Drakasha, “here it is, plain. The winds have been steady as hell these past few days, out of the south. We can drop anchor in Prodigal tonight, but we can’t make it through the Trader’s Gate.”

There was a general murmur from the crowd. Lieutenant Delmastro, stepping up beside the captain, placed a hand on her weapons belt and hollered, “Quiet! Perelandro’s piss, most of us have been here before.”

“So we have,” said Drakasha. “Stout hearts, Orchids. We’ll do the usual. Red watch, take some ease. Expect an all-hands call in a few hours. After that, nobody sleeps, nobody drinks, nobody fucks until we’re safe home again. Blue watch, you have the duty. Del, see to the newcomers. Run it all down for them.”

“Run what down?” Locke looked around, asking the question to the air as the crew dispersed.

“Two passages to get to Port Prodigal,” said Jabril. “First, Trader’s Gate, that’s north of the city. Twelve miles long, say. Twists and turns, shoals all over the place. Slow going at the best of times, but with a hard south wind, piss on it. It’ll take us days.”

“So what the hell are we doing?”

“Second way, from the west. Half as long. Still twisty, but ain’t near so bad. Especially with this wind. But it don’t get used if anyone can help it. They call it the Parlor Passage.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s something there,” said Lieutenant Delmastro, pushing her way through the little crowd, ex-Messengers all, that had gathered around Jabril. Locke saw her give Jean’s arm the briefest squeeze, and then she continued. “Something … lives there.”

“Something?” Locke couldn’t keep a hint of irritation out of his voice. “Is the ship in danger?”

“No,” said Delmastro.

“Let me be more specific, then. Are those of us aboard her in danger?”

“I don’t know,” said Delmastro, sharing a glance with Jabril. “Will something come aboard the ship? No. Absolutely not. Might you … feel like leaving the ship? I can’t say. Depends on your temperament.”

“I’m not sure I’d enjoy the close attention of anything swimming in these waters,” said Locke.

“Good. Then you probably don’t have anything to worry about.” Delmastro sighed. “All of you, think on what the captain said. A bit of rest is the thing; you’ll be called up halfway through your usual off-watch, so snatch what you can.” She stepped up beside Jean, and Locke overheard her whisper, “I certainly intend to.”

“I’ll, ah, find you later then, Jerome.” Locke smiled despite himself.

“You going to catch a nap?” asked Jean.

“Bloody hell, no. I expect to twiddle my thumbs and go steadily out of my skull until called for duty. Maybe I can find someone to share a hand of cards—”

“Doubt it,” said Delmastro. “Your reputation …”

“Unjust persecution for my good fortune,” said Locke.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should consider a public streak of bad luck. Word to the wise.” She blew Locke a mocking little kiss. “Or whatever you are, Ravelle.”

“Oh, steal Jerome and go do your worst to him.” Locke folded his arms and grinned; Delmastro’s loosening up toward him had been a welcome change over the previous few days. “I’ll be judging your performance by how pissed Treganne is when we see her next. Hell, that’s how I can amuse myself. I’ll solicit wagers on how riled up you two can get the Scholar—”

“You do anything of the sort,” said Delmastro, “and I’ll chain you to an anchor by your precious bits and have you dragged over a reef.”

“No, this is a good scheme,” said Jean. “We could place our own bets with him, then rig the contest—”

“This ship has two anchors, Valora!”

3

DUSK WAS approaching by the time Jean and Ezri crept back up to the quarterdeck. Drakasha stood near the taffrail, cradling Cosetta in her left arm and holding a small silver cup in her right.

“You must drink it, love,” whispered Drakasha. “It’s a special nighttime drink for pirate princesses.”

“No,” muttered Cosetta.

“Are you not a pirate princess?”

“No!”

“I think you are. Be good—”

“Don’t want!”

Jean thought back to his time in Camorr, and to how Chains had sometimes behaved when one of the young Gentlemen Bastards had decided to throw a fit. They’d been much older than Cos, true, but children were children and Drakasha looked hollow-eyed with worry.

“My, my,” he said loudly, approaching the Drakashas so that Cosetta could see him. “That looks very good, Captain Drakasha.”

“It does look very good,” she said, “and it tastes better than it looks—”

“Feh,” said Cosetta. “Ahhhhh! No!”

“You must,” said her mother.

“Captain,” said Jean, pretending to be entranced by the silver cup, “that looks so wonderful. If Cosetta doesn’t want it, I’ll have it.”

Drakasha stared at him, and then smiled. “Well …,” she said, sounding grudging, “if Cosetta doesn’t want it, I suppose I have no choice.” She slowly moved the cup away from Cosetta and toward Jean, and the little girl’s eyes grew wide.

“No,” she said. “No!”

“But you don’t want it,” said Drakasha with an air of finality. “Jerome does. So it’s going away, Cosetta.”

“Mmmm,” said Jean. “I’ll drink it straightaway.”

“No!” Cosetta stretched for the cup. “No, no, no!”

“Cosetta,” said Drakasha sternly, “if you want it, you must drink it. Do you understand?”

The little girl nodded, her mouth an “O” of concern, her fingers straining to reach the suddenly invaluable prize. Zamira held the silver cup to Cosetta’s lips and the little girl drained it with urgent greed.

“Very good,” said Drakasha, kissing her daughter on the forehead. “Very, very good. Now I’m going to take you down so you and Paolo can go to sleep.” She slipped the empty silver cup into a coat pocket, slung Cosetta round to the front of her chest, and nodded at Jean. “Thank you for that, Valora. Deck is yours, Del. Just a few minutes.”

“She hates doing that,” said Ezri quietly when Drakasha had vanished down the companionway.

“Feeding Cos for the night?”

“It’s milk of poppy. She puts them both to sleep … for the Parlor Passage. No way in hell she wants them awake when we go through it.”

“What the hell is going to—”

“It’s hard to explain,” said Ezri. “It’s easier just to get it over with. But you’ll be fine; I know you will.” She ran one hand up and down his back. “You manage to survive me in my poorer moods.”

“Ah,” said Jean, “but when a woman has your heart, she doesn’t have poor moods. Only interesting moods … and more interesting moods.”

“Where I was born, obnoxious flatterers were hung out to dry in iron cages.”

“I can see why you ran away. You inspire such flattery that any man who talked to you at length would have been caged up after—”

“You are beyond obnoxious!”

“I need to do something to keep my mind off whatever’s coming—”

“What we just did below wasn’t enough?”

“Well, I suppose we could always go back down and—”

“Alas that the biggest bitch on this ship isn’t even Drakasha or myself, but duty.” She kissed Jean on the cheek. “You want something to keep yourself busy, you can get started with preparations for the passage. Get to the for’ard lantern locker and bring me the alchemical lights.”

“How many?”

“All of them,” she said. “Every last one you can find.”

4

THE TENTH hour of the evening. Night fell like a cloak over the Ghostwinds; and the Poison Orchid, under topsails, stood in to the Parlor Passage gilded in white and amber light. A hundred alchemical lanterns had been shaken to life and placed around the ship’s entire hull, a few in the rigging but most beneath the rail, casting rippling facets of false fire on the dark water just below.

“By the deep six,” called one of the two sailors Drakasha had placed at the sides, where they cast their lead lines to gauge the amount of water between the ship’s hull and the sea bottom. Six fathoms; thirty-six feet. The Orchid could slip through far shallower straits than that.

Ordinarily, soundings were occasional and one leadsman would suffice to take them. Now the men, two of her oldest and most experienced, cast their lines and called the results continually. What’s more, each of them was watched by a small party of … minders, was the best word Jean could come up with. Sailors who were armed and armored.

Strange precautions had been ordered all over the ship. The small, elite crew who waited above to work the sails had safety lines lashed around their waists; they would dangle like pendulums if they fell, but at least they’d probably live. Real fires were extinguished, smoking strictly forbidden. Drakasha’s children slept in her cabin with the stern shutters locked and the companionway door guarded. Drakasha herself had her Elderglass mosaic vest buckled on, and her sabers hung ready in their scabbards.

“A quarter less six,” called a leadsman.

“Fog coming up,” said Jean. He and Locke stood at the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Drakasha paced nearby, Mumchance had the wheel, and Delmastro stood by the binnacle with a small rack of precision timing glasses.

“That’s how it starts,” said Mumchance.

The Orchid was entering a mile-wide channel between cliffs that rose to about half the height of the masts and were surmounted by dark jungle that rose and faded into the blackness. There were faint sounds of things unseen in that jungle; screeches, snapping, rustling. The ship’s arcs of lanterns made the waters around them clear for fifty or sixty feet, and at the edges of that gleaming circle Jean saw threads of gray mist beginning to curl out of the water.

“And a half five,” came the cry from the starboard leadsman.

“Captain Drakasha.” Utgar stood at the taffrail, log-line pinched between his fingers. “Four knots, hey.”

“Aye,” said Drakasha. “Four knots, and our stern’s even with the mouth of the passage. Give me ten minutes, Del.”

Delmastro nodded, flipped one of her glasses over, and kept watch as sand began to trickle from the upper chamber to the lower. Drakasha moved to the forward quarterdeck rail.

“Heed this,” she said to the crewfolk working or waiting on deck. “If you start to feel peculiar, stay away from the rails. If you cannot abide the deck, go below. This is a chore we must endure, and we’ve come through it before. You cannot be harmed if you stay on the ship. Hold fast to that thought. Do not leave the ship.”

The mist was rising now, layering upon itself. The shadowy outlines of cliffs and jungles beyond were swiftly vanishing. Before them was nothing but blackness.

“Ten, Captain,” said Delmastro at last.

“By the mark five,” cried one of the leadsmen.

“Mum, put your helm down.” Drakasha used a stick of charcoal to scrawl a quick note on a folded parchment. “Two spokes a-lee.”

“Aye, Captain, helm a-lee by two.”

At the sailing master’s slight adjustment to the wheel, the ship leaned to larboard. Sailors overhead made faint adjustments to sails and rigging acting on instructions Drakasha had drilled into them before they’d entered the passage.

“Give me twelve minutes, Del.”

“Aye, Captain, twelve it is.”

As those twelve minutes passed, the fog grew thicker, like smoke from a well-fed fire. It closed on either side, a swirling gray wall that seemed to lock their own light and sound in a bubble, closing off all hint of the outside world. The creak of the blocks and rigging, the slap of the water on the hull, the babble of voices—all these familiar things echoed flatly, and the jungle noises vanished. Still the fog encroached, until it crossed the ephemeral line of well-lit water created by the lanterns. Visibility in any direction now died at forty feet.

“Twelve, Captain,” said Delmastro.

“Mum, put up your helm,” said Drakasha, staring at the compass in the binnacle. “Helm a-weather. Bring us northwest by west.” She shouted to the crewfolk at the waist, “Make ready to shift yards! Northwest by west, wind to the larboard quarter!”

There were several minutes of activity as the ship came slowly around to its new course and the crew rebraced the yards. All the while, Jean became more convinced that he wasn’t imagining the sound-dampening nature of the fog. The noise of their activity simply died when it hit that shroud. In fact, the only evidence of a world beyond the mist was the wet, earthy smell of jungle blowing in with the warm breeze across the quarterdeck.

“By the mark seven,” called a leadsman.

“Twenty-two minutes, Del.”

“Aye,” said Delmastro, turning her glasses like an automaton.

The next twenty-two minutes passed in claustrophobic silence, punctuated only by the occasional flutter of sail canvas and the shouts of the leadsmen. Tension built as the minutes crawled by, until—

“Time, Captain.”

“Thanks, Del. Mum, put your helm down. Bring us southwest by west.” She raised her voice. “Lively, now! Tacks and sheets! To the larboard tack, southwest by west!”

Sails shuddered, and crewfolk ran about swearing and working ropes as the ship heeled back onto the larboard tack. They spun at the heart of the fog; the jungle-scented breeze seemed to rotate around them like a boxer dancing around an opponent, until Jean could feel it against his left cheek.

“Hold steady, Mum,” said Drakasha. “Ezri, fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen, aye.”

“Here it fucking comes,” muttered Mumchance.

“Belay that crap,” said Drakasha. “Only thing truly dangerous out here is us, got it?”

Jean felt a prickling sensation on the skin of his forehead. He reached up and wiped away the sweat that was beading there.

“A quarter less five,” called a leadsman.

Jean, whispered a faint voice.

“What, Orrin?”

“Huh?” Locke was gripping the rail with both hands and barely spared a glance for Jean.

“What did you want?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Are you—”

Jean Tannen.

“Oh gods,” said Locke.

“You too?” Jean stared at him. “A voice—”

“Not from the air,” whispered Locke. “More like … you know who. Back in Camorr.”

“Why is it saying my—”

“It’s not,” said Drakasha in a low, urgent voice. “We all hear it talking to us. We all hear our own names. Hold fast.”

“Crooked Warden, I will fear no darkness for the night is yours,” muttered Locke, pointing the first two fingers of his left hand into the darkness. The Dagger of the Thirteenth, a thief’s gesture against evil. “Your night is my cloak, my shield, my escape from those who hunt to feed the noose. I will fear no evil, for you have made the night my friend.”

“Bless the Benefactor,” said Jean, squeezing Locke’s left forearm. “Peace and profit to his children.”

Jean … Estevan … Tannen.

He felt the voice, realizing somehow that the impression of sound was just a trick he played upon himself, an echo in his ears. He felt its intrusion into his awareness like the brush of insect legs against his skin. He wiped his forehead again, and realized that he was sweating profusely, even for the warm night.

Forward, someone started sobbing loudly.

“Twelve,” Jean heard Ezri whispering. “Twelve more minutes.”

The water is cool, Jean Tannen. You … sweat. Your clothes itch. Skin … itch. But the water is cool.

Drakasha squared her shoulders and strolled down the quarterdeck steps to the waist. She found the sobbing crewman, hauled him gently to his feet, and gave him a pat on the back. “Chins up, Orchids. This isn’t flesh and blood. This isn’t a fight. Stand fast.”

She sounded bold enough. Jean wondered how many of her crew knew or guessed that she drugged her children rather than put them through this.

Was it merely Jean’s imagination, or was the fog lightening to starboard? The haze was no thinner, but the darkness behind it seemed to abate … to acquire a sickly luminescence. A whispering hiss of water grew into a steady, rhythmic pulse. Waves breaking over shoals. The black water rippled at the edge of their little circle of light.

“The reef,” muttered Mumchance.

“By the deep four,” called a leadsman.

Something stirred in the fog, the faintest impression of movement. Jean peered at the swirling gloom, straining to catch it again. He rubbed at his chest, where his sweat-soaked tunic seemed to irritate the skin beneath.

Come to the water, Jean Tannen. Water so cool. Come. Lose tunic, lose sweat, lose itch. Bring … the woman. Bring her with you to the water. Come.

“Gods,” whispered Locke, “whatever’s out there knows my real name.”

“Mine as well,” said Jean.

“I mean, it’s not calling me ‘Locke.’ It knows my real name.”

“Oh. Shit.”

Jean stared down at the black water and heard the sound of it breaking over the unseen reef. It couldn’t be cool … it had to be as warm as everything else in this damn place. But the sound … the sound of those waves was not so unpleasant. He listened, entranced for several seconds, then raised his head lethargically and stared into the fog.

Something was there, for the briefest instant—a dark shape visible through the curtains of mist. Man-sized. Tall, thin, and motionless. Waiting there, atop the reef.

Jean shuddered violently, and the shape disappeared. He blinked as though waking from a daydream. The fog was now as dark and solid as ever, the imagined light gone, the hissing rush of water over shoals no longer so pleasing to his ears. Sweat ran in itching streams down his neck and arms, and he welcomed the distraction, scratching himself furiously.

“By the … by the, ah, deep four … and a quarter four …,” murmured a leadsman.

“Time,” said Ezri, seeming to come out of a daze of her own. “Time, time!”

“Surely not,” muttered Locke. “That wasn’t … but a few minutes.”

“I looked down and the sands were run out. I don’t know when it happened.” She raised her voice urgently. “Captain! Time!”

“Rouse up, rouse up!” Drakasha bellowed as though the ship were under attack. “Tacks and sheets! Come west by north! Wind to the larboard quarter, brace the yards!”

“West by north, aye,” said Mumchance.

“I don’t understand,” said Ezri, staring at her timing glasses. Jean saw that her blue tunic was soaked with sweat, her hair was matted, and her face was slick. “I was watching the glasses. It was like … I just blinked, and … all the time was gone.”

The deck was alive with vigorous commotion. Once more the breeze shifted, the fog swirled around them, and Mumchance settled them onto their new course with precise, almost delicate shifts of his wheel.

“Gods,” said Ezri. “That one was as bad as I can remember.”

“Never been like that before,” added Mumchance.

“How much longer?” asked Jean, not ashamed to sound anxious.

“That’s our last turn,” said Ezri. “Assuming we didn’t slip south far enough that we run aground on something in these next few minutes, it’s straight on west by north all the way to Port Prodigal.”

They slipped on through the dark waters, and gradually the strange sensations on Jean’s skin ebbed. The fog withdrew, first opening into cleaner darkness before the ship, and then unraveling behind them. The light from the lanterns seemed to pour back out into the night, unrestrained, and the reassuring noise of the jungle on either side of the channel returned.

“By the deep eight,” came a leadsman’s shout.

“That’s the main channel,” said Drakasha, ascending the steps to the quarterdeck once again. “Well done, everyone.” She turned to look out over the waist. “Take in most of the lanterns. Leave a few out for navigation, so we don’t surprise anyone coming into the harbor. Keep the leads going.” She reached out and put her arms on Mumchance and Ezri, squeezing their shoulders. “I know I said no drinking, but I think we could all do with a brace.”

Her gaze fell on Locke and Jean. “You two look as though you could use a job. Fetch up an ale cask and serve it out at the mainmast.” She raised her voice to a shout. “Half a cup for anyone who wants it.”

As Jean hurried forward with Locke close behind, he was pleased to feel the tension of a few moments earlier evaporating. Crewfolk were smiling again, chattering away at one another, even laughing here and there. A few kept to themselves, arms folded and eyes downcast, but even they seemed relieved. The only odd thing about the scene, Jean realized, was how assiduously most of them seemed to be trying to keep their attention focused on the ship and the people around them.

More than an hour would pass before many of them would allow themselves to glance out at the water again.

5

IF YOU could stand on air a thousand feet above Port Prodigal, this midnight, you would see a tenuous ribbon of light set like a jewel in the midst of boundless tropical darkness. Clouds veil the moons and the stars. Even the thin red lines of volcanic flow that sometimes ignite the far horizons are missing; those dark mountains smolder tonight without visible fire.

Prodigal claims a long beach on the north side of a vast, hilly island.

Miles of ancient rain forest recede into the night behind it; not a speck of light burns anywhere within that grim expanse.

The broad harbor, enclosed on all sides, is uncommonly friendly to ships once they slip through either of the arduous passages that bring them from the sea. There are no reefs, no smaller islands, no navigational hazards marring the sandy white bottom of the bay. At the eastern end of town the water shallows to waist depth, while in the west even heavy ships may all but kiss the shore and keep eight or nine fathoms beneath their keels.

A forest of masts rocks gently above these depths, a floating hodgepodge of docks, boats, working ships, and hulls in every state of disrepair. There are two loosely defined anchorages serving Port Prodigal—first, the Graveyard, where float the hundreds of hulls and wrecks that will never move on the open sea again. East of that, claiming all the larger, newer docks, lies the Hospital, so-called because its patients may yet live.

6

A BELL began tolling, its slow clang echoing off the water, as soon as the Poison Orchid emerged from the Parlor Passage.

Locke stared over the ship’s larboard rail, toward the lights of the city and their rippling reflections on the bay.

“Harbor watch’ll ring that damn thing until we drop anchor.” Jabril had taken note of his curiosity and taken the rail beside him. “Gotta let everyone know they’re on the job so they keep getting paid their liquor ration.”

“You spend much time here, Jabril?”

“Born here. Prison in Tal Verrar is what I got the one time I tried to see some other oceans.”

Dropping anchor in Prodigal Bay had none of the ceremony Locke had seen elsewhere; no shore pilots, no customs officers, not even a single curious fisherman. And, to his surprise, Drakasha didn’t take the Orchid all the way in. They settled about half a mile offshore, furled sails, and kept their lanterns burning.

“Drop a boat to larboard,” ordered Drakasha, peering at the city and its anchorages through her glass. “Then rig razor nets at the starboard. Keep lanterns burning. Dismiss Blue watch below but have sabers ready at the masts. Del, get Malakasti, Dantierre, Big Konar, and Rask.”

“Your will, Captain.”

After helping a work party heave one of the ship’s larger boats over the side, Locke approached Drakasha on the quarterdeck and found her still studying the town through her glass.

“I take it you have reason for caution, Captain?”

“We’ve been out for a few weeks,” said Drakasha, “and things change. I’ve got a big crew and a big ship, but neither of them is the biggest there is.”

“Do you see something that makes you nervous?”

“Not nervous. Curious. Looks like most of us are home for once. See that line of ships, at the eastern docks, closest to us? Four of the council captains are in town. Five, now that I’m back.” She lowered her glass and looked sidelong at him. “Plus two or three independent traders, near as I can tell.”

“I really hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said quietly.

At that moment Lieutenant Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, armed and armored, with four sailors in tow.

Malakasti, a thin woman with more tattoos than words in her vocabulary, had a shipwide reputation as a knife fighter. Dantierre was a bearded, balding Verrari who favored tattered nobleman’s silks; he’d gone outlaw after a long career as a professional duelist. Big Konar, true to his name, was the largest slab of human flesh aboard the Orchid. And Rask—well, Rask was a type that Locke recognized almost immediately, a murderer’s murderer. Drakasha, like many garristas back in Camorr, would keep him on a short leash, and give him his head only when she needed blood on the wall. Lots of blood on the wall.

A brutal crew, none of them young and none of them new to Drakasha’s command. Locke pondered this while all hands were briefly mustered at the waist.

“Utgar has the ship,” Drakasha announced. “We’re not putting in tonight. I’m taking Del and a shore party to sound out the town. If all’s well, we’ll have a busy few days … and we’ll start divvying up the shares tomorrow evening. Try not to gamble it all away to your watchmates before it’s even in your hands, eh?

“In the meantime, Red watch, mind the ship. Razor nets on starboard stay up until we come back. Post lookouts up every mast and keep an eye on the waterline. Blue watch, some of you sleep near the arms lockers if you’re so inclined. Keep daggers and clubs at hand.” To Utgar, she said more quietly, “Double guard on my cabin door all night.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Drakasha vanished into her cabin for a few moments. She reemerged in her Elderglass mosaic vest, with her sabers in fine jeweled scabbards, gleaming emeralds in her ears, and gold rings over the black leather gloves on her hands. Locke and Jean confronted her together, as unobtrusively as they could.

“Ravelle, I do not have time—”

“Captain,” said Locke, “you’ve put together a bruising crew because you’re out to scare someone who might give you trouble, haven’t you? And if they’re too stupid to take a hint, you want people who can end things quick. I strongly, strongly suggest that Jerome would serve you well on both counts.”

“I … hmmm.” She stared at Jean, as though only just noticing the width of his shoulders and upper arms. “That might just add the finishing touch. All right, Valora, you fancy a short night out?”

“I do,” said Jean. “But I work best as part of a team. Orrin is just the man to—”

“You two think you’re so clever,” said Drakasha. “But—”

“I mean it,” said Jean hurriedly. “Humble apologies. But you’ve seen what he does. You’ll have a pile of strongarms at your back; bring him for … situations unforeseen.”

“Tonight is delicate business,” said Drakasha. “Misstepping in Port Prodigal after midnight is like pissing on an angry snake. I need—”

“Ahem,” said Locke. “Originally, we’re from Camorr.”

“Be on the boat in five minutes,” said Drakasha.

7

DRAKASHA TOOK the bow, Delmastro the stern, and everyone else an oar. At a stately pace they scudded across the calm surface of the bay.

“At least that jackass finally stopped ringing the bell,” muttered Jean. He had taken a spot on the last rowing bench, next to Big Konar, so he could chat with Ezri. She was trailing one of her hands in the water.

“Is that wise?” Jean asked.

“What, fiddling with the water?” Ezri hooked a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the Parlor Passage outlet. “You can’t see them by night, but at the entrances to the bay there are rows of huge white stones set across the bottom. Regular lines of them.”

“Eldren stones,” muttered Konar.

“They don’t bother us,” said Ezri, “but nothing else will pass them. Not one single thing lives in this bay; you can swim at dusk with bloody cuts on your feet and nothing will come along for a taste.”

“But not too close to the docks. Piss,” said Konar, almost apologetically.

“Well, damn,” said Jean. “That sounds nice.”

“Sure, I guess,” said Ezri. “Makes fishing a pain in the ass. Little boats crowd the Trader’s Gate passage and muck up the works there more than usual. Speaking of mucking up the works …”

“Mmm?”

“I don’t see the Red Messenger anywhere.”

“Ah.”

“But she was crawling like a snail,” she said. “And we do have some interesting company in her place.”

“Such as?”

“See that first row of ships? Starboard to larboard, that’s Osprey, Pierro Strozzi’s lugger. His crew’s tiny and so’s his ambition, but he could sail a barrel through a hurricane. Next to that, Regal Bitch, captain Chavon Rance. Rance is a pain in the ass. Has a real temper. Next is Draconic, Jacquelaine Colvard’s brig. She’s reasonable, and she’s been out here longer than anyone.

“That big three-master on the far end is the Dread Sovereign, Jaffrim Rodanov’s lady. Nasty piece of work. Last I saw she was on the beach getting careened, but now she looks ready for sea.”

With six people pulling at the oars, they made short work of the trip. In just a few moments they were alongside a crumbling stone jetty. As Jean secured his oar, he spied a man’s corpse bobbing gently in the water.

“Ah,” said Ezri. “Poor bastard. That’s the mark of a lively night in these parts.”

Drakasha’s shore party tied the boat to the very end of the jetty and went up as though boarding an enemy vessel, with wary hearts and hands near their weapons.

“Holy gods,” exclaimed a mostly toothless drunk cradling a wineskin in the middle of the jetty. “It’s Drakasha, isn’t it?”

“It is. Who are you?”

“Banjital Vo.”

“Well,” said Drakasha, “Banjital Vo, I’m making you responsible for the safety of the boat we just tied up.”

“But … I—”

“If it’s here when we come back, I’ll give you a Verrari silver. If anything’s happened to it, I’ll ask around for you, and when I find you I’ll pull your gods-damned eyes out.”

“I’ll … I’ll keep it like it were my own.”

“No,” said Drakasha, “keep it like it’s mine.”

She led them off the jetty and up a gently sloping sand path bordered by canvas tents, roofless log cabins, and partially collapsed stone buildings. Jean could hear the snores of sleeping people within those decrepit structures, plus the soft bleat of goats, the growls of mongrel dogs, and the flutter of agitated chickens. A few cookfires had burned down to coals, but there were no lanterns or alchemical lights hung out anywhere on this side of town.

A pungent stream of piss and night soil was trickling down the right-hand side of the path, and Jean stepped carefully to avoid it, as well as a sprawled corpse damming the flow about fifty yards up from the jetty. The occasional semilucid drunk or pipe smoker stared at them from various nooks and shadows, but they weren’t spoken to until they crested a rise and found stones beneath their feet once again.

“Drakasha,” shouted a corpulent man in leathers with blackened-iron studs, “welcome back to civilization!” The man carried a dim lantern in one hand and a bronze-ringed club in the other. Behind him was a taller fellow, scruffy and potbellied, armed with a long oak staff.

“Handsome Marcus,” said Drakasha. “Gods, you get uglier every time I come back. Like someone’s slowly sculpting an ass out of a human face. Who’s the new charmer?”

“Guthrin. Wise lad decided to give up sailing and join the rest of us big swinging cocks in the glamorous life.”

“Yeah? Well,” Drakasha said, holding out a closed fist and shaking it so that the coins inside clinked against one another, “I found these in the road. They belong to you?”

“I got a happy home for ’em right here. See now, Guthrin, that’s the style. Show this lady some favor and she returns the compliment. Fruitful voyage, Captain?”

“Belly so full we can’t swim anymore, Marcus.”

“Good on you, Captain. You’ll want to hear from the Shipbreaker, then?”

“Nobody wants to hear from that waste of a working asshole, but if he wants to open his purse and bend over, I’ve got a little something in wood and canvas for his collection.”

“I’ll pass the word. You in for the night?”

“Toehold, Marcus. Just here to fly the flag.”

“Fine idea.” He glanced around briefly, and then his voice grew more serious. “Chavon Rance has the high table at the Crimson. Just so you can look all-knowing when you walk in the door.”

“Obliged to you.”

When the two men had strolled on their way down the path toward the jetty, Jean turned to Ezri. “Guards of some sort?”

“Maintainers,” she said. “More like a gang. Sixty or seventy of them, and they’re what we have for order around here. Captains pay them a little out of every load they bring in, and they beat the rest of their living out of public nuisances. You can pretty much do as you like, long as you hide the bodies and don’t burn anything down or wake up half the city. Do that and the Maintainers come out to do a bit of maintaining.”

“So what’s ‘flying the flag,’ exactly?”

“Gotta play these games sometimes,” said Ezri. “Let everyone in Prodigal know that Zamira’s back, that she’s got a hold full of swag, that she’ll kick their heads in for looking at her cross-eyed. You know? Especially her brother and sister captains.”

“Ah. I’m with you.”

They entered the city proper; here, at least, were the lights they’d seen from out in the bay, pouring from open windows and doors on both sides of the street. The buildings here had started as respectable stone homes and shops, but time and mischief had marked their faces. Broken windows were covered over with planking from ships or scraps of tattered sailcloth. Many of the houses sprouted leaning wooden additions that looked unsafe to approach, let alone live in; others grew wattle-and-daub third or fourth stories like mushrooms from their old roofs.

Jean felt a sudden pang of grudging nostalgia. Drunkards lying senseless in the alleys. Larcenous children eyeing their party from the shadows. Maintainers in long leather coats thumping some poor bastard senseless behind a cart with no wheels. The sounds of swearing, argument, laughter, and ale sickness pouring from every open window and door … This place was, if not quite a fraternal relation to Camorr, at least a first cousin.

“Orchids,” hollered someone from a second-story window. “Orchids!”

Zamira acknowledged the drunken shout with a casual wave, and turned right at a muddy crossroads. From the dark mouth of an alley a heavyset man stumbled, wearing nothing but soiled breeches. He had the glassy, unfocused eyes of a Jeremite powder-smoker, and in his right hand was a serrated knife the length and width of Jean’s forearm.

“Coin or suck,” said the man, threads of saliva dangling down his chin. “Don’t care which. Got needs. Give us a—”

If he was oblivious to the fact that he was facing eight opponents, he wasn’t oblivious to Rask knocking his blade hand aside and shoving him back into the alley by his neck. What happened next took only a few seconds; Jean heard a wet gurgle, and then Rask was stepping back out into the street, wiping one of his own knives on a rag. He threw this rag into the alley behind him and hooked his thumbs into his belt. Ezri and Drakasha seemed to think the incident not even worthy of comment, and they strolled on, casual as temple-goers on Penance Day morning.

“Here we are,” said Ezri as they reached the top of another small hill. A wide, half-paved square, its muddy sections crisscrossed by overlapping wagon tracks, was dominated by a fat two-story building with a portico constructed around the chopped-off stern facing of an old ship. Time, weather, and no doubt countless brawls had scuffed and chipped its elaborate scrollwork, but people could be seen drinking and reveling behind the second-story windows, in what would have been the great cabin. Where the rudder had once been mounted was now a heavy double door, flanked by alchemical globes (the round thick kind that were nearly impossible to break) in an approximation of stern lanterns.

“The Tattered Crimson,” Ezri continued. “It’s either the heart of Port Prodigal or the asshole, depending on your perspective.”

To the left of the entryway was a ship’s longboat, mounted to the building by heavy wooden struts and iron chains. A few human arms and legs seemed to be sticking out of it. As Jean watched, the doors to the Tattered Crimson slammed outward and a pair of brutes emerged, carrying a limp old man between them. Without ceremony or pity, they heaved him into the boat, where his arrival caused some incoherent shouting and flailing of limbs.

“Now watch your step,” said Ezri, grinning. “Get too drunk to stand and they throw you overboard. Some nights there’s ten or twenty people piled up in that boat.”

A moment later Jean was squeezing past those brutes, into the familiar smells of a busy tavern at an hour closer to dawn than dinner. Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke, and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of the civilized nightlife.

The place looked to be constructed for a clientele that would be waging war not just on one another but on the bar and pantry. The bar itself, at the far side of the room, was enclosed from countertop to ceiling by iron panels, leaving only three narrow windows through which the staff could serve drinks and food like archers firing from murder-holes.

There were only floor tables down here, in the Jereshti fashion; low surfaces around which men and women sat, knelt, or lay on scuffed cushions. In the cavelike fug of the dimly lit room, they played cards and dice, smoked, drank, arm wrestled, argued, and tried to laugh off the attention of the prowling heavies who were obviously looking for candidates to toss into the boat outside.

Conversation wavered as Drakasha’s party appeared; cries of “Orchids!” and “Zamira’s back!” could be heard. Drakasha nodded to the room at large and slowly turned her gaze up to the second floor.

Stairs went up either side of the common room; at the sides, the second floor was little more than a railed walkway. Above the bar and the entry, it expanded into wider balconies with Therin-style tables and chairs. Jean presumed that the “high table” was the one he’d glimpsed from the outside. A moment later Drakasha began to move toward the stairs that led in that very direction.

A sudden current of excitement rose in the air: too many conversations halted absolutely; too many eyes followed their passage. Jean cracked his knuckles and prepared himself for things to get interesting.

Atop those stairs was a railed alcove backed by the windows overlooking the darkened square from which they’d just come. Red silk banners hung in niches with alchemical globes behind them, giving off a low, vaguely ominous rose-tinted light. Two wide tables had been pushed together to accommodate a party of twelve, all clearly sailors and toughs much, Jean realized to his own amusement, like themselves.

“Zamira Drakasha,” said the woman at the head of the table, rising from her chair. She was young, roughly Jean’s own age, with the sun-browned skin and faint lines edging her eyes that told of years spent on the water. Her sand-colored hair was drawn back into three tails, and though shorter than Zamira she looked to outweigh her by about two stone. Tough and round, this one, with a well-worn saber hilt visible at her belt.

“Rance,” said Drakasha, “Chay. It’s been a long night, love, and you know full well you’re sitting at my table.”

“That’s damn peculiar. It’s got our drinks on top of it, and our asses in its chairs. You think it’s yours, maybe you should take it with you when you’re out of town.”

“When I’m away on my business, you mean. Fighting my ship, flying the red flag. You know where the sea is, right? You’ve seen other captains coming and going—”

“I don’t have to break myself month in and month out, Drakasha. I just pick richer targets in the first place.”

“You’re not hearing me, Chay. I really don’t care what sort of dog gnaws bones at my place when I’m gone,” said Drakasha, “but when I come back I expect her to crawl under the table where she belongs.”

Rance’s people exploded out of their chairs, and she raised a hand, grinning fiercely. “Pull steel, you dusty cunt, and I’ll kill you fair in front of witnesses. Then the Maintainers can haul your crew back to the docks for brawling and Ezri here can see how your brats like the taste of her tits—”

“Show your hand, Rance. You think you’re fit to keep this spot?”

“Name the test and I’ll leave you weeping.”

“We’re going to have the house brutes on us—,” Jean whispered to Ezri.

“No,” she said, waving him to silence. “Calling out isn’t like plain brawling. Especially not between captains.”

“For the table,” shouted Drakasha, reaching for a half-empty bottle, “all the Crimson as our witness, the contest is drinks. First on her ass takes her sorry crew and moves down to the floor.”

“I was hoping for something that’d take longer than ten minutes,” said Rance. “But I accept. You be my guest with that bottle.”

Zamira looked around, then snatched two small clay cups of equal size from places previously occupied by Rance’s crewfolk. She tossed their contents onto the tabletop, then refilled them from the bottle. It was white Kodari brandy, Jean saw, rough as turpentine, packing quite a sting. Rance’s crew backed up against the windows, and Rance herself came around the table to stand beside Zamira. She lifted one of the cups.

“One thing,” said Zamira. “You’re gonna take your first drink Syrune-fashion.”

“What the hell’s that?”

“Means you drink it through your fucking eyes.” Drakasha’s left arm was a blur as she whipped her own cup from the tabletop and dashed its contents into Rance’s face. Before Rance could even scream, Drakasha’s right arm came up just as fast. Her gloved fist, rings and all, met Rance’s jaw with the sound of a cracking whip, and the younger woman hit the floor so hard the cups atop the table rattled.

“Are you on your ass down there, love, or is that your head? Anybody think there’s a difference?” Drakasha stood over Rance and slowly tipped the contents of the second clay cup into her own mouth. She swallowed it all without flinching and tossed the cup over her shoulder.

“You said it was gonna be—”

Before Rance’s angry crewman, probably her first mate, could finish his protest Locke stepped forward with his hand upraised.

“Zamira kept her oath. The test was a drink, and your captain’s on her ass.”

“But—”

“Your captain should’ve had the wit to be more specific,” said Locke, “and she lost. You going to take her oath back for her?”

The man grabbed Locke by the front of his tunic. The two of them scuffled briefly and Jean darted forward, but before the situation went to hell Rance’s sailor was hauled back, grudgingly but firmly, by his friends.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he shouted.

“Orrin Ravelle,” said Locke.

“Never fucking heard of you.”

“I think you’ll remember me, though.” Locke dangled a small leather pouch in front of the man. “Got your purse, prickless.”

“You motherfu—”

Locke gave the purse a hard toss backward, and it landed somewhere down among the hundred or so patrons watching the action on the balcony with eyes wide and mouths open.

“Oops,” said Locke, “but I’m sure you can rely on all the upstanding folks down there to keep it safe for you.”

“Enough!” Zamira reached down, grabbed Rance by the collar, and hoisted her to a sitting position. “Your captain called it and your captain lost. Is she your captain?”

“Yes,” said the man, scowling.

“Then keep her oath.” Zamira dragged Rance to the head of the stairs and knelt in front of her. “Not such a very regal bitch after all, eh, Chay?”

Rance reared back to spit blood in Drakasha’s face, but the older captain’s slap was faster, and the blood spewed out across the stairs.

“Two things,” said Zamira. “First, I’m calling the council for tomorrow. I’ll expect to see you there at the usual place and time. Nod your silly head.”

Rance nodded, slowly.

“Second, I don’t have brats. I have a daughter and a son. And if you ever forget that again, I’ll carve your fucking bones into toys for them.”

With that, she heaved Rance down the stairs. By the time she landed in a heap at the bottom, her chagrined crew was hurrying after her, under the triumphant stares of Drakasha’s party.

“See you around … Orrin Ravelle,” said the purseless sailor.

“Valterro,” said Zamira sternly, “this was all business. Don’t make it personal.”

The man looked no happier, but he moved off with the rest of Rance’s crew.

“That bit about your children sounded very personal,” whispered Jean.

“So I’m a hypocrite,” muttered Drakasha. “You want to protest, you can take a drink Syrune-fashion.” Zamira moved to the rail overlooking the main floor and raised her voice to a shout. “Zacorin! You hiding down there somewhere?”

“Hiding’s the word, Drakasha,” came a voice from behind the windows of the armored bar. “War over yet?”

“If you’ve got a cask of anything that doesn’t taste like pig sweat, send it up. And some meat. And Rance’s bill. Poor dear needs all the help she can get.”

There was an outbreak of laughter across the floor. Rance’s crew, carrying her out by her arms and legs, didn’t look even vaguely amused.

“So that’s that,” said Zamira, settling into the chair Rance had just vacated. “Make yourselves comfortable. Welcome to the high table at the Tattered Crimson.”

“Well,” said Jean as he took a seat between Locke and Ezri, “did that go as you hoped?”

“Oh yeah.” Ezri smirked at Drakasha. “Yeah, I’d say our flag is flown.”

8

THEY DID their best to look relaxed and amused for the better part of an hour, helping themselves to the Crimson’s mediocre dark ale and all the better liquors Rance’s crew had left behind. Grease-blanketed duck was the dish of the evening; most of them treated it as decoration, but Rask and Konar gradually brutalized it down to a pile of bones.

“So what do we do now?” asked Locke.

“Word’ll go out to all the usual vultures that we’re back in,” said Drakasha. “Less than a day or two and they’ll be courting us. Liquor and rations will go first; always easiest to sell. Nautical spares and stores we keep for ourselves. As for the silks and finer things, those independent traders moored at the Hospital docks are our friends in that regard. They’ll try to clean us out for fifteen to twenty percent of market value. Good enough for us—then they haul it back across the sea and sell it at full price with innocent smiles on their faces.”

“What about the Messenger?”

“When she shows up, the Shipbreaker will pay us a visit. He’ll offer us piss in a clay bowl and we’ll talk him up to piss in a wooden jug. Then she’s his problem. She’s worth maybe six thousand solari with her rigging intact; I’ll be lucky to take him for anything near two. His crew will take her east and sell her to some eager merchant for about four; undercutting his competition and carving a fat profit at the same time.”

“Hell,” said Lieutenant Delmastro, “some of the ships on the Sea of Brass routes have been taken and resold three or four times.”

“This Shipbreaker,” said Locke, feeling a scheme in the birthing, “I take it the fact that his trade is also his name means he doesn’t have any competitors?”

“All dead,” said Delmastro. “The ugly and publicly instructive way.”

“Captain,” said Locke, “how long will all of this take? It’s nearly the end of the month, and—”

“I’m well aware of what day it is, Ravelle. It takes as long as it takes. Maybe three days, maybe seven or eight. While we’re here everyone on the crew gets at least one chance at a day and night ashore, too.”

“I—”

“I haven’t forgotten the matter you’re concerned about,” Drakasha said. “I’ll bring it to the council tomorrow. After that, we’ll see.”

“Matter?” Delmastro looked genuinely confused. Locke had been half expecting Jean to have told her by now, but apparently they’d been spending their private time in a wiser and more diverting fashion.

“You’ll find out tomorrow, Del. After all, you’ll be at the council with me. No more on the subject, Ravelle.”

“Right.” Locke sipped beer and held up a finger. “Something else, then. Let me request a few things of you in private before this Shipbreaker comes calling. Maybe I can help you squeeze a higher price out of the fellow.”

“He’s not a fellow,” said Drakasha. “He’s as slippery as a pus-dipped turd and about as pleasant.”

“So much the better. Think on Master Nera; at least let me make the attempt.”

“No promises,” said Zamira. “I’ll hear you, at least.”

“Orchids,” boomed a deep-voiced man as he appeared at the top of the stairs. “Captain Drakasha! You know they’re still pulling Rance’s teeth out of the walls downstairs?”

“Rance fell ill with a sudden bout of discourtesy,” said Zamira. “Then she just fell. Hello, Captain Rodanov.”

Rodanov was one of the largest men Locke had ever seen; he must have been just shy of seven feet. He was about Zamira’s age, and somewhat round in the belly. But his long, muscle-corded arms looked as though they’d be about right for strangling bears, and the fact that he didn’t deign to carry a weapon said much. His face was long and heavy-jawed, his pale hair receding, and his eyes were bright with the satisfied humor of a man who feels himself equal to the world. Locke had seen his type before, among the better garristas of Camorr, but none so towering; even Big Konar could only outdo him in girth.

Incongruously, his huge hands were wrapped around a pair of delicate wine bottles, made of sapphire-colored glass with silver ribbons below their corks. “I took a hundred bottles of last year’s Lashani Blue out of a galleon a few months ago. I saved a few because I knew you had a taste for it. Welcome back.”

“Welcome to the table, Captain.” At Drakasha’s gesture, Ezri, Jean, Locke, and Konar shuffled one chair to the left, leaving the chair next to Zamira open. Jaffrim settled into it and passed her the wine bottles. When she offered her right hand he kissed it, then stuck out his tongue.

“Mmm,” he said. “I always wondered what Chavon would taste like.”

He helped himself to a disused cup as Zamira laughed. “Who’s closest to the ale cask?”

“Allow me,” said Locke.

“Most of you I’ve met,” said Rodanov. “Rask, of course, I’m shocked as hell you’re still alive. Dantierre, Konar, good to see you. Malakasti, love, what’s Zamira got that I haven’t? Wait, I’m not sure I want to know. And you.” He slipped an arm around Lieutenant Delmastro and gave her a squeeze. “I didn’t know Zamira still let children run free on deck. When are you going to reach your growth?”

“I grew in all the right directions.” She grinned and feigned a punch to his stomach. “You know, the only reason people think your ship’s a three-master is because you’re always standing on the quarterdeck.”

“If I take my breeches off,” said Rodanov, “it suddenly looks as though she’s got four.”

“We might believe that if we hadn’t seen enough naked Vadrans to know better,” said Drakasha.

“Well, I’m no shame to the old country,” said Rodanov as Locke passed him a cup full of beer. “And I see you’ve been picking up new faces.”

“Here and there. Orrin Ravelle, Jerome Valora. This is Jaffrim Rodanov, captain of the Dread Sovereign.”

“Your health and good fortune,” said Rodanov, raising his cup. “May your foes be unarmed and your ale unspoiled.”

“Foolish merchants and fine winds to chase them on,” said Zamira, raising one of the wine bottles he’d given her.

“Did you have a good sweep this time out?”

“Holds are fit to bust,” said Drakasha. “And we pulled in a little brig, about a ninety-footer. Ought to be here by now, actually.”

“That the Red Messenger?”

“How’d you—”

“Strozzi came in just yesterday. Said he swooped down on a brig with bad legs and was about to pluck her when he found one of your prize crews waving at him. This was about sixty miles north of Trader’s Gate, just off the Burning Reach. Hell, they might be crawling through Trader’s Gate as we speak.”

“More power to them, then. We came in through the Parlor.”

“Not good,” said Rodanov, looking less than pleased for the first time since he’d come up. “Heard some strange things about the Parlor lately. His Eminence the Fat Bastard—”

“Shipbreaker,” Konar whispered to Locke.

“—sent a lugger east last month and says it got lost in a storm. But I hear from reliable lips that it never made it out of the Parlor.”

“I thought speed would be the greater virtue coming in,” said Drakasha, “but next time back, I’ll use the Gate if it takes a week. You can pass that around.”

“It’ll be my advice, too. Speaking of which, I hear you want to call the council tomorrow.”

“There’s five of us in town. I’ve got … curious business from Tal Verrar. And I want a closed meeting.”

“One captain, one first,” said Rodanov. “Right. I’ll pass the word to Strozzi and Colvard tomorrow. I take it Rance already knows?”

“Yes.”

“She might not be able to speak.”

“She won’t need to,” said Drakasha. “I’m the one with the story to tell.”

“So be it,” said Rodanov. “ ‘Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs, and let us find some place where only gods and rats may hear our words aloud.’ ”

Locke stared at Rodanov; that was Lucarno, from—

“The Assassin’s Wedding,” said Delmastro.

“Yeah, easy,” said Rodanov with a grin. “Nothing more difficult sprang to mind.”

“What a curiously theatrical bent you Brass Sea reavers seem to have,” said Jean. “I knew Ezri had a taste—”

“I only quote Lucarno for her,” said Rodanov. “I myself hate the bastard. Mawkish sentiment, obvious self-satisfaction, and so many little puns about fucking so all the Therin Throne’s best-dressed twits could feel naughty in public. Meanwhile the Bondsmagi and my ancestors rolled dice to see who got to burn the empire down first.”

“Jerome and I are both very fond of Lucarno,” said Delmastro.

“And that is because you don’t know any better,” said Rodanov. “Because the plays of the early Throne poets are kept in vaults by pinheads while Lucarno’s merest specks of vomit are exalted by anyone with coins to waste on scribes and bindery. His plays aren’t preserved, they’re perpetrated. Mercallor Mentezzo—”

“Mentezzo’s all right,” said Jean. “His verse is fair, but he uses the chorus like a crutch and always throws the gods in at the end to solve everyone’s problems—”

“Mentezzo and his contemporaries built Therin Throne drama from the Espardri model,” said Rodanov, “invigorating dull temple rituals with relevant political themes. The limitations of their structure should be forgiven; by comparison, Lucarno had their entire body of work to build upon, and all he added to the mix was tawdry melodrama—”

“Whatever he added, it’s enough that four hundred years after the scourging of Therim Pel, Lucarno is the only playwright with Talathri’s formal patronage whose work is still preserved in its entirety and regularly prepared in new editions—”

“An appeal to the tastes of the groundlings is not equivalent to a valid philosophical analysis of the works in question! Lucestra of Nicora wrote in her letters to—”

“Begging everyone’s pardon,” said Big Konar, “but it ain’t polite to have an argument if nobody else knows what the fuck you’re arguing about.”

“I have to admit that Konar is right,” said Drakasha. “I can’t tell if you two are about to pull steel or found a mystery cult.”

“Who the hell are you?” asked Rodanov, his eyes fixed on Jean. “I haven’t had anyone to discuss this with for years.”

“I had an unusual childhood,” said Jean. “Yourself?”

“The, ah, prevailing vanity of my youth was that the Therin Collegium needed a master of letters and rhetoric named Rodanov.”

“What happened?”

“Well, there was a certain professor of rhetoric, see, who’d come up with a foolproof way to run a betting shop out of the Hall of Studious Reflection. Gladiator pits, collegium boat races, that sort of thing. He used his students as message runners, and since money can be used to buy beer, that made him our personal hero. Of course, when he had to flee the city it was whips and chains for the rest of us, so I signed on for shit-work aboard a merchant galleon—”

“When was this?” interrupted Locke.

“Hell, this was back when the gods were young. Must be twenty-five years.”

“This professor of rhetoric … was his name Barsavi? Vencarlo Barsavi?”

“How the hell could you possibly know that?”

“Might have … crossed paths with him a few times.” Locke grinned. “Traveling in the east. Vicinity of Camorr.”

“I heard rumors,” said Rodanov. “Heard the name once or twice, but never made it to Camorr myself. Barsavi, really? Is he still there?”

“No,” said Jean. “No, he died a couple of years ago, is what I heard.”

“Too bad.” Rodanov sighed. “Too damn bad. Well … I can tell I’ve detained you all for too long nattering about people who’ve been dead for centuries. Don’t take me too seriously, Valora. A pleasure to meet you. You as well, Ravelle.”

“Good to see you, Jaffrim,” said Zamira, rising from her chair along with him. “Until tomorrow, then?”

“I’ll expect a good show,” he said. “Evening, all.”

“One of your fellow captains,” said Jean as Rodanov descended the stairs. “Very interesting. So why didn’t he want our table, then?”

“Dread Sovereign’s the biggest ship any Port Prodigal captain has ever had,” said Zamira, slowly. “And she’s got the biggest crew by far. Jaffrim doesn’t need to play the games the rest of us do. And he knows it.”

There was no conversation at the table for several minutes, until Rask suddenly cleared his throat and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

“I saw a play once,” he said. “It had this dog that bit a guy in the balls—”

“Yeah,” said Malakasti. “I saw that, too. ’Cause the dog loves sausage, and the man is always feeding him sausage, and then he takes his breeches off—”

“Right,” said Drakasha. “The very next person who mentions a play of any sort is going to swim back to the Orchid. Let’s go see how badly our friend Banjital Vo wanted his silver.”

9

REGAL WOKE Locke the next day just in time for the noon watch change. Locke plucked the kitten off the top of his head, stared into his little green eyes, and said, “This may come as quite a shock to you, but there is just no way in all the hells that I’m getting attached to you, you sleep-puncturing menace.”

Locke yawned, stretched, and walked out into a soft warm rain falling from a sky webbed by cataracts of cloud. “Ahhh,” he said, stripping to his breeches and letting the rain wash some of the smell of the Tattered Crimson from his skin. It was strange, he reflected, how the myriad stinks of the Poison Orchid had become familiar, and the smell of the sort of places he’d spent years in had become intrusive.

Drakasha had shifted the Orchid to a position just off one of the long stone piers in the Hospital anchorage, and Locke saw that a dozen small boats had come up along the larboard side. While five or six armed Blue watch held the entry port, Utgar and Zamira were negotiating vigorously with a man standing atop a launch filled with pineapples.

The early afternoon was consumed by the coming and going of boats; assorted Prodigals appeared offering to sell everything from fresh food to alchemical drugs, while representatives from the independent traders came to inquire about the goods in the hold and view samples under Drakasha’s watchful eye. The Orchid temporarily became a floating market square.

Around the second hour of the afternoon, just as the rain was abating and the sun burning through the clouds above, the Red Messenger appeared out of the Trader’s Gate passage and dropped anchor beside the Orchid. Nasreen, Gwillem, and the prize crew came back aboard, along with several of the ex-Messengers who’d recovered enough to move around.

“What the hell is he doing here?” one of them hollered when he saw Locke.

“Come with me,” said Jabril, putting an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Nothin’ I can’t explain. And while I’m at it, I’ll tell you about a thing called the scrub watch.…”

Scholar Treganne ordered a boat lowered so she could visit the Messenger and examine the injured still aboard her. Locke helped hoist the smallest boat down, and while he was doing so Treganne crossed paths with Gwillem at the entry port.

“We’ve traded cabins,” she said gruffly. “I’ve got your old compartment, and you can have mine.”

“What? What? Why?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before the Vadran could ask any more questions, Treganne had clambered over the side and Zamira had taken him by the arm.

“What sort of bid will the Shipbreaker open with for her?”

“Two silvers and a cup of cowpox scabs,” said Gwillem.

“Yes, but what can I reasonably talk him up to?”

“Eleven or twelve hundred solari. He’s going to need two new topgallant masts, as the fore was sprung as well. It just didn’t come down. New yards, some new sails. She’s had work done recently, and that’s a help, but a look at her timbers will show her age. She’s got maybe ten years of use left in her.”

“Captain Drakasha,” said Locke, stepping up beside Gwillem. “If I may be so bold—”

“This scheme you were talking about, Ravelle?”

“I’m sure I can squeeze at least a few hundred more solari out of him.”

“Ravelle?” Gwillem frowned at him. “Ravelle, the former captain of the Red Messenger?”

“Delighted to meet you,” said Locke, “and all I need to borrow, Captain, are some better clothes, a few leather satchels, and a pile of coins.”

“What?”

“Relax. I’m not going to spend them. I just need them for show. And you’d better let me have Jerome as well.”

“Captain,” said Gwillem, “why is Orrin Ravelle alive and a member of the crew and asking you for money?”

“Del!” hollered Drakasha.

“Right here,” she said, appearing a moment later.

“Del, take Gwillem aside and explain to him why Orrin Ravelle is alive and a member of the crew.”

“But why is he asking you for money?” said Gwillem. Ezri grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away.

“My people expect to be paid for the Messenger,” said Drakasha. “I need to be sure whatever you’re scheming won’t actually make things worse.”

“Captain, in this matter I’d be acting as a member of your crew—lest you forget, I have a share of what we get for the Messenger, too.”

“Hmmm.” She looked around and tapped her fingers on the hilt of one of her sabers. “Better clothes, you say?”

10

THE SHIPBREAKER’S agents, primed by rumors from the night before, were swift to spot the new sail in Prodigal Bay. At the fifth hour of the afternoon, an ornate barge rowed by banks of slaves pulled alongside the Red Messenger.

Drakasha waited to receive the occupants of the barge with Delmastro, Gwillem, and two dozen armed crewfolk. First up the side was a squad of guards, men and women sweating beneath armor of boiled leather and chain. Once they’d swept the deck with their eyes, a team of slaves leapt aboard and rigged lines to haul a hanging chair from barge to ship. Sweating furiously, they strained to heave this chair and its occupant up to the entry port.

The Shipbreaker was exactly as Drakasha remembered. An old, paperskinned Therin so distended with fat that it looked as though he’d popped his seams and his viscous flesh was pouring out into the world around him. His jowls ended somewhere below the middle of his neck, his fingers were like burst sausages, and his wattles had so little firmament behind them they quivered when he blinked. He managed to rise from his chair, with the help of a slave at either hand, but he didn’t look remotely comfortable until another slave produced a wide lacquered shelf, a sort of portable table. This was set before him, and he heaved his massive belly atop it with a groan of relief.

“A limping brig,” he said to no one in particular. “One t’gallant mast gone and the other one fit for firewood. Somewhat aged. A lady whose fading charms are ill concealed by recent layers of paint and gilt. Oh. Forgive me, Zamira. I did not see you standing there.”

“Whereas I felt the ship heel over the instant you came aboard,” said Drakasha. “She was tough enough to pull through a summer’s-end storm even in the hands of an incompetent. Her lines are clean, topgallant masts are cheap, and she’s sweeter by far than most of the heaps you haul to the east.”

“Heaps procured for me by captains like yourself. Now, I’ll want to peek under her breeches and see if she has any quim left to speak of. Then we can discuss the size of the favor I’ll be doing you.”

“Pose all you like, old man. I’ll have a fair price for a fair ship.”

“Fair she is,” said Leocanto Kosta, choosing that moment to emerge from his lurking place within the companionway. The Orchid’s little store of fine clothing had furnished him with a veneer of wealth. His mustard-brown coat had cloth-of-silver cuffs, his tunic was unstained silk, his breeches were passable, and his shoes were polished. They were also large enough for a man of Jerome’s build, but Kosta had stuffed them with rags to help them fit. One couldn’t have everything.

A borrowed rapier hung from his belt, and several of Zamira’s rings gleamed on his fingers. Behind him came Jerome, dressed as the Dutiful Manservant of Common Demeanor, carrying three heavy leather satchels over his shoulder. The speed with which they’d assumed these roles led Zamira to infer they’d used them elsewhere.

“M’lord,” said Drakasha. “Have you finished your inspection?”

“I have. And, as I said, fair. Not excellent, but hardly a deathtrap. I can see fifteen years in her, with a bit of luck.”

“Who the fuck might you be?” The Shipbreaker regarded Kosta with eyes like a bird suddenly confronted by a rival’s beak just as it’s about to seize a worm.

“Tavrin Callas,” said Kosta. “Lashain.”

“A peer?” asked the Shipbreaker.

“Of the Third. You don’t need to use my title.”

“Nor will I. Why are you sniffing around this ship?”

“Your skull must be softer than your belly. I’m angling to buy her from Captain Drakasha.”

“I am the one who buys ships in Prodigal Bay.”

“By what, the writ of the gods? I’m in funds and that’s all that signifies.”

“Your funds won’t help you swim, boy—”

“Enough,” said Drakasha. “Until one of you pays for it, this is my ship you’re standing on.”

“You’re very far from home, pup, and you cross me at your—”

“You want this ship, you pay full weight of metal for it,” Drakasha seethed, her irritation genuine. The Shipbreaker was powerful and useful, but in a contest of sheer force any Brass Sea captain could crush him beneath their heel. Lack of competition led him to presume too much upon the patience of others. “If Lord Callas tenders the best offer, I’ll take it from him. Are we through being foolish?”

“I’m prepared to buy my ship,” said Kosta.

“Now hold it, Captain,” said Delmastro on cue. “We know the Shipbreaker can pay. But we’ve yet to see the lordship’s coin.”

“Del’s right,” said Drakasha. “We use letters of credit to wipe our asses down here, Lord Callas. You’d best have something heavy in those bags.”

“Of course,” said Kosta, snapping his fingers. Jerome stepped forward and dropped one satchel on the deck at Drakasha’s feet. It landed with a jangling clink.

“Gwillem,” she said, motioning him forward. He crouched over the satchel, unbound its clasps, and revealed a pile of gold coins—in actuality, a combination of Zamira’s ship’s purse and the funds Leocanto and Jerome had brought to sea. Gwillem lifted one, held it up to the sunlight, scratched it, and bit it. He nodded.

“The real thing, Captain. Tal Verrar solari.”

“Seven hundred in that bag,” said Kosta, which was the cue for Jerome to throw the second one down on the deck beside it. “Seven hundred more.”

Gwillem unclasped the second satchel, allowing the Shipbreaker to see that it, too, was apparently brimming with gold. At least it was for five or six layers of solari above a silk pocket filled with silvers and coppers. The third satchel was as much a sham, but Zamira hoped that Kosta wouldn’t have to make his point again.

“And from that,” said Leocanto, “I’ll give you one thousand to commence.”

“The edges of his coins could be shaved,” said the Shipbreaker. “This is intolerable, Drakasha. Bring scales from your ship, and I’ll have mine fetched up.”

“These coins are pristine,” said Kosta, gritting his teeth. “Every last one. I know you’ll check them, Captain, and I know what my life would be worth if you found any of them debased.”

“But—”

“Your deep concern for my welfare is noted, Shipbreaker,” said Drakasha. “But Lord Callas is entirely correct and I judge him sincere. He offers a thousand. Do you wish to better that?”

“Legs are open, old man,” said Leocanto. “Can you really get it up?”

“One thousand and ten,” said the Shipbreaker.

“Eleven hundred,” said Kosta. “Gods, I feel like I’m playing cards with my stablehands.”

“Eleven hundred,” wheezed the Shipbreaker, “and fifty.”

“Twelve hundred.”

“I have yet to even examine her timbers—”

“Then you should have hauled yourself across the bay faster. Twelve hundred.”

“Thirteen!”

“That’s the spirit,” said Kosta. “Pretend you can keep up with me. Fourteen hundred.”

“Fifteen,” said the Shipbreaker. “I warn you, Callas, if you push this price higher there will be consequences.”

“Poor old lardbucket, forced to make do with a merely ridiculous profit rather than an obscene one. Sixteen hundred.”

“Where did you come from, Callas?”

“Booked passage on an independent trader.”

“Which one?”

“None of your gods-damned business. I’m good for sixteen. What are—”

“Eighteen,” hissed the Shipbreaker. “Are you running out of purses, you Lashani pretender?”

“Nineteen,” said Kosta, injecting a note of concern into his voice for the first time.

“Two thousand solari.”

Leocanto made a show of conferring briefly with Jerome. He looked down at his feet, muttered, “Fuck you, old man,” and gestured for Jerome to collect the satchels from the deck.

“To the Shipbreaker,” said Zamira, suppressing a huge smile. “For two thousand.”

“Ha!” The Shipbreaker’s face became contorted with triumph that looked nearly painful. “I could buy ten of you on a whim, whelp. If I ever felt the need to scabbard my cock in something foreign and useless.”

“Well, you won,” said Leocanto. “Congratulations. I’m ever so chagrined.”

“You should be,” said the Shipbreaker. “Since you’re suddenly standing on my ship. Now I’d like to hear what you’ll bid to keep me from having you spitted over a fire—”

“Shipbreaker,” said Drakasha, “until I see two thousand solari in my hands, like all hells is this your ship.”

“Ah,” said the old man. “A technicality.” He clapped his hands and his slaves sent the hoist-chair back to the barge, presumably to be loaded with gold.

“Captain Drakasha,” said Kosta, “thank you for your indulgence, but I know when it’s time to withdraw—”

“Del,” said Drakasha, “show Lord Callas and his man to one of our boats. Lord Callas, you’re welcome to stay for dinner in my cabin. After that we can … send you back where you belong.”

“Indebted to you, Captain.” Kosta bowed more deeply than strictly necessary, and then vanished through the entry port with Delmastro and Jerome.

“Gut the wet-eared little prick,” said the Shipbreaker, loudly. “Keep his money.”

“I’m content with yours,” said Zamira. “Besides—I’m rather taken with the idea of having a genuine Lashani baron convinced that he owes me his life.”

The Shipbreaker’s slaves transferred bag after bag of coins to the deck of the Messenger, silver and gold, until the agreed-upon price was heaped at Zamira’s feet. Gwillem would count it all at leisure, of course, but Zamira felt no anxiety about fraud or debasing. The sacks would contain exactly what they were supposed to, by the logic “Tavrin Callis” had espoused a few minutes earlier. The Shipbreaker kept a dozen well-equipped mercenaries at his fortified estate on the edge of town, but if he cheated a captain he’d have pirates after him in platoons, and his running days were a distant memory.

Drakasha left the Messenger in the hands of the Shipbreaker’s guards and slaves, and was back aboard the Orchid within half an hour, feeling the contentment that always came with seeing a prize sold off. One less complication to plan around—now her entire crew would be back on one hull, shares would be made, the ship’s purse substantially enriched. The injured ex-Messengers who hadn’t been with them for the Kingfisher sacking presented a slight problem, but to a man they’d opted for the temporary indignity of the scrub watch, if the alternative was to be left in Prodigal in ill health.

“Ravelle, Valora,” she said, finding the pair of them sitting in the undercastle shade, talking and grinning along with Del and a dozen crewfolk. “That went better than I expected.”

“Seven or eight hundred more than what we might have had otherwise,” said Gwillem with surprise.

“That much more fat to marble everyone’s cut,” said Valora.

“Until the bastard spends some money to check up on the independent traders,” said Del, one eyebrow raised in mingled admiration and disbelief. “When he discovers that nobody’s brought any Lashani noble anywhere near Prodigal recently—”

“Of course he’ll figure out what happened, sooner or later.” Kosta waved a hand dismissively. “That’s the beauty of it. That sort of uptight, self-loving, threat-making little tyrant … well, you can play ’em like a piece of music. Never in a thousand years would he run around letting anyone else know that you suckered him in broad daylight with such a simple trick. And with the profit margin he scrapes out of every ship he takes from you, there’s just no way in hell he’ll hit back with anything but fussy words.”

“He’s got no power to push, if pushing’s what comes to his mind,” said Zamira. “I call the deed well done. Doesn’t mean you can lounge around in those fancy clothes all evening, though. Get them stowed again.”

“Of course … Captain.”

“And whether or not the Shipbreaker bites his tongue, I think it best to keep you two out of sight for the rest of our time here. You’re both confined to the ship.”

“What? But—”

“I believe,” said Drakasha in an amused but firm tone of voice, “that it might not be wise to let a pair such as you off the leash too frequently. I’ll give you a little something extra from the ship’s purse for your trouble.”

“Oh, fair enough.” Kosta began removing the more delicate components of his fine costume. “I suppose I’ve got no particular urge to get my throat slit in an alley, anyway.”

“Wise lad.” Zamira turned to Delmastro. “Del, let’s get a list together for tonight’s Merry Watch. They can go ashore with us when we head in for the council. Let’s say … half the ship’s company. Make it fair.”

“Right,” said Del. “And until we come back from that meeting, they can wait in the boats, conveniently watching for trouble, can’t they?”

“Exactly,” said Zamira. “Same as all the other crews, I expect.”

“Captain,” Del whispered almost into Zamira’s ear, “what the hell is this meeting about?”

“Bad business, Ezri.” She glanced at Leocanto and Jerome, smiling and joking with one another, oblivious of her scrutiny. “Bad if it’s true. Bad if it’s not.”

She put an arm on Ezri’s shoulder; this young woman who’d turned her back on life as a pampered Nicoran aristocrat, who’d risen from scrub watch to first mate, who’d nearly been killed a dozen times in half that many years to keep Zamira’s precious Orchid afloat. “Some of the things you’ll hear tonight concern Valora. I can’t guess what you two have spoken of in private … in those rare interludes where you two spend your private moments speaking—”

Ezri thrust out her chin, smiled, and didn’t deign to blush.

“—but what I have to say may not please you.”

“If there’s anything to be settled between us,” said Ezri softly, “I trust him to settle it. And I’m not afraid to hear anything.”

“My Ezri,” said Zamira. “Well then, let’s get dressed to go meet the relations. Armor and sabers. Oil your scabbards and whet your knives. We might need the tools to make some parting arguments if the conversation goes poorly.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

POINTS OF DECISION

1

A MILE OF LONELY BEACH separates Port Prodigal from the ruins of its fallen stone sentinel: Castana Voressa, Fort Glorious.

Built to dominate the northern side of the bay serving Fort Glorious before a shift in the fortunes of the Ghostwinds brought an equivalent change to the city’s name, the fort would not now suffice to ward off an attack with vulgar language, let alone the blades and arrows of a hostile force.

To say that it was constructed cheaply would be an injustice to skinflint stonemasons; several whole shiploads of Verrari granite blocks were diverted into the home-building trade for wine money by bored officials far from home. Grand plans for walls and towers became grand plans for a wall, and finally modest plans for a smaller wall with barracks, and as a capstone to the entire affair the garrison of soldiers intended for those barracks was lost in transit to a summer’s-end storm.

The only useful remnant of the fort is a circular stone pavilion about fifty yards offshore, linked to the main ruins by a wide stone causeway. This was intended to be a platform for catapults, but none ever came. Nowadays, when the pirate captains of Port Prodigal call a council to discuss their affairs, this pavilion is always the place and dusk is always the time. Here the captains do business in private, standing on the stones of a Verrari empire that never was, atop the frustrated ambitions of a city-state that had nonetheless frustrated their own ambitions seven years before.

2

IT BEGAN as every such meeting Zamira could remember; under the purple-red sky of sunset, with lanterns set out atop the old stones, with the humid air thick as an animal’s breath and the biting insects out in force.

There was no wine, no food, and no sitting when the council of captains was called. Sitting only made people more inclined to waste time. Discomfort stripped sentiment from everyone’s words and brought them to the heart of their problems with haste.

To Zamira’s surprise, she and Ezri were the last to arrive. Zamira glanced around at her fellow captains, nodding cordially as she eyed them all in turn.

First there was Rodanov, armed now, with his first mate Ydrena Koros, a trim blond woman only slightly taller than Ezri. She had the poise of a professional duelist and a reputation with the wide-bladed Jereshti scimitar.

Beside them stood Pierro Strozzi, an amiable bald fellow pushing fifty, waited on by his lieutenant, called Eartaker Jack for what he liked to slice from the heads of his fallen foes. It was said that he tanned them and sewed them into elaborate necklaces, which he kept locked in his cabin.

Rance was there, with Valterro at her shoulder as usual. The right side of Rance’s jaw was several wince-inducing shades of black and green, but she was standing on her own two feet, and at least had the courtesy not to glare at Zamira when she thought Zamira was watching.

Last but not least was Jacquelaine Colvard, the so-called “Old Woman of the Ghostwinds,” still elegant in her midsixties, if gray-haired and sunscorched like old leather. Her current protégé, and therefore lover, was Maressa Vicente, whose fighting and sailing qualities were not yet generally known. The young woman certainly looked capable enough.

Until one of them walked away, then, they were effectively sealed off here from the rest of the world. Parties from their crews, about half a dozen from each ship, mingled uneasily at the end of the causeway. No one else would be permitted to walk upon it until they finished.

So, Zamira thought, how will we do this?

“Zamira,” said Rodanov, “you’re the one who called the council. Let’s hear what’s on your mind.”

Straight to the action, then.

“Not so much on my mind, Jaffrim, as on all of our heads. I have evidence that the archon of Tal Verrar may have inconvenient plans for us once again.”

“Once again?” Rodanov made fists of his huge hands. “It was Bonaire who had the inconvenient plans, Zamira; we should have expected Stragos to do what any one of us would have done in his place—”

“I haven’t forgotten so much as a day of that war, Jaffrim.” Zamira felt her hackles rise despite her determination to be patient. “You know very well that I’ve come to call it a mistake.”

“The Lost Cause,” snorted Rodanov. “More like the Dumb Fucking Idea. Would that you’d seen it for folly at the time!”

“Would that you’d done more than talk at the time,” said Strozzi mildly. “Talked and sailed away when the archon’s fleet darkened the horizon.”

“I never joined your damned Armada, Pierro. I offered to try and draw some of his ships off, and that much I did. Without my help you’d have lost the weather gauge sooner and been flanked from the north. Chavon and I would be the only captains standing here—”

“Stand off,” shouted Zamira. “I called the council, and I have more to tell. I didn’t bring us here to salt old wounds.”

“Speak on,” said Strozzi.

“A month ago a brig left Tal Verrar. Her captain stole her from the Sword Marina.”

There was a general outburst of muttering and head-shaking at that. Zamira smiled before continuing. “For crew, he stole into Windward Rock and emptied a vault full of prisoners. His intention, and theirs, was to sail south and join us in Port Prodigal. To fly the red flag.”

“Who could steal one of the archon’s ships from a guarded harbor?” Rodanov spoke as if he only half believed the possibility. “I’d like to meet him.”

“You have,” said Zamira. “His name is Orrin Ravelle.”

Valterro, previously silent behind Captain Rance, sputtered. “That fucking little—”

“Quiet,” said Zamira. “Lost your purse last night, didn’t you? Ravelle has fast hands. Fast hands, a quick mind, a talent for command, and a way with a blade. He earned his way onto my crew by killing four Jeremite Redeemers by himself.” Zamira felt vaguely amused to be talking Kosta up with the same half-truths he’d worked so hard to disabuse her of.

“Yet you said he had his own ship,” said Rodanov.

“Yes. The Red Messenger, sold off to the Shipbreaker just this afternoon. Pierro, you saw it off the Burning Reach a few days ago, didn’t you?”

“Indeed.”

“There I was, going about my business, innocently scooping up prizes here and there on the Sea of Brass,” said Zamira, “when I happened upon Ravelle’s Messenger. Interrupted his plans, to say the least. I poked holes in his story until I squeezed it all out of him, more or less.”

“What story is that?” Rance sounded as though she had a collection of small rocks in her mouth, but she made herself understood.

“Think about it, Rance. Who is Ravelle? One man—a thief, clearly. Trained to do many unusual things. But could one man sail a brig out of the gated harbors in the Sword Marina? Could one man break into Windward Rock, overcome every guard there, free an entire vault full of prisoners, and pack them off in his brig, conveniently stolen the very same night?”

“Uh,” said Rance. “Well, possibly—”

“He didn’t do it alone.” Colvard spoke for the first time, quietly, but her voice drew the eyes of everyone on the pavilion. “Stragos must have let him escape.”

“Precisely,” said Zamira. “Stragos let him escape. Stragos gave him a crew of prisoners eager for any sort of freedom. Stragos gave him a ship. And he did all this knowing full well that Ravelle would sail south. Come down to join us in our trade.”

“He wanted an agent among us,” said Strozzi, uncharacteristically excited.

“Yes. More than that.” Zamira gazed around the circle of pirates, ensuring that she had their undivided attention before she continued. “He has an agent among us. Aboard my ship. Orrin Ravelle and his companion Jerome Valora are currently in the archon’s service.”

Ezri whipped her head around to stare at Zamira, mouth open. Zamira squeezed her arm unobtrusively.

“Kill them,” said Colvard.

“The situation is more complicated and more grave than that,” said Zamira.

“Grave indeed, for these two men you speak of. I find it best to make corpses of complications.”

“Had I discovered their deceit on my own, it would already be done. But Ravelle is the one who confessed these things to me. He and Valora are, by his claim, entirely unwilling agents. Stragos gave them a latent poison, to which he alone supposedly holds the antidote. Another month will bring them due for their next dose.”

“Death would be a favor, then,” mumbled Rance. “That bastard will never let them be anything but puppets.”

Rodanov waved for her to pipe down. “What, to hear it from Ravelle’s lips, was their mission? To spy on us, I presume?”

“No, Jaffrim.” Zamira put her hands behind her back and began to slowly pace the center of the pavilion. “Stragos wants us to do him the favor of flying the red flag in sight of Tal Verrar again.”

“That makes no sense,” said Strozzi.

“It does when you consider the archon’s needs,” said Colvard.

“How?” Rance and Strozzi spoke in unison.

“I hear that things are brittle between the archon and the Priori,” said Colvard. “If something were to come along and put a fright into the fine citizens of Tal Verrar, their regard for the army and navy would rise.”

“Stragos needs a foe from outside Tal Verrar,” said Zamira. “He needs it with all haste, and he needs to be assured that his forces can kick it around with a will.” She spread her arms wide, toward her fellow captains and their mates. “We might as well be painted like archery butts.”

“There’s no profit,” said Strozzi, “in bringing a fight to us—”

“For those that take their profit in coin, you’re right. But for Stragos, it means everything. He gambled a ship, a crew of prisoners, and his very reputation on Ravelle’s mission. You don’t think he’s serious? He made a laughingstock of himself by allowing a ‘pirate’ to escape from his secure harbors, all so he could wait to redeem himself by crushing us later.” Zamira brought her fists together. “That was Ravelle’s task—convince us, trick us, lie to us, bribe us. And if we couldn’t be made to serve, his plan was to do it himself, in the Messenger.”

“Then our course is obvious,” said Rodanov. “We don’t give Stragos a damn thing. We don’t dance around his noose. We keep five hundred miles between ourselves and Tal Verrar, as we have since the war. If need be, we play meek for a few months.” He reached over and gave Strozzi’s paunch a hearty slap. “We live off our fat.”

“If we do that much,” said Ydrena Koros, “begging your pardon, Captain. This evidence of yours, Captain Drakasha—the word of these two men seems thinner than—”

“Not just their word,” said Zamira. “Think, Koros. They had the Red Messenger. Its crew, the survivors of which are now my crew, did indeed come from Windward Rock. The archon sent them, all right.”

“I concur,” said Colvard, “though I also agree with Jaffrim that standing down from provocation is the wisest—”

“Would be wisest,” interrupted Zamira, “if Stragos was doing this on a whim. But he’s not, is he? He’s in the fight of his life. His very position is at stake. He needs us.”

She paced the center of the pavilion again, reminded of the “arguments” she’d put forth over the years in her pretend turns as a magistrate for initiation rituals. Were these theatrics any more convincing? She hoped to the gods they were.

“If we tip Ravelle and Valora over the side and ignore them,” she said, “or shy away from Tal Verrar, Stragos will try something else. Some other scheme to trick us into a fight, or to convince his people that we’re bringing one. Only next time, the gods may not see fit to allow the instruments of his design to fall into our hands. We’ll be blind.”

“There’s more hypothesis here,” said Rodanov, “than just about anything I ever heard at the collegium.”

“The Red Messenger and the prisoners do indicate that Stragos took a gamble,” said Colvard. “That he took a gamble indicates that he can’t move openly or with confidence. Knowing what we do of the situation in Tal Verrar … I’d say this threat is real. If Stragos requires an enemy, we are the only suitor at this dance that fits his need. What else can he do? Pick a fight with Balinel? Camorr? Lashain? Karthain? I hardly think so.”

“What would you have us do, Zamira?” Rodanov folded his arms and scowled.

“We possess the means to strike back at the archon.”

“We can’t fight the Verrari navy,” said Rodanov. “Nor can we storm the damn city, summon lightning from the sky, or ask the gods to politely dispose of Stragos for us. So by what means may we ‘strike back’? Wound his feelings with vicious letters?”

“Ravelle and Valora are expected to report directly to him when they receive their antidote.”

“They have access to him,” said Colvard. “An assassination!”

“For which they suffer the blame, assuming they live,” mused Strozzi.

“Good for them,” said Rodanov. “And what, you wished our consent to take them back to Tal Verrar and let them loose? By all means let fly. I’d be happy to lend them a pair of knives.”

“There is, from the perspective of Ravelle and Valora, only one minor complication. That they would prefer to acquire a permanent antidote, and then do away with Stragos.”

“Alas,” said Rance, “we so rarely realize our desires in life—”

“Tell them that we have an antidote,” said Colvard. “Convince them that we have the means to free them from their condition. Then set them loose upon the archon.… Whether they survive the assassination or not will be of no consequence.”

Ezri opened her mouth to disagree, and Zamira fixed her with the most withering glare in her long-practiced arsenal.

“Marvelously devious,” said Zamira, when she was certain that Ezri would mind herself. “But too convenient. In their position, would you ever believe such a claim?”

“My skull is beginning to spin,” said Strozzi. “What the hell do you wish to do, Zamira?”

“I wish,” she said, enunciating each word very carefully, “for none of you to be alarmed if I should find it necessary to raise a bit of ruckus in the immediate vicinity of Tal Verrar.”

“And thereby call down our destruction,” shouted Rodanov. “Do you want to see Port Prodigal sacked like Montierre? Do you want to see us scattered halfway across the world, and our unguarded trade routes filled with angry Verrari warships?”

“If I do anything,” said Zamira, “discretion would be—”

“Impossible,” growled Rodanov. “This will finish the job Stragos began when he crushed the Free Armada. This will destroy our way of life!”

“Or preserve it.” Zamira put her hands on her hips. “If Stragos is determined to push us, he will push us, whether we would dance his tune or no. I have aboard my ship our means, our only means, of taking the fight to him. If Stragos is knocked aside, the archonate falls with him. And if the Priori rule Tal Verrar, we can loot this sea at our own merry pace until the day we die.”

“Why,” said Strozzi, “would you want to play along with the archon’s design, even with … discretion?”

“Ravelle and Valora aren’t saints,” said Zamira. “They’re not looking to throw their lives away for our benefit. They want to live, and to do that they need time. If Stragos believes they’re hard at work on his behalf, he’ll grant them the weeks or months necessary to find a solution. And in the meantime, he’s likely to stay his other plans.”

“Those weeks and months may instead be time enough for him to rouse his city,” said Rodanov.

“You must trust me to be delicate,” said Zamira. “As brother and sister captains, that’s what I’m asking in the end. No matter what you hear from Tal Verrar—trust my judgment.”

“A significant request,” said Colvard. “You ask no aid from any of us?”

“I can’t think of anything that would be more counterproductive than for all of us to show up one morning off Tal Verrar, can you? The archon would have his war in about ten minutes. So leave this task to me. A risk to my ship alone.”

“A risk to us all,” said Rodanov. “You’re asking us to put our fates, and that of Port Prodigal, in your hands. Without any oversight.”

“How has it been otherwise, these past seven years?” She stared around the circle at each captain in turn. “Each of us has always been at the mercy of the others. Any one of us could have raided too far north, attacked a ship carrying someone’s royal cousin, murdered too many sailors, or simply grown too greedy to ignore. We’ve been in peril all the way. I’m merely doing you the courtesy of pointing it out in advance for once.”

“And if you fail?” asked Rance.

“If I fail,” said Zamira. “There’ll be no penalty for you to levy. I’ll already be dead.”

“Our oaths of noninterference,” said Colvard. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? A promise to keep our swords in their scabbards while you throw the most important rule of our … association out your stern window.”

“In lieu of any better alternatives,” said Zamira, “yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking for.”

“And if we say no?” Rodanov spoke quietly. “If we, four against one, forbid this?”

“Then we come to a line that we all fear to cross,” said Zamira, matching his stare.

“I won’t forbid it,” said Rance. “I’ll vow to keep my hands off you, Zamira. If you sweat for my gain, so much the better. And if you die in the process, I’ll mourn you not.”

“I’ll give my oath as well,” said Colvard. “Zamira’s right. Our collective safety at any given time depends on whichever one of us is the bloody craziest. If there’s a chance to kick Maxilan off his pedestal, I pray for your success.”

“Obviously Zamira Drakasha votes with Zamira Drakasha,” Zamira said, turning her gaze to Rodanov and Strozzi.

“I don’t like any of this,” said Strozzi. “But if things go to shit, no ship afloat on this sea can run like my Osprey.” He smiled and cracked his knuckles. “What the hell. You wave your skirt at the archon and see if he’s up for a fondle. I won’t be anywhere near it.”

“It seems,” said Rodanov once all eyes had turned to him, “that I have the opportunity to be … unsociable.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t think any of this is wise—but if I may take your promise of discretion to be as binding as my oath of noninterference … very well. Go spring this insane scheme.”

“Thank you,” said Zamira, feeling a warm flush of relief from head to toe. “Wasn’t that easier than cutting one another to pieces?”

“This needs to stay between us,” said Colvard. “I don’t ask for an oath; I expect it. Stragos may have other eyes and ears in Prodigal. If this gets out to anyone not standing here, the time we’ve spent at this meeting—not to mention Zamira’s mission—will be an utter waste.”

“Right,” said Strozzi. “Silence. All gods as our witness.”

“All gods as our witness,” the others echoed.

“Will you leave immediately?” asked Colvard.

“My crew needs a night ashore. I can’t ask them back out without that much. I’ll send them in halves, sell off the rest of my swag as fast as I can. Clear the harbor in two or three days.”

“Three weeks to Tal Verrar,” said Rodanov.

“Right,” said Zamira. “No point in any of this if our lads drop dead en route. I intend to be hasty.” She stepped up to Rodanov, put one hand on his right cheek, and stood on her toes to kiss his other. “Jaffrim, have I ever let you down?”

“Never since the war,” said Rodanov. “Ah, shit. Even that was a poor thing to say. Don’t put me on the spot like this, Zamira. Just … don’t fuck this up.”

“Hey,” said Colvard, “how can I get some of that attention?”

“I’m feeling generous, but keep your hands to yourself if you prefer to keep them attached.” She smiled, kissed Colvard in the middle of her wrinkled forehead, and gave the old woman a hug. Gingerly, because it took pains to accommodate all the swords and daggers the two of them were wearing.

Always thus, thought Zamira. Always thus in this life.

3

UTGAR WAS the one waiting at the entry port to offer a hand when Zamira and Ezri went back up the side of the Poison Orchid. It was half past the tenth hour of the evening.

“Welcome back, Captain. How you be?”

“I’ve spent the day arguing with the Shipbreaker and the council of captains,” Zamira muttered. “I require my children and I require a drink. Ezri—”

“Yes?”

“You, Ravelle, Valora. My cabin, immediately.”

Once in her cabin, Zamira threw her coat, sabers, Elderglass vest, and hat haphazardly onto her hammock. She settled onto her favorite chair with a groan and welcomed Paolo and Cosetta onto her lap. She lost herself in the familiar smell of their curly dark hair, and gazed with absolute satisfaction at their little fingers as she caught them in her own rough hands. Cosetta’s, still so tiny and uncertain … Paolo’s, growing longer and more dexterous by the week. Gods, they were growing too fast, too fast.

Their familiar chatter calmed her to the marrow; apparently Paolo had spent the afternoon fighting monsters that lived in her sea chest, while Cosetta now had plans to grow up to be king of the Seven Marrows. Zamira briefly considered explaining the difference between a king and a queen, and deemed it not worth the effort; contradicting Cos would only lead to days of circular argument.

“Be king! Seven marers!” the little girl said, and Zamira nodded solemnly.

“Remember your poor family when you come into your kingdom, darling.”

The door opened, and Ezri appeared with Kosta and Valora … or should that be de Ferra? Damn these layered aliases.

“Lock the door,” said Zamira. “Paolo, fetch Mommy four glasses. Ezri, can you do the business on one of those bottles of Lashani Blue? They’re right behind you.”

Paolo, overawed at his responsibility, set four small tumblers out on the lacquered table atop the sea chests. Kosta and de Ferra found seats on floor cushions, and Ezri made quick work of the waxed cork sealing the bottle. The smell of fresh lemons filled the cabin, and Ezri filled each tumbler to the brim with wine the color of the ocean depths.

“Alas, I’m bereft of toasts,” said Zamira. “Sometimes one merely needs a drink. Have at it.” Holding Cos with her left arm, Zamira downed her wine in one go, relishing the mingled tastes of spice and citrus, feeling the prickles of icy heat slide down her throat.

“Want,” said Cosetta.

“This is a Mommy drink, Cos, and you wouldn’t like its taste.”

“Want!”

“I said—oh, very well. Can’t fear the fire if you don’t scald your fingertips.” She poured the merest dash of the blue wine into her tumbler and handed it carefully to Cos. The girl took it up with an expression of the utmost solemnity, tipped it back into her mouth, and then dropped it on the tabletop with a clatter.

“Like piss,” she hollered, shaking her head.

“There are some drawbacks,” said Zamira as she caught the tumbler before it went over the edge, “to raising children among sailors. But then I myself am no doubt making the largest contribution to her vocabulary.”

“Piiiisssss,” yelled Cosetta, giggling and immensely pleased with herself. Zamira shushed her.

“I have a toast,” said Kosta, smirking and raising his glass. “To clear perception. I have just now, after all these weeks, realized who the real captain of this vessel is.”

De Ferra chuckled and clinked tumblers with him. Ezri, however, left her wine untouched on the table before her and stared down at her hands. Zamira resolved to make this quick; Ezri clearly needed to be alone with Jerome.

“It’s like this, Ravelle,” said Zamira. “I didn’t know I’d be arguing for your plan until I found myself doing so.”

“So you’re taking us—”

“Back to Tal Verrar. Yes.” She poured herself another tumbler of wine and took a more conservative sip. “I’ve convinced the council not to panic if stories come down from the north concerning the mischief we’re about to work.”

“Thank you, Captain. I—”

“Don’t thank me with words, Ravelle.” Zamira sipped her wine again and set the tumbler down. “Thank me by keeping your side of the bargain. Find a way to kill Maxilan Stragos.”

“Yes.”

“Let me make something else clear.” Zamira carefully turned Cosetta in her arms so that the little girl was looking out across the table, straight at Kosta. “Everyone aboard this ship will be risking their life to give you your chance at this scheme. Every single person.”

“I … I understand.”

“If time passes, and we can’t find a solution for what Stragos has done to you … well, your access to him can’t last forever. I’ll do everything in my power to help you before it comes to that. But if there’s no other alternative, if time runs out and the only way you can take him down is to sacrifice yourself—I won’t expect to see you again, do you understand?”

“If it comes to that,” said Kosta, “I’ll drag him to the judgment of the gods with my bare hands. We’ll go together.”

“Gods,” said Cosetta. “Bare hands!”

“Piss!” shouted Kosta, hoisting his tumbler toward Cosetta, who nearly came apart at the joints with the resulting fit of giggles.

“Thank you, Ravelle, for this gift of a daughter who will now be up all night repeating that word …”

“Sorry, Captain. So, when do we leave?”

“Half the crew goes ashore tonight, and the other half tomorrow. We’ll be scraping them up in heaps the day after, those that want to stay with us.

Hopefully we can be rid of our swag tomorrow. So … two days. Two and a half, maybe. Then we’ll see how the Orchid flies.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“And that’s all,” Zamira said. “My children are up too late, and I intend to claim the privilege of snoring as loudly as I wish once you’re all out of my cabin.”

Kosta was the first to take the hint, draining his glass and leaping to his feet. De Ferra followed, and was about to leave when Ezri spoke in a quiet voice. “Jerome. May I see you in my cabin? Just for a few minutes?”

“A few minutes?” Jerome grinned. “Tsk, Ezri, when did you become such a pessimist?”

“Now,” she said, wiping the smile from his face. Chagrined, he helped her to her feet.

A moment later, the door to her cabin clicked shut, leaving Zamira alone with her family in one of the quiet interludes that were so damnably rare. For a few brief moments every night, she could imagine that her ship was traveling neither to nor from danger, and she could imagine herself more mother than captain, alone with the ordinary concerns of her children—

“Mommy,” said Paolo without any warning, “I want to learn how to fight with a sword.”

Zamira couldn’t help herself; she stared at him for several seconds, and then cracked up laughing. Ordinary? Gods, how could any child born to this life be anything resembling ordinary?

“Sword,” hollered Cosetta, possible future king of the Seven Marrows. “Sword! Sword!”

4

“EZRI, I—”

He saw the slap coming, but it never occurred to him for an instant to try to prevent the blow from landing. She put all of her muscle into it, which was saying something, and tears blurred Jean’s vision.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you—”

She was sobbing now, but her next punch landed on his right arm with undiminished force.

“Ow,” he said. “What? What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

It was almost a shout; he spread his hands to catch her fists. A punch from her to the ribs or solar plexus and he’d feel it for hours.

“Ezri, please. Tell you what?” He knelt on the narrow floor of her compartment, kissing her fingertips while she tried to yank her hands back. At last he let her, and knelt before her, arms lowered.

“Ezri, if you need to hit me, then by the gods hit me. If that’s what you need, I won’t fight you for a second. Not ever. Just … tell me what you want.” She balled her fists, and Jean braced himself for another swing, but she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her tears were hot on his cheeks.

“How could you not tell me?” she whispered.

“Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you now, just—”

“The poison, Jean.”

“Oh,” he moaned, slumping sideways against the rear wall of the cabin. She slid with him. “Oh, shit.”

“You selfish bastard, how could you not—”

“Drakasha told the council of captains our story,” Jean said numbly. “You were there to hear it.”

“From her, not you! How could you do that to me?”

“Ezri, please, it’s—”

“You are the only thing,” she whispered through the iron grip of her embrace, “the only thing on this whole fucking ocean that’s mine, Jean Tannen. I don’t own this ship. Hell, I don’t own this cabin. I don’t have a buried fucking treasure. I have no family and no title, not anymore. And then I finally got to take something in return—”

“And it turns out I have … one significant flaw.”

“We can do something,” she said. “We can find someone. Physikers, alchemists—”

“Tried, Ezri. Alchemists and poisoners. We need the antidote from Stragos, or an actual sample of his poison from which to create one.”

“And didn’t I deserve to know? What if you’d—”

“Dropped dead in here one night? Ezri, what if a Redeemer had put his sword through my skull, or the crew had just murdered me on the day we met?”

“That’s not you,” she said. “That’s not how someone like you dies. I know, I just know—”

“Ezri, you’ve seen every one of my scars. You know I’m not—”

“This is different,” she said. “This is something you can’t just fight.”

“Ezri, I am fighting it. I have been fighting it, every single day since the archon put the fucking thing in me. Leocanto and I count the days, do you understand? I would lie awake at night the first few weeks, and I was sure I could feel it, doing something in me.” He gulped, and felt his own tears pouring down his face. “Look, when I’m in here it doesn’t exist, understand? When I’m with you I can’t feel it. I don’t care about it. This is … it’s like a different world. How could I tell you? How could I ruin that?”

“I would kill him,” she whispered. “Stragos. Gods, if he was here right now I’d cut his fucking throat—”

“I’d help. Believe me—”

She released her arms from around his neck and they knelt there in the semidarkness, staring at each other.

“I love you, Jean,” she whispered at last.

“I love you, Ezri.” Saying it was like allowing some sudden release of pressure behind his heart; it felt like breathing in at last after ages spent underwater. “You’re like no one else I’ve ever met.”

“I can’t let you die,” she said.

“It’s not you.… You cant—”

“I can do what I damn well please,” she said. “I can get you to Tal Verrar. I can buy you time to get what you need from Stragos. I can help you kick his ass.”

“Ezri,” said Jean, “Drakasha’s right. If I can’t get what I need from him … taking Stragos down is more important—”

“Don’t say it.”

“I’ll do it,” he said. “It only makes sense. Gods, I don’t want to, but if I have no choice I’ll trade myself for him.”

“Damn you,” she whispered, and faster than he could react she leapt to her feet, seized him by the front of his tunic, and slammed him against the starboard bulkhead. “You will not! Not if we beat him, Jean Tannen. Not if we win.”

“But if I have no choice—”

“Make a new choice, you son of a bitch.” She pinned him to the bulkhead with a kiss that was pure alchemy, and his hands found their way down her tunic, down to her breeches, where he unhitched her weapons belt with as much gratuitous fondling of the areas not covered by it as he could manage.

She took the belt from his hands and flung it against one of the stiffened canvas walls, where it struck with a clattering racket and slid to the floor. “If there is no way, make a way, Jean Tannen. Losers don’t fuck in this particular cabin.”

He picked her up, making a seat for her from his crossed arms, and whirled her around so that her back was against the bulkhead and her feet were dangling. He kissed her breasts through her tunic, grinning at her reaction. He stopped to put his head against her chest; felt the rapid flutter of her heart beneath his left cheek.

“I would have told you,” he whispered. “Somehow.”

“Somehow, indeed. ‘Man,’ ” she said, “ ‘What a mouse he is made by conversation—’ ”

“Oh, it’s not enough that I have to take this from you, now I have Lucarno chastising me—”

“Jean,” she interrupted, pressing his head more firmly against her with a hug. “Stay with me.”

“What?”

“This is a good life,” she whispered. “You suit it. We suit it. After we deal with Stragos … stay with me.”

“I like it here,” said Jean. “Sometimes I think I could stay forever. But there are … other places I could show you. Other things we could do.”

“I’m not sure I’d adjust well to life on land—”

“Land has its pirates, same as the sea,” he murmured between kisses. “I’m one of them. You could—”

“Belay this. We don’t have to decide anything now. Just … think on what I said. I didn’t bring you in here for negotiations.”

“What did you bring me here for?”

“Noise,” she whispered, starting to pull his tunic off. “Lots and lots of noise.”

5

JUST BEFORE the midnight change of watches, Gwillem emerged from his new quarters into the narrow corridor between the ship’s four smaller cabins. Scowling, clad only in his breechclout and a hastily thrown-on vest, he stepped across to the door of his old compartment. Bits of flannel rag were stuffed into his ears.

He pounded on the door several times. When no answer was forthcoming, he knocked again and hollered, “Treganne, you bitch, I’ll get you for this!”

6

“ARE HER preparations almost complete, then?”

The two men met in the roofless ruins of a stone cottage, south of the city proper, so close to the edge of the eerie jungle that not even drunks and gazers would crawl out to it for shelter. It was near midnight, and a hard rain was falling, warm as spit.

“Got all our junk sold just this afternoon. Been taking on water and ale like crazy. More than enough food already. Once we scrape up everyone that wants to get scraped up tomorrow, I’m sure we’re gone.”

Jaffrim Rodanov nodded, and for the hundredth time cast his gaze around the broken house and its shadows. Anyone close enough to listen through the noise of the rain would have to be close enough to spot, he reckoned.

“Drakasha said … disturbing things when she called the council. What’s she told you about her plans once she’s back at sea?”

“Nothing,” said the other man. “Peculiar. Usually she gives us a good week to get our skulls busted and our purses sucked dry. She’s got a fire under her ass, and it’s a mystery to the rest of us.”

“Of course,” said Rodanov. “She wouldn’t tell you anything until you were on your way. But she’s said nothing about the archon? About Tal Verrar?”

“No. So what do you think she’s—”

“I know exactly what she’s doing. I’m just not entirely convinced it’s wise.” Rodanov sighed. “She might call down a heap of shit on everyone in the Ghostwinds.”

“So now you—”

“Yeah.” Rodanov passed a purse over, giving it a shake so the coins within could be heard. “Just like we discussed. Keep your eyes open. Note what you see. I’ll want to hear about it after.”

“And the other thing?”

“Got it here,” said Rodanov, hefting an oilcloth satchel with a heavy weight inside. “You’re sure you have a place where this cannot be found—”

“My sea chest. Privilege of rank, right? Got a false bottom.”

“Good enough.” Rodanov passed the satchel over.

“And if I have to … use this thing …”

“Again, like we discussed. Three times what I just paid you, waiting for you once it’s done.”

“I want more than that,” said the man. “I want a place aboard the Sovereign.”

“Of course.” Rodanov extended his hand, and the other man met his grip. They shook in the traditional Vadran fashion, clasping each other’s forearms. “You know I can always use a good man.”

“You’re using him right now, hey? Just want to be sure I got a place to call home when all this is over. One way or another.”

Utgar’s grin was the faintest crescent of white against the shadows.

7

NORTH BY east on the Sea of Brass, with the wet southern wind on the starboard quarter, the Poison Orchid dashed across the waves like a racing mare at last given her head. It was the third day of Aurim.

After a day lost laboriously navigating the twisting, rock-choked passage called the Trader’s Gate, they had spent two more dodging reefs and islands, until the last jungle-crowned dome and the last volcanic smoke of the Ghostwinds had been sunk beneath the horizon.

“This is the game,” said Drakasha, addressing the group she’d assembled on the quarterdeck. Delmastro, Treganne, Gwillem, Utgar, Nasreen, Oscarl, and all the skilled mates—carpenters, sailmakers, and so forth. Mumchance listened from his place at the wheel, and Locke listened from the quarterdeck stairs, along with Jean and a half dozen off-watch sailors. If they hadn’t exactly been invited to hear the captain’s little speech, neither had they been dissuaded. There was no point, when news would travel across a ship faster than fire.

“We’re bound for Tal Verrar,” said Drakasha. “We’re going to allow our new friends Ravelle and Valora to conduct a bit of sneaky business ashore.”

“Bounty,” said Mumchance.

“He’s right,” said Gwillem. “Begging your pardon, Captain, but if we haul up in sight of Tal Verrar—”

“If the Poison Orchid drops anchor, aye, I’m worth a lot of money. But if we make some adjustments to my pretty ship here and there, alter the sail plan a bit, swap my stern lanterns for something plainer, and paint a false name in huge damn letters at the stern …”

“What shall we call her, Captain?” asked the carpenter.

“I’m partial to Chimera.”

“That’s cheeky,” said Treganne. “But what’s the gain for the rest of us in this ‘sneaky business,’ Drakasha?”

“Nothing I care to discuss before the deed is done,” said Drakasha. “But the gain for all of us will be substantial. You might say we’re going out with the blessing of the whole council of captains.”

“Then why aren’t they out here lending a hand?” asked Nasreen.

“Because there’s only one captain who’s best at what she does.” Drakasha gave an exaggerated curtsy. “Now, back to duties or to slacking, as you were. Spread the word to everyone.”

Locke was slacking a few minutes later, alone with his thoughts at the larboard rail, when Jean took the spot beside him. The sea and sky alike were bronzing around the setting sun, and the warm ocean air was nonetheless refreshing after the sweaty atmosphere of the Ghostwinds.

“You feel anything strange?” asked Jean.

“What, about the—oh, you mean the poison. No. Can’t say that I feel any better or worse than I have for a while. But, ah, I’m sure I’ll try to get a message to you if I start vomiting up newts or something. Assuming you could hear anyone knocking at that cabin door—”

“Oh, gods. Not you, too. Ezri nearly tipped Gwillem over the taffrail—”

“Well, let’s be honest, people will notice the sort of racket that generally accompanies an attack upon the ship—”

“And now you are about to have a sudden accident—”

“… by Jeremite Redeemers mounted on cavalry steeds. Where do you find the energy?”

“She makes it easy,” said Jean.

“Ah.”

“She’s asked me to stay,” said Jean, looking down at his hands.

“Aboard the ship? Once all of this is over? Assuming there’s anything left of us?”

Jean nodded. “And by me, I’m sure she meant you as well—”

“Oh, of course she did,” said Locke, not entirely curbing his reflexive tone of sarcasm. “What did you say?”

“I asked her … I thought maybe she could come with us.”

“You love her.” Locke nodded to himself before Jean could answer. “You’re not just marking time while we’re out here. You’ve really fallen off the cliff, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Jean whispered.

“She’s good,” said Locke. “She’s got wits and fire. She has a real taste for taking things away from people at swordpoint, which is an asset in my book. And at least her you can trust at your back in a fight—”

“I’ve always trusted you—”

“To be at your back in a fight, sure. But her you can trust not to embarrass everyone before it’s over. You two won the day on the Kingfisher, not me. And I saw how she got kicked around—most people would have hugged their hammocks for a few days after that. She’s too damn stubborn to stop moving. You two really are a good match.”

“You make it sound like it’s her or you—”

“Of course it doesn’t have to be. But things will change—”

“Change, yes. And improve. This doesn’t have to mean the end of anything.”

“Take her with us? Three against the world? Start up the whole thing again, rebuild a gang? Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

“Yes, and—”

“I was doing my best impression of a drunken asshole at the time. I know.” Locke put his left hand atop Jean’s right. “You’re right. Things can change, and improve. We’ve seen it happen to other people; maybe it can happen to us for once. Soon as we finish the Sinspire game, we’ll be richer than hell, and no longer welcome in Tal Verrar’s polite society. She could come with us … or you could stay with her.…”

“I don’t know yet,” said Jean. “Neither of us knows. We’ve decided to deal with the question by ignoring it for the duration of the voyage.”

“Excellent idea.”

“But I want—”

“Listen. When the time comes, you make whatever choice you need to, and you don’t think about me, understand? It is a fine match. Maybe you could do better—”

Locke grinned to let Jean know that there was no actual need to knock his brains out of his skull.

“—but I know for a solid fact that she couldn’t. Ever.” So saying, he squeezed Jean’s hand. “I’m happy for you. You’ve gone and stolen something back from this whole dead-end distraction Stragos has shoved us into. Hold it tight.”

There seemed nothing else to say, so they stood listening to the cries of the circling gulls and watched the sun sink into the far horizon, bleeding its fire into the sea. Eventually, heavy footsteps sounded on the quarterdeck stairs behind them.

“My boys,” said Drakasha, appearing behind them and draping her arms across their shoulders, “just the pair I wanted to speak with. I’m removing you from afternoon watch duty with all the other Reds.”

“Um … that’s generous,” said Locke.

“No it isn’t. From now on, you’re detached to the carpenter’s mercy for afternoons. Since we’re slipping into Tal Verrar for your benefit, most of the alterations to the Orchid are going to be your responsibility. Painting, carving, rigging—you two will be rather busy.”

“Wow,” said Locke, “that sounds like an absolutely grand way to spend the voyage.”

It wasn’t.

8

“LAND HO,” cried the early evening foremast watch. “Land and fire one point on the starboard bow!”

“Fire?” Locke looked up from his hand in the card game that had broken out in the undercastle. “Shit!” He dropped his cards to the deck, forfeiting his seven-solari bet for the round. Nearly a year’s pay for an honest Verrari laborer; common stakes for the games that took place after shares were paid out. There was a lot of spare coinage floating around the ship, since they’d left Port Prodigal in such a hurry.

Emerging from the undercastle, he nearly slammed into Delmastro.

“Lieutenant, is that Tal Verrar?”

“Has to be.”

“And the fire? Is that certain?” Fire in the city could mean some sort of disaster, or it could mean civil war. Chaos. Stragos might already be dead, or besieged, or even victorious—and therefore in no further need of Locke or Jean.

“It’s the twenty-first, Ravelle.”

“I know what bloody day it is; I just—oh. Oh!”

The twenty-first of Aurim; the Festa Iono, the grand pageant of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. Locke sighed with relief. Away from the usual rhythms of the city, he’d all but forgotten about the holiday. At the Festa Iono, the Verrari gave thanks for Iono’s influence on the city’s fortunes by ceremonially burning old ships while thousands of drunkards made a mess of the streets and canals. Locke had only ever seen it from the balconies of the Sinspire, but it was a lively time. Hell, that would make slipping into the city easier; there’d be a thousand things going on to keep the watch busy.

“All hands,” came the cry from astern. “All hands at the waist! Captain wants a word!”

Locke grinned. In the event of an all-hands call during a card game, the game had to stop, and everyone with a stake in the pot got it back. His seven solari would be returning home soon enough.

The Orchids mustered noisily at the waist, and after a few minutes were waved to silence by Drakasha. The captain set an empty cask beside the mainmast, and Lieutenant Delmastro leapt atop it, wearing a respectable overcoat from the ship’s store of fine clothing.

“For the rest of the night,” she shouted, “we’re the Chimera, and we’ve never even heard of the Poison Orchid. I’m the captain! I’ll be pacing the quarterdeck if anyone needs anything, and Drakasha will be in her cabin unless things go to hell.

“If another ship hails us, I’ll be the one that answers. The rest of you pretend that you don’t speak Therin. Our task is to deliver two of our new friends to shore, for a job that’ll be important to us all. Ravelle, Valora—we’ll send you out in the same boat you donated to our cause all those weeks ago.” She paused to allow a sudden outburst of chatter to die off. “We should drop anchor in the next two hours. If you’re not back by sunrise, this ship will be gone—and we’ll never come within five hundred miles of this city again.”

“We understand,” said Locke.

“Once the anchor’s down,” continued Delmastro, “I’ll want double watches aloft. Rig razor nets on both sides for a quick raise, but leave them down. Lay polearms at the sides, up against the rails, and ready sabers at both the masts. If a customs boat or anything else carrying a uniform tries to pay us a visit, we’ll invite them aboard and detain them for the night. If anything more than that troubles us, we repel boarders, lay on the canvas, and run like hell.”

There was a general murmur of approval to that idea.

“That’s it. Stand in to Tal Verrar. Mumchance, put us about a mile off the Emerald Galleries. And raise an Ashmiri gray ensign at the taffrail.”

Ashmere, though lacking a merchant or military fleet of its own, did a brisk business in registrations of convenience for smugglers, bounty-privateers, and tariff-dodging merchants. Nobody would look twice at them for the sake of that ensign. More importantly, nobody would approach merely for the sake of making small talk with fellow countrymen far from home. Locke approved. And anchoring in the waters southeast of the city would give them a good approach to the Castellana, so they could drop in on Stragos without lurking too close to the crowded marinas or the main anchorage.

“Hey,” said Utgar, slapping Locke and Jean on the backs, “you two, what the hell are you getting yourselves into? You want a bodyguard?”

“Ravelle’s the only bodyguard I need,” said Jean with a smirk.

“Fair enough. I’ll give you that. But what are you sticking your noses into, hmm? Something dangerous?”

“Probably not,” said Locke. “Look, Drakasha will spin the full tale, probably sooner than you think. For tonight, let’s just say we’re on ordinary errands.”

“Saying hello to Grandmother,” said Jean. “Paying off Uncle’s gambling debts. Picking up three loaves of bread and a bushel of onions at the Night Market.”

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets. Rest of us’ll stay behind and be bored, right?”

“Not likely,” said Locke. “This ship’s full of little surprises, isn’t it?”

“True enough,” said Utgar, chuckling. “True enough, hey. Well, be careful. Eyes of the gods upon you and all that.”

“Thanks.” Locke scratched his beard, and then snapped his fingers. “Hell. I nearly forgot something. Jerome, Utgar, see you in a bit.”

He jogged aft, dodging Blue watch work parties and bored Reds helping haul forth weapons from the arms lockers. He took the quarterdeck stairs in two quick leaps, slid down the companionway rails, and knocked loudly on Drakasha’s cabin door.

“It’s open,” she shouted.

“Captain,” said Locke, closing the door behind him, “I need to borrow the money that was in my sea chest again.”

Drakasha was lounging on her hammock with Paolo and Cosetta, reading to them from a heavy book that looked an awful lot like a Wise Mariner’s Practical Lexicon. “Technically, that money got cut up into shares,” she said, “but I can give you the equivalent out of the ship’s purse. All of it?”

“Two hundred and fifty solari should do. Oh. It, um, won’t be coming back with me.”

“Fascinating,” she said. “That’s a definition of ‘borrow’ that doesn’t exactly compel me to get up from this hammock. On your way out—”

“Captain, Stragos is just one half of tonight’s business. I need to keep Requin purring, too. He has the power to crush this scheme like an insect if I don’t. Besides—if I tickle his fancy, there’s one more useful item I might be able to squeeze out of him, now that I think of it.”

“So you need a bribe.”

“Between friends we call them considerations. Come on, Drakasha. Consider it an investment in our desired outcome.”

“For the sake of my peace and quiet, fine. I’ll have it waiting for you when you leave the ship.”

“You’re too—

“I am not even remotely too kind. Begone.”

9

THEY’D BEEN away for seven weeks that felt like a lifetime.

Standing at the larboard rail, staring once again at the islands and towers of Tal Verrar, Locke felt anxiety and melancholy mingling like liquors.

The clouds were low and dark above the city, reflecting the orange light of the festival fire burning in the main anchorage.

“Ready for this?” asked Jean.

“Ready and sweating heavily,” said Locke.

They were dressed in borrowed finery, linen caps, and cloaks. The cloaks were too warm, but not so rare on the streets of many neighborhoods; they meant that the wearer was probably carrying weapons, and not to be trifled with. Hopefully, the added clothing would help protect them from a casual glimpse by anyone inconvenient who might recognize them.

“Heave out,” cried Oscarl, in charge of the party putting their boat over the side. With the creak of rope and tackle, the little craft swung out into darkness and splashed down into the water. Utgar shimmied down the boarding net to unfasten everything and prepare the oars. As Locke stepped to the entry port and prepared to go down, Delmastro caught his arm.

“Whatever else happens,” she whispered, “just bring him back.”

“I won’t fail,” said Locke. “And neither will he.”

“Zamira said to give you this.” Delmastro passed over a heavy leather purse, packed tight with coins. Locke nodded his gratitude and slipped it into an inner cloak pocket.

As Locke crawled down to the boat, he passed Utgar, who gave a cheery salute and kept climbing. Locke hopped down into the boat, but continued clinging to the boarding net so he could stand upright. He glanced up, and by the light of the ship’s lanterns he saw Jean and Ezri saying farewell with a kiss. She whispered something to him, and then they parted.

“This is infinitely preferable to the last time we shared this boat alone,” said Jean as they settled onto the rowing bench and fit the oars to their locks.

“You told her your real name, didn’t you?”

“What?” Jean’s eyes grew wide, and then he scowled. “Is that a guess?”

“I’m not much of a lip-reader, but the last thing she said to you had one syllable, not two.”

“Oh,” sighed Jean. “Well, aren’t you the clever little bastard.”

“Yes on all three counts, actually.”

“I did, and I’m not sorry—”

“Gods, I’m not angry, Jean. I’m just showing off.” They began to row together, pulling hard, driving the boat across the dark, choppy water toward the channel between the Galezzo District and the Emerald Galleries.

Minutes of rowing passed without conversation; the oars creaked, the water splashed, and the Poison Orchid fell away to stern, the whiteness of her furled sails vanishing into the darkness, until all that remained of her was a faint constellation of lantern lights.

“The alchemist,” said Locke, without any warning.

“Huh?”

“Stragos’ alchemist. He’s the key to this mess.”

“If by ‘key’ you mean ’cause’—”

“No, listen. How likely is it that Stragos is ever going to just accidentally leave us the glasses he uses to give us our antidote? Or let a dose slip out of his pocket?”

“Easy question,” said Jean. “It’s bloody impossible.”

“Right. So it’s no use waiting for him to make a mistake—we’ve got to make contact with that alchemist.”

“He’s one of the archon’s personal retinue,” said Jean. “Maybe the most important person in Stragos’ service, if Stragos makes a habit of doing this frequently. I doubt he has a nice, convenient, out-of-the way house where we can pay him a visit. He probably lives at the Mon Magisteria.”

“But there’s got to be something we can do,” said Locke. “The man has to have a price. Think of what we’ve got at the Sinspire, or what we could get with Drakasha’s help.”

“I’ll admit it’s the best idea yet,” said Jean. “Which isn’t saying much.”

“Eyes wide, ears open, and hope in the Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered.

On this side of the city, Tal Verrar’s inner harbor was thick with pleasure boats, barges, and hired gondolas. The wealthy (and the not-so-wealthy who didn’t care whether or not they woke up without a centira the next day) were in full migration from the professional crescents to the bars and coffeehouses of the Emerald Galleries. Locke and Jean slipped into the stream and rowed against the prevailing current, dodging larger vessels and exchanging choice vulgarities with the shouting, leering, bottle-throwing customers on some of the rowdier barges.

Having dished out more abuse than they’d received, they slipped at last between the Artificers’ Crescent and the Alchemists’ Crescent, admiring the vivid blue and green fireballs that the alchemists were hurling, presumably in support of the festa (though one never knew) forty or fifty feet into the air over their private docks. The prevailing wind was toward Locke and Jean, and as they rowed they found themselves pursued by a brimstone-scented rain of sparks and burnt paper scraps.

Their destination was easy enough to find; at the northwestern end of the Castellana lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which they’d emerged with Merrain, the first night she’d kidnapped them on the archon’s behalf.

Security at the archon’s private landing had been enhanced. As Locke and Jean rowed around the final bend into the prismatic glass hollow, a dozen Eyes hefted crossbows and knelt behind curved iron shields, five feet high, set into the floor to provide cover. Behind them a squad of regular Verrari soldiers manned a ballista, a minor siege engine capable of shattering their boat with a ten-pound quarrel. An Eye officer pulled a chain leading into a wall aperture, presumably ringing an alarm above.

“Use of this landing is forbidden,” shouted the officer.

“Please listen carefully,” shouted Locke. The dull roar of the waterfall high above echoed throughout the cavern, and there was no room for error. “We have a message for the waiting lady.”

Their boat bumped up against the edge of the landing. It was disconcerting, thought Locke, having so many crossbows large and small dedicated to their intimidation. However, the Eye officer stepped over and knelt beside them. His voice echoed metallically through the speaking holes of his featureless mask.

“You’re here on the waiting lady’s business?”

“We are,” said Locke. “Tell her precisely this: ‘Two sparks were kindled, and two bright fires returned.’ ”

“I shall,” said the officer. “In the meantime …”

After carefully setting their crossbows down, half a dozen Eyes stepped out from behind their shields to haul Locke and Jean out of their boat. They were restrained and patted down; their boot daggers were confiscated, along with Locke’s bag of gold. An Eye examined it, and then passed it to the officer.

“Solari, sir. Confiscate it?”

“No,” said the officer. “Take them to the waiting lady’s chamber, and give it back. If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would have already done it, eh?”

10

“YOU DID what to the Red Messenger?”

Maxilan Stragos was red-faced with wine, exertion, and surprise. The archon was dressed more sumptuously than Locke had ever seen him, in a vertically striped cape of sea-green silk that alternated with cloth-of-gold strips, over a coat and breeches that also gleamed gold. He wore rings on all ten of his fingers, set alternately with rubies and sapphires, very close approximations of the Tal Verrar colors. He stood before Locke and Jean in a tapestry-walled chamber on the first floor of the Mon Magisteria, attended by a pair of Eyes. If Locke and Jean had not been granted chairs, neither had they been trussed up. Or placed in the sweltering chamber.

“We, ah, used it to initiate successful contact with pirates.”

“By losing it to them.”

“In a word, yes.”

“And Caldris is dead?”

“For some time.”

“Now tell me, Lamora, just what sort of reaction were you hoping for when you brought me this news?”

“Well, a fucking heart attack would have been nice, but I’d settle for a bit of patience while I explain further.”

“Yes,” said the archon. “Do.”

“When the Messenger was taken by pirates, all of us aboard were made prisoners.” Locke had decided that the specific details of injuries and scrub watches and so forth could be safely left out of the story.

“By whom?”

“Drakasha.”

“Zamira lives, does she? With her old Poison Orchid?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “It’s in fine condition, and in fact it’s currently riding at anchor about two miles, um …” He pointed with a finger at what he believed to be south. “… that way.”

“She dares?”

“She’s practicing an obscure technique called ‘disguise,’ Stragos.”

“So you’re … part of her crew now?”

“Yes. Those of us taken from the Messenger were given a chance to prove our intentions by storming the next prize Drakasha took. You won’t see the Messenger again, as it’s been sold to a sort of, um, wrecker baron. But at least now we’re in a position to give you what you want.”

“Are you?” The expression on Stragos’ face went from annoyance to plain avarice in an eyeblink. “How … refreshing to hear you deliver such a report, in lieu of vulgarity and complaint.”

“Vulgarity and complaint are my special talents. But listen—Drakasha has agreed to drum up the scare you want. If we get our antidote tonight, by the end of the week you’ll have reports of raids at every point of the compass. It’ll be like dropping a shark in a public bath.”

“What do you mean, precisely, by ‘Drakasha has agreed’?”

Improvising a fictional motive for Zamira was elementary; Locke could have done it in his sleep. “I told her the truth,” he said. “The rest was easy.

Obviously, once our job is done, you’ll send your navy south to kick sixteen shades of shit out of every Ghostwind pirate you find. Except the one that actually started the mess, who will conveniently hunt elsewhere for a few months. And once you’ve got your grand little war sewn up, she goes back home to find that her former rivals are on the bottom of the ocean. Alas.”

“I see,” said Stragos. “I would have preferred not to have her aware of my actual intentions—”

“If there are any survivors in the Ghostwinds,” said Locke, “she can hardly speak of her role in the matter to them, can she? And if there are no survivors … who can she talk to at all?”

“Indeed,” muttered Stragos.

“However,” said Jean, “if the two of us don’t return quite soon, the Orchid will head for the open sea, and you’ll lose your one chance to make use of her.”

“And I will have wasted the Messenger, and poisoned my reputation, and endured the abuse of your company, all for nothing. Yes, Tannen, I’m well aware of the angles of what you no doubt believe to be a terribly clever argument.”

“Our antidote, then?”

“You’ve not earned a final cure yet. But you’ll have the consequences further postponed.”

Stragos pointed to one of the Eyes, who bowed and left the room. He returned a few moments later and held the door open for two people. The first was Stragos’ personal alchemist, carrying a domed silver serving tray. The second was Merrain.

“Our two bright fires have returned,” she said. She was dressed in a long-sleeved gown that matched the sea-green portions of Stragos’ cape, and her slender waist was accented by a tight cloth-of-gold sash. Threaded into her hair was a circlet of red and blue rose blossoms.

“Kosta and de Ferra have earned another temporary sip of life, my dear.” He held out his arm and she crossed over to him, taking his elbow in the light and friendly fashion of a chaperone rather than a lover.

“Have they, now?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we return to the gardens.”

“Some sort of Festa Iono affair, Stragos? You’ve never struck me as the celebratory type,” said Locke.

“For the sake of my officers,” said Stragos. “If I throw galas for them, the Priori spread rumors that I am profligate. If I do nothing, they whisper that I am austere and heartless. Regardless, my officers suffer far more in society when they have no private functions from which to exclude their jealous rivals. Thus I put my gardens to use, if nothing else.”

“I weep again for your hardship,” said Locke. “Forced by cruel circumstance to throw garden parties.”

Stragos smiled thinly and gestured at his alchemist. The man swept the dome from the silver tray, revealing two white-frosted crystal goblets full of familiar pale amber liquid.

“You may have your antidote in pear cider tonight,” said the archon. “For old times’ sake.”

“Oh, you funny old bastard.” Locke passed a goblet to Jean, emptied his in several gulps, and then tossed it into the air.

“Heavens! I slipped.”

The crystal goblet struck the stone floor with a loud clang rather than a shattering explosion into fragments. It bounced once and rolled into a corner, completely unharmed.

“A little gift from the master alchemists.” Stragos looked extraordinarily amused. “Hardly Elderglass, but just the thing to deny rude guests their petty satisfactions.”

Jean finished his own cider and set his glass back down on the bald man’s serving tray. One of the Eyes fetched the other goblet, and when they were both covered by the silver dome once again, Stragos dismissed his alchemist with a wave.

“I … um …,” said Locke, but the man was already out the door.

“This evening’s business is concluded,” said Stragos. “Merrain and I have a gala to return to. Kosta and de Ferra, you have the most important part of your task ahead of you. Please me … and I may just yet make it worth your while.”

Stragos led Merrain to the door, turning only to speak to one of his Eyes. “Lock them in here for ten minutes. After that, escort them back to their boat. Return their weapons and see that they’re on their way. With haste.”

“I … but … damn,” Locke sputtered as the door slammed closed behind the two Eyes.

“Antidote,” said Jean. “That’s all that matters for now. Antidote.”

“I suppose.” Locke put his head against one of the room’s stone walls. “Gods. I hope our visit to Requin goes more smoothly than this.”

11

“SERVICE ENTRANCE, you ignorant bastard!”

The Sinspire bouncer came out of nowhere. He doubled Locke over his knee, knocking the wind out of him in one cruel slam, and hurled him back onto the gravel of the lantern-lit courtyard behind the tower. Locke hadn’t even stepped inside, merely approached the door after failing to spot anyone he could easily bribe for an audience with Selendri.

“Oof,” he said as the ground made his acquaintance.

Jean, guided more by loyal reflex than clear thinking, got involved as the bouncer came forth to offer Locke further punishment. The bouncer growled and swung a too-casual fist at Jean, who caught it in his right hand and then broke several of the bouncer’s ribs with the heel of his left. Before Locke could say anything, Jean kicked the bouncer in the groin and swept his legs out from beneath him.

“Urrrrgh-ack,” the man said as the ground made his acquaintance.

The next attendant out the door had a knife; Jean broke the fist that held it and bounced the attendant off the Sinspire wall like a handball from a stone court surface. The next six or seven attendants who surrounded them, unfortunately, had short swords and crossbows.

“You have no idea who you’re fucking with,” said one of them.

“Actually,” came a harsh feminine whisper from the service entrance, “I suspect they do.”

Selendri wore a blue-and-red silk evening gown that must have cost as much as a gilded carriage. Her ruined arm was covered by a sleeve that led down to her brass hand, while the fine muscles and smooth skin of her other arm were bare, accentuated by gold and Elderglass bangles.

“We caught them trying to steal into the service entrance, mistress,” said one of the attendants.

“You caught us getting near the service entrance, you dumb bastard.” Locke rose to his knees. “Selendri, we need to—”

“I’m sure you do,” she said. “Let them go. I’ll deal with them myself. Act as though nothing happened.”

“But he … gods, I think he broke my ribs,” wheezed the first man Jean had dealt with. The other was unconscious.

“If you agree that nothing happened,” said Selendri, “I’ll have you taken to a physiker. Did anything happen?”

“Unnnh … no. No, mistress, nothing happened.”

“Good.”

As she turned to reenter the service area, Locke stumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach, and reached out to grab her gently by the shoulder. She whirled on him.

“Selendri,” he whispered, “we cannot be seen on the gaming floors. We have—”

“Powerful individuals rather upset about your failure to give them a return engagement?” She knocked his hand away.

“Forgive me. And yes, that’s exactly it.”

“Durenna and Corvaleur are on the fifth floor. You and I can take the climbing closet from the third.”

“And Jerome?”

“Stay here in the service area, Valora.” She pulled them both in through the service entrance so tray-bearing attendants, studiously ignoring the injured men on the ground, could get on with earning festival-night tips from the city’s least inhibited.

“Thank you,” said Jean, taking a half-hidden spot behind tall wooden racks full of unwashed dishes.

“I’ll give instructions to ignore you,” said Selendri. “As long as you ignore my people.”

“I’ll be a saint,” said Jean.

Selendri grabbed a passing attendant with no serving tray and whispered a few terse instructions into his ear. Locke caught the words “dog-leech” and “dock their pay.” Then he was following Selendri into the crowd on the ground floor, hunched over as though trying to shrink down beneath his cloak and cap, praying that the next and only person who’d recognize him would be Requin.

12

“SEVEN WEEKS,” said the master of the Sinspire. “Selendri was so sure we’d never see you again.”

“Three weeks down and three weeks back,” said Locke. “Barely spent a week in Port Prodigal itself.”

“You certainly look as though you passed some time on deck. Working for your berth?”

“Ordinary sailors attract much less notice than paying passengers.”

“I suppose they do. Is that your natural hair color?”

“I think so. Swap it as often as I have and you start to lose track.”

The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin’s office were open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbor, surrounded by hundreds of specks of lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.

“They’re burning four this year,” said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke’s attention. “One for each season. I think they’re just finishing the third. The fourth should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more crowding into the chance houses.” Locke nodded, and turned to admire what Requin had done with the suite of chairs he’d had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of glee off his face, and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles of wine and an artful flower arrangement.

“Is that—”

“A replica as well? I’m afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made.”

“My gift. Speaking of which …”

Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse, and set it down atop Requin’s desk.

“What’s this?”

“A consideration,” said Locke. “There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal with more coins than card sense.”

Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. “Handsome,” he said. “You really are trying very hard not to piss me off, aren’t you?”

“I want my job,” said Locke. “Now more than ever.”

“Let’s discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “He’s down there.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you bring him back with you?”

“He’s out of his fucking mind,” said Locke.

“Then he’s useless—”

“No. Not useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He’s delusional. He imagines that the Priori and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, every ship, every tavern. He barely leaves his house.” Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. “But what he does inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private forge and bellows. He’s as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It’s all he has left in the world.”

“How is a madman’s detritus significant?” asked Selendri. She stood between two of Requin’s exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

“I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance to crack this tower’s vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different types of picks and tools. I’d call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking. And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a magpie mind—” Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. “Gods!”

“What will it take to bring him here?”

“He wants protection,” said Locke. “He’s not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell, he’s eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak.”

“Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains,” said Selendri.

“And risk losing his actual cooperation forever? Worse—deal with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass, Selendri. I wouldn’t recommend knocking it around.”

Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.

“Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He’ll drive you mad. You may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you’ll definitely have to hide him from the Artificers. But the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He’s the best lockbreaker I’ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you.”

“What do you suggest?”

“You have a wax sigil, on your ledgers and letters of credit. I’ve seen it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—”

“And incriminate myself,” said Requin. “No.”

“Already thought about that,” said Locke. “Don’t write a name on it. Don’t date it, don’t sign it to anyone, don’t even add your usual ‘R.’ Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. ‘Look forward to comfort and hospitality.’ Or, ‘Expect every due consideration.’ ”

“Trite bullshit. I see,” said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink, and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. “And this childish device will be sufficient?”

“As far as his fears are concerned,” said Locke, “Callas is a child. He’ll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit.”

“Or a grown man,” muttered Selendri.

Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. At last, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.

“Your bait, Master Kosta.” He passed the sheet over. “The fact that you’re skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you’re not planning on staying in the city for long.”

“Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal.” That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources.

“And you’ll bring Callas back with you.”

“Yes.”

“If the sigil isn’t sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that’s not enough, take Selendri’s suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don’t come back empty-handed.”

“As you wish.”

“What then, for you and the archon? With Callas in hand, you’ll likely be back to this scheme for my vault.…”

“I don’t know,” said Locke. “I’ll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don’t you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the archon as a double agent, fine. If you want me to tell the archon that he died or something … I just don’t know. My skull aches. You’re the man with the big picture. I’ll look forward to new orders.”

“If you can stay this polite,” said Requin, hefting the purse, “bring me Callas, and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things … you may well have a future in my service.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me.”

Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching, and so delicate that a moth’s fart might knock it to pieces—but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.

Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication, and row themselves to safety.

13

“WE’RE BEING followed,” said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which they’d come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; they’d snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk.

“Where are they?”

“Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now.”

“Shit,” muttered Locke. “If only this city’s entire population of lurking assholes shared one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly.”

“At the edge of the courtyard, let’s make a really obvious, sudden dash for it,” said Jean. “Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us—”

“Gets to explain some things the hard way.”

At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke’s height. An archway surrounded by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps. About ten yards from this archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke and Jean broke into a sprint.

Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty casks on either side of the alley—the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their opponents thought they were hell-bent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.

Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley. He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.

The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then—two dark shapes flew past the piles of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of Jean’s attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.

His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man’s neck at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and chin on the other side. “Drop your weapon or I’ll—” was all he had time to say, however, before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt to break Locke’s hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke’s blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.

Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent.

“Wait a minute,” said Locke, “you mean—”

“Accident,” said Jean. “I caught his knife, we fought a bit, and he got it beneath his own rib cage.”

“Gods damn it,” Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. “You try to keep a bastard alive, and look what happens—”

“Crossbows,” said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke’s adjusting eyes could see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you used within ten yards or not at all. “Grab them. There may be more of them after us.”

“Hell.” Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else’s envenomed weapon in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right; they’d need the advantage if they had other pursuers.

“I say discretion is a pastime for other people,” said Locke. “Let’s run our asses off.”

They sprinted at a wild tear through the forgotten places of the Golden Steps, north to the edge of the vast Elderglass plateau, where they scrambled down flight after flight of nauseatingly wobbly wooden steps, glancing frantically above and below for pursuit or ambush. The world was a dizzy whirl around Locke by the middle of the staircase, painted in the surreal colors of fire and alien glass. Out on the harbor the fourth and final ship of the festival was bursting into incandescence, a sacrifice of wood and pitch and canvas before hundreds of small boats packed with priests and revelers.

Down to the feet of the stairs and across the wooden platforms of the inner docks they stumbled, past the occasional drunkard or beggar, waving their daggers and crossbows wildly. Before them was their pier, long and empty, home only to a long stack of crates. No beggars, no drunks. Their boat bobbed welcomingly on the waves, just a hundred feet away now, brightly lit by the glare of the inferno.

Stack of crates, Locke thought, and by then it was too late.

Two men stepped from the shadows as Locke and Jean passed, from the most obvious ambush spot possible.

Locke and Jean whirled together; only the fact that they were carrying their stolen crossbows in their hands gave them any chance to bring them up in time. Four arms flew out; four men standing close enough to hold hands drew on their targets. Four fingers quivered, each separated from their triggers by no more than the width of a single droplet of sweat.

Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow’s bolt at his neck.

14

HE GRINNED, gasping for breath, and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of one another’s blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.

“Be reasonable,” said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. “Consider the disadvantages of your situation.”

Locke snorted. “Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn’t you say so, Jean?”

Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.

“All four of us would seem … to be up to our balls in quicksand,” said Jean between breaths.

On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood on their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that was drawing the attention of the entire city. Nobody in the boats was paying any attention to them.

“Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,” said Locke’s opponent. “We’ve been instructed not to kill you, if we don’t have to.”

“And I’m sure you’d be honest if it were otherwise, of course,” said Locke. His smile grew. “I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.”

“Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.”

“I’ll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We’re not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached.”

“Actually,” said Jean, “I know who sent them.”

“What? Really?” Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary once again.

“And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn’t call it happy.”

“Ah … Jean, I’m afraid you’ve lost me.”

“No.” Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully shifted his aim to his left—until his crossbow was pointing at Locke’s head. The man he’d previously been threatening blinked in surprise. “You’ve lost me, Locke.”

“Jean,” said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, “this isn’t funny.”

“I agree. Hand your piece over to me.”

“Jean—”

“Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing out of my face and point it at him.”

Jean’s former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn’t move. Jean ground his teeth together. “Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I’m doing your job for you. Point your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!”

“Jean, I would describe this turn of events as less than helpful,” said Locke, and he looked as though he might say more, except that Jean’s opponent chose that moment to take Jean’s advice.

It seemed to Locke that sweat was now cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous moisture were abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.

“There. Three on one.” Jean spat on the pier. “You gave me no choice but to cut a deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out—gods damn it, you forced me. I’m sorry. I thought they’d make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your weapon over.”

“Jean, what the hell do you think you’re—”

“Don’t. Don’t say another fucking thing. Don’t try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and hand it over.”

Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean’s quarrel, his mouth open in disbelief. The world around him seemed to fade to that tiny, gleaming point, alive with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean would have given him a hand signal if he were lying.… Where the hell was the hand signal?

“I don’t believe this,” he whispered. “This is impossible.”

“This is the last time I’m going to say this, Locke.” Jean ground his teeth together and held his aim steady, directly between Locke’s eyes. “Take your finger off the trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon. Right now.”

III
CARDS ON THE TABLE

“I am hard pressed on my right; my center is giving way; situation excellent. I am attacking.”

General Ferdinand Foch

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SCOURGING THE SEA OF BRASS

1

JAFFRIM RODANOV WADED in the shallows by the hull of an overturned fishing boat, listening to the waves break against its shattered planks as they washed over his ankles. The sand and water of Prodigal Bay were pristine this far from the city. No layers of night soil slimed the water, no rusting metal scraps or pottery shards littered the bottom. No corpses floated as grim rafts for squawking birds.

Twilight, on the seventh day of Aurim. Drakasha gone for a week now. A thousand miles away, Jaffrim thought, a mistake was being made.

Ydrena whistled. She was leaning against the hull of the abandoned fishing boat, neither too close nor too far from him, merely emphasizing by her presence that Rodanov was not alone, and that his attendance at this meeting was known to his crew.

Jacquelaine Colvard had arrived.

She left her first mate beside Ydrena, shrugged out of her own boots, and waded into the water without hiking up her breeches. Old and unbent Colvard, who’d been sacking ships in these waters when he’d been a boy with his nose buried in musty scrolls. Before he’d even seen a ship that wasn’t inked onto a sheet of parchment.

“Jaffrim,” she said. “Thank you for humoring me.”

“There’s only one thing you could want to talk about at the moment,” said Rodanov.

“Yes. And it’s on your mind too, isn’t it?”

“It was a mistake to give Drakasha our oaths.”

“Was it?”

Rodanov hooked his thumbs into his sword-belt and looked down at the darkening water, the ripples where his pale ankles vanished into it. “I was generous when I should have been cynical.”

“So you fancy yourself the only one who had the power to forbid this?”

“I could have withheld my oath.”

“But then it would have been four against one, with you as the one,” said Colvard, “and Drakasha would have gone north looking over her shoulder all the way.”

Rodanov felt a cold excitement in his gut.

“I’ve noticed curious things, these past few days,” she continued. “Your crew has been spending less time in the city. You’ve been taking on water. And I’ve seen you on your quarterdeck, testing your instruments. Checking your backstaffs.”

His excitement rose. Out here alone, had she come to confront him or abet him? Could she be mad enough to put herself in his reach, if it was the former?

“You know, then,” he said at last.

“Yes.”

“Do you intend to talk me out of it?”

“I intend to see that it’s done right.”

“Ah.”

“You have someone aboard the Poison Orchid, don’t you?”

Though taken aback, Rodanov found himself in no mood to dissemble.

“If you’ll tell me how you know,” he said, “I won’t insult you by denying it.”

“It was an educated guess. After all, you tried to place someone aboard my ship once.”

“Ah,” he said, sucking air through his teeth. “So Riela didn’t die in a boat accident after all.”

“Yes and no,” said Colvard. “It happened in a boat, at least.”

“Do you—”

“Blame you? No. You’re a cautious man, Jaffrim, as I am a fundamentally cautious woman. It’s our shared caution that brings us here this evening.”

“Do you want to come with?”

“No,” said Colvard. “And my reasons are practical. First, that the Sovereign is ready for sea while the Draconic is not. Second, that two of us putting out together would cause … an inconvenient degree of speculation when Drakasha fails to return.”

“There’ll be speculation regardless. And there’ll be confirmation. My crew won’t bite their tongues forever.”

“But anything could have happened, to bring one and one together on the high seas,” said Colvard. “If we put out in a squadron, collusion will be the only reasonable possibility.”

“And I suppose it’s just coincidence,” said Jaffrim, “that even several days since you first spotted my preparations, the Draconic still isn’t ready for sea?”

“Well—”

“Spare me, Jacquelaine. I was ready to do this before we came here tonight. Just don’t imagine that you’ve somehow finessed me into going in your place.”

“Jaffrim. Peace. So long as this arrow hits the target, it doesn’t matter who pulls back the string.” She unbound her gray hair and let it fly free about her shoulders in the muggy breeze. “What are your intentions?”

“Obvious, I should think. Find her. Before she does enough damage to give Stragos what he wants.”

“And should you run her down, what then? Polite messages, broadside to broadside?”

“A warning. A last chance.”

“An ultimatum for Drakasha?” Her frown turned every line on her face near-vertical. “Jaffrim, you know too well how she’ll react to any threat. Like a netted shark. If you try to get close to a creature in that state, you’ll lose a hand.”

“A fight, then. I suppose we both know it’ll come to that.”

“And the outcome of that fight?”

“My ship is the stronger and I have eighty more souls to spare. It won’t be pretty, but I intend to make it mathematical.”

“Zamira slain, then.”

“That’s what tends to happen—”

“Assuming you allow her the courtesy of death in battle.”

“Allow?”

“Consider,” said Colvard, “that while Zamira’s course of action is too dangerous to tolerate, her logic was impeccable in one respect.”

“And that is?”

“Merely killing her, plus this Ravelle and Valora, would only serve to bandage a wound that already festers. The rot will deepen. We need to sate Maxilan Stragos’ ambition, not just foil it temporarily.”

“Agreed. But I’m losing my taste for subtlety as fast as I’m depleting my supply, Colvard. I’m going to be blunt with Drakasha. Grant me the same courtesy.”

“Stragos needs a victory not for the sake of his own vanity, but to rouse the people of his city. If that victory is lurking in the waters near Tal Verrar, and if that victory is colorful enough, what need would he have to trouble us down here?”

“We put a sacrifice on the altar,” Rodanov whispered. “We put Zamira on the altar.”

“After Zamira does some damage. After she raises just enough hell to panic the city. If the notorious pirate, the infamous rogue Zamira Drakasha, with a five-thousand solari bounty on her head, were to be paraded through Tal Verrar in chains … brought to justice so quickly after foolishly challenging the city once again …”

“Stragos victorious. Tal Verrar united in admiration.” Rodanov sighed. “Zamira hung over the Midden Deep in a cage.”

“Satisfaction in every quarter,” said Colvard.

“I may not be able to take her alive, though.”

“Whatever you hand over to the archon would be of equal value. Corpse or quick, alive or dead, he’ll have his trophy, and the Verrari would swarm the streets to see it. It would be best, I suspect, to let him have what’s left of the Poison Orchid as well.”

“I do the dirty work. Then hand him the victor’s laurels.”

“And the Ghostwinds will be spared.”

Rodanov stared out across the waters of the bay for some time before speaking again. “So we presume. But we have no better notions.”

“When will you leave?”

“The morning tide.”

“I don’t envy you the task of navigating the Sovereign through the Trader’s Gate—”

“I don’t envy myself. I’ll take the Parlor Passage.”

“Even by day, Jaffrim?”

“Hours count. I refuse to see any more wasted.” He turned for shore, to retrieve his boots and be on his way. “Can’t buy in for the last hand if you don’t get there in time to take a chair.”

2

FEELING THE hot sting of sudden tears in his eyes, Locke slipped his finger away from the trigger of the alley-piece and slowly put it up in the air.

“Will you at least tell me why?” he said.

“Later.” Jean didn’t lower his own weapon. “Give me the crossbow. Slowly. Slowly!”

Locke’s arm was shaking; the nervous reaction had lent an unwanted jerkiness to his movements. Concentrating, trying to keep his emotions under control, Locke passed the bow over to Jean.

“Good,” said Jean. “Keep your hands up. You two brought rope, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got him under my bolt. Tie him up. Get his hands and his feet, and make the knots tight.”

One of their ambushers pointed his own crossbow into the air and fumbled for rope in a jacket pocket. The other lowered his bow and produced a knife. His eyes had just moved from Locke to his associate when Jean made his next move.

With his own bow in one hand and Locke’s in the other, he calmly pivoted and put a bolt into the head of each of their attackers.

Locke heard the sharp twak-twak of the double release, but it took several seconds for full comprehension of its meaning to travel from his eyes to the back of his skull. He stood there shaking, jaw hanging open, while the two strangers spurted blood, twitched, and died. One of them reflexively curled a finger around the trigger of his weapon. With a final twak that made Locke jump, a bolt whizzed into the darkness.

“Jean, you—”

“How difficult was it to give me the damn weapon?”

“But you … you said—”

“I said …” Jean grabbed him by his lapels and shook him. “What do you mean ‘I said,’ Locke? Why were you paying attention to what I was saying?”

“You didn’t—”

“Gods, you’re shaking. You believed me? How could you believe me?” Jean released him and stared at him, aghast. “I thought you were just playing along too intently!”

“You didn’t give me a hand signal, Jean! What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“Didn’t give you a hand signal? I flashed you the ‘lying’ sign, plain as that bloody burning ship!”

“You did not—”

“I did! As if I could forget! I can’t believe this! How could you ever think … Where did you think I’d found the time to broker a deal with anyone else? We’ve been on the same damn ship for two months!”

“Jean, without the signal—”

“I did give it to you, you twit! I gave it when I did the whole cold, reluctant betrayer bit! ‘Actually, I know who sent them.’ Remember?”

“Yeah—”

“And then the hand signal! The ‘Oh, look, Jean Tannen is lying about betraying his best friend in the whole fucking world to a couple of Verrari cutthroats’ signal! Shall we practice that one more often? Do we really need to?”

“I didn’t see a signal, Jean. Honest to all the gods.”

“You missed it.”

“Missed it? I—yeah, look, fine. I missed it. It was dark, crossbows everywhere, I should’ve known. I should’ve known we didn’t even need it. I’m sorry.”

He sighed, and looked over at the two bodies, feathered shafts sticking grotesquely out of their motionless heads.

“We really, really needed to interrogate one of those bastards, didn’t we?”

“Yes,” said Jean.

“It was … bloody good shooting, regardless.”

“Yes.”

“Jean?”

“Mm?”

“We should really be running like hell right now.”

“Oh. Yes. Let’s.”

3

“AHOY THE ship,” cried Locke as the boat nudged up against the Poison Orchid’s side. He released his grip on the oars with relief; Caldris would have been proud of the pace they’d set in scudding out of Tal Verrar, through a flotilla of priestly delegations and drunkards, past the flaming galleon and the blackened hulks of the previous sacrifices, through air still choked with gray haze.

“Gods,” said Delmastro as she helped them up the entry port, “what happened? Are you hurt?”

“Got my feelings dented,” said Jean, “but all this blood has been borrowed for the occasion.”

Locke glanced down at his own finery, smeared with the life of at least two of their attackers. He and Jean looked like drunken amateur butchers.

“Did you get what you needed?” asked Delmastro.

“What we needed? Yes. What we might have wanted? No. And from the goddamn mystery attackers that won’t give us a moment’s peace in the city? Far too much.”

“Who’s this, then?”

“We have no idea,” said Locke. “How do the bastards know where we are, or who we are? It’s been nearly two months! Where were we indiscreet?”

“The Sinspire,” said Jean, a bit sheepishly.

“How were they waiting for us at the docks, then? Pretty bloody efficient!”

“Were you followed back to the ship?” asked Delmastro.

“Not that we could tell,” said Jean, “but I think we’d be fools to linger.”

Delmastro nodded, produced her whistle, and blew the familiar three sharp notes. “At the waist! Ship capstan bars! Stand by to weigh anchor! Boatswain’s party, ready to hoist the boat!”

“You two look upset,” she said to Locke and Jean as the ship became a whirlwind of activity around them.

“Why shouldn’t we be?” Locke rubbed his stomach, still feeling a dull ache where the Sinspire bouncer had struck him. “We got away, sure, but someone pinned a hell of a lot of trouble on us in return.”

“You know what I like to do when I’m in a foul mood?” said Ezri sweetly. “I like to sack ships.” She raised her finger and pointed slowly across the deck, past the hustling crewfolk, out to sea, where another vessel could just be seen, lit by its stern lanterns against the southern darkness. “Oh, look—there’s one right now!”

They were knocking on Drakasha’s cabin door just moments later.

“You wouldn’t be standing on two legs if that blood was yours,” she said as she invited them in. “Is it too much to hope that it belongs to Stragos?”

“It is.”

“Pity. Well, at least you came back. That’s reassuring.”

Paolo and Cosetta were tangled together on their little bed, snoring peacefully. Drakasha seemed to see no need to whisper in their presence. Locke grinned, remembering that he’d learned to sleep through some pretty awful distractions at their age, too.

“Did you make any real progress?” asked Drakasha.

“We bought time,” said Locke. “And we got out of the city. The issue was in doubt.”

“Captain,” said Delmastro, “we were sort of wondering if we could get started on the next part of this whole scheme a bit early. Like right now.”

“You want to do some boarding and socializing?”

“There’s a likely suitor waiting to dance about two miles south by west. Away from the city, outside the reefs—”

“And the city’s a bit absorbed in the festa at the moment,” added Locke.

“It’d just be a quick visit, like we’ve been discussing,” said Ezri. “Rouse them up, make ’em piss their breeches, loot the purse and the portable goods, throw things overboard, cut some chains and cripple the rigging—”

“I suppose we have to start somewhere,” said Drakasha. “Del, send Utgar down to borrow some of my silks and cushions. I want a makeshift bed rigged for the children in the rope locker. If I’m going to wake them up to hide them, it’s only fair.”

“Right,” said Delmastro.

“What’s the wind?”

“Out of the northeast.”

“Put us around due south, bring it onto the larboard quarter. Reefed topsails, slow and steady. Tell Oscarl to hoist out the boats, behind our hull so our friend can’t see them in the water.”

“Aye, Captain.” Delmastro shrugged out of her overcoat, left it on Drakasha’s table, and ran from the cabin. A few seconds later Locke could hear commotion on deck, Oscarl shouting about how they’d only just been told to raise the boat, and Delmastro yelling something about soft-handed, slack-witted idlers.

“You two look ghastly,” said Zamira. “I’ll have to get a new sea chest to separate the blood-drenched finery from the clean. Confine yourselves to wearing reds and browns next time.”

“You know, Captain,” said Locke, staring down at the blood-soaked sleeves of his jacket, “that sort of gives me an idea. A really, really amusing idea …”

4

JUST PAST the second hour of the morning, with Tal Verrar finally shuddering into a drunken slumber and the festa fires extinguished, the Poison Orchid in her costume as the Chimera crept past the Happy Pilchard. She passed the battered, sleepy little ketch at a distance of about two hundred yards, flying a minimal number of navigational lanterns and offering no hail. That wasn’t entirely unusual, in waters where not one act of piracy had been reported for more than seven years.

In darkness, it was impossible to see that the Orchid’s deck carried no boats.

Those boats slowly emerged from the ship’s larboard shadow, and at a silent signal their rowers exploded into action. With the haste of their passage they turned the dark sea white. Three faint, frothy lines reached out from Orchid to Pilchard, and by the time the lone watchman on at the ketch’s stern noticed anything, it was far too late.

“Ravelle,” cried Jean, who was the first up the ketch’s side. “Ravelle!” Still dressed in his blood-spattered finery, he’d wrapped a scrap of red linen around his head and borrowed an iron-shod quarterstaff from one of the Orchid’s arms lockers. Orchids scrambled up behind him—Jabril and Malakasti, Streva and Rask. They carried clubs and saps, leaving their blades sheathed at their belts.

Three boats’ worth of pirates boarded from three separate directions; the ketch’s meager crew was swept into the waist by shouting, club-waving lunatics, all hollering a name that was meaningless to them, until at last they were subdued and the chief of their tormentors came aboard to exalt in his victory.

“The name’s Ravelle!”

Locke paced the deck before the thirteen cringing crewfolk and their strange blue-robed passenger. Locke, like Jean, had kept his bloody clothing and topped it off with a red sash at his waist, a red bandanna over his hair, and a scattering of Zamira’s jewelry for effect. “Orrin Ravelle! And I’ve come back to pay my respects to Tal Verrar!”

“Don’t kill us, sir,” pleaded the captain of the little vessel, a skinny man of about thirty with the tan of a lifelong mariner. “We ain’t even from Tal Verrar, just calling so our charter can—”

“You are interrupting critical hydrographic experiments,” shouted the blue-robed man, attempting to rise to his feet. He was shoved back down by a squad of leering Orchids. “This information is vital to the interest of all mariners! You cut your own throat if you—”

“What the hell’s a critical hydrographic experiment, old man?”

“By examining seafloor composition—”

“Seafloor composition? Can I eat that? Can I spend it? Can I take it back to my cabin and fuck it sideways?”

“No and no and most certainly no!”

“Right,” said Locke. “Toss this fucker over the side.”

“You ignorant bastards! You hypocritical apes. Let go—let go of me!” Locke was pleased to see Jean stepping in to perform the duty of heaving the robed scholar off the deck; not only would the man be scared witless, but Jean would control the situation precisely to keep him from actually getting hurt.

“Oh, please, sir, don’t do that,” said the Pilchard’s captain. “Master Donatti’s harmless sir, please—”

“Look,” said Locke, “is everyone on this tub an idiot besides me? Why would I sully the soles of my boots with a visit to this embarrassment unless you had something I wanted?”

“The, um, hydrographic experiments?” asked the captain.

“Money!” Locke seized him by the front of his tunic and heaved him to his feet. “I want every valuable, every drinkable, every consumable this overgrown dinghy has to offer, or you can watch the old bastard drown! How’s that for a hydrographic experiment?”

5

THEY DIDN’T clear such a bad haul for such a little ship; obviously, Donatti had paid well to be carried around for his experiments, and been unwilling to sail without many of the comforts of home. A boat laden with liquors, fine tobacco, silk pillows, books, artificers’ instruments, alchemical drugs, and bags of silver coins was soon sent back to the Orchid, while “Ravelle’s” pirates finished sabotaging the little ship.

“Rudder lines disabled, sir,” said Jean about half an hour after they’d boarded.

“Halyards cut, braces cut,” shouted Delmastro, plainly enjoying her role as an ordinary buccaneer for this attack. She strolled along the larboard rail with a hatchet, chopping things seemingly at whim. “Whatever the hell that was, cut!”

“Sir, please,” pleaded the captain, “that’ll take ages to fix. You got all the valuables already.…”

“I don’t want you to die out here,” said Locke, yawning in feigned boredom at the captain’s pleas. “I just want to have a few quiet hours before this news gets back to Tal Verrar.”

“Oh, sir, we’ll do what you ask. Whatever you want; we won’t tell no one—”

“Please,” said Locke. “Cling to some dignity, Master Pilchard. I want you to talk about this. All over the place. Use it to leverage sympathy from whores. Maybe get a few free drinks in taverns. Most importantly, repeat my name. Orrin Ravelle.”

“O-orrin Ravelle, sir.”

“Captain Orrin Ravelle,” said Locke, drawing a dagger and placing it against the captain’s throat. “Of the good ship Tal Verrar Is Fucked! You stop in and let them know I’m in the neighborhood!”

“I, uh, I will, sir.”

“Good.” Locke dropped the man back to the deck and stowed his dagger. “Then let’s call it quits. I’ll let you have your amusing little toy ship back now.”

Locke and Jean met briefly at the stern before boarding the last boat back to the Orchid.

“Gods,” said Jean, “the archon is going to love this.”

“Well, we didn’t lie to him, did we? We promised pirate attacks at every compass point. We just didn’t say they’d all feature Zamira as the major attraction.” Locke blew a kiss to the city, spread across the northern horizon. “Happy festa, Protector.”

6

“IF THERE’S one thing I never particularly need to do again in my life,” said Locke, “it’s dangle here all day painting this bloody ship’s ass.”

At the third hour of the afternoon the next day, Locke and Jean were hanging from crude rope swings secured to the Poison Orchid’s taffrail. Now that last night’s hasty coat of dark paint had forever blotted out the Chimera, they were laboriously christening the ship with a new moniker, Delight. Their hands and tunics were spattered with thick silver gobs.

They had gotten as far as Delig, and Paolo and Cosetta were making faces at them through the stern windows of Zamira’s cabin.

“I think piracy’s a bit like drinking,” said Jean. “You want to stay out all night doing it, you pay the price the next day.”

The Orchid had turned north that morning a comfortable forty or fifty miles west of the city; Drakasha had cleared the area of their Pilchard raid with haste, and decided to spend the day at a remove, brushing up her old wooden girl’s new disguise. Or, more accurately, turning that duty over to Locke and Jean.

They finally managed to put the “light” into Delight around the fourth hour of the afternoon. Thirsty and sun-baked, they were hauled up to the quarterdeck by Delmastro, Drakasha, and Nasreen. After they’d gulped down proffered mugs of lukewarm cask water, Drakasha beckoned for them to follow her down to her cabin.

“Last night was well done,” she said. “Well done and nicely confusing. I don’t doubt the archon will be rather vexed.”

“I’d pay something to be a fly on a tavern wall in Tal Verrar these next few days,” said Locke.

“But it’s also given me a thought, on our general strategy.”

“Which is?”

“You told me that captain and crew of the ketch weren’t Verrari—that will curb some of the impact of their story. There’ll be questions about their reliability. Ignorant rumors and mutterings.”

“Right …”

“So what we’ve just done will fester,” said Zamira. “It will cause comment, speculation, and a great deal of aggravation to Stragos, but it won’t cause a panic, or have the Verrari rioting in the streets for his intercession. In a way, as our first bit of piracy on his behalf, it’s a bit of a botch job.”

“You wound our professional pride,” said Jean.

“And my own! But consider this … perhaps what we need is a string of similarly botched jobs.”

“This sounds like it’s going to have a very entertaining explanation,” said Locke.

“Del told me this afternoon that you two are pinning your hopes for a solution on Stragos’ personal alchemist; that you can somehow secure his assistance by making him a private offer.”

“That’s true enough,” said Locke. “It’s one of the aspects of last night’s visit to the Mon Magisteria that didn’t go very well.”

“So obviously what we need to do,” said Drakasha, “is give you another chance to make this alchemist’s acquaintance. Another plausible reason to visit the Mon Magisteria, soon. Good little servants, eager to hear their master’s opinion on how their work is progressing.”

“Ahhh,” said Locke. “And if he’s looking to shout at us, we can be sure he’ll at least let us in for a chat.”

“Exactly. So. What we need to do … is something colorful. Something striking, something that is undeniably a sincere example of our best efforts on Stragos’ behalf. But … it can’t threaten Tal Verrar directly. Not to the point that Stragos would feel it a useful step in his intended direction.”

“Hmmm,” said Jean. “Striking. Colorful. Nonthreatening. I’m not entirely sure these concepts blend well with the piratical life.”

“Kosta,” said Drakasha, “you’re staring at me very strangely. Do you have an idea, or did I leave you out in the sun for too long today?”

“Striking, colorful, and not threatening Tal Verrar directly,” Locke whispered. “Gods! Captain Drakasha, you would so honor me if you would consent to one humble suggestion.…”

7

MOUNT AZAR was quiet this morning, the twenty-fifth of Aurim, and the sky above Salon Corbeau was blue as a river’s depths, unmarked by the old volcano’s gray smoke. It was another mild winter on the northern Brass Coast, in a climate more reliable than Verrari clockwork.

“New swells coming in,” said Zoran, chief dock attendant of the morning watch.

“I don’t see any more waves than what we already got.” Giatti, his more junior counterpart, stared earnestly across the harbor.

“Not swells, you idiot, swells. Gentlefolk. The landed and larded class.” Zoran adjusted his olive-green tabard and brushed it clean, wishing that he didn’t have to wear Lady Saljesca’s damned felt hat. It made him look taller, but it generated sweat without keeping it out of his eyes.

Beyond the natural rock walls of Salon Corbeau’s harbor, a stately new brig, a two-master with a dark witchwood hull, had joined the two Lashani feluccas at anchor in the gentle sea. A longboat was coming in from the newcomer; four or five of the quality rowed by a dozen oarsmen.

As the longboat pulled up alongside the dock, Giatti bent down and began uncoiling a rope from one of the dock pilings. When the bow of the boat was secure, Zoran stepped to its side, bowed, and extended his hand to the first young woman to rise from her seat.

“Welcome to Salon Corbeau,” he said. “How are you styled, and how must you be announced?”

The short young woman, unusually tanned for someone of her station, smiled prettily as she took Zoran’s hand. She wore a forest-green jacket over a matching set of frilled skirts; the color set her curly, chestnut-colored hair off rather well. She seemed to be wearing rather less makeup and jewelry than might be expected, however. A poorer relative of whoever owned the ship?

“Forgive me, madam, but I must know whom I’m announcing.” She stepped safely onto the dock, and he released his grip on her hand. To his surprise, she didn’t release hers, and in one smooth motion she was up against him with the menacing weight of a blackened-steel dagger touching the crook of his thigh. He gasped.

“Heavily armed pirates, party of ninety-eight,” the woman said. “Scream or fight back and you’re going to be one surprised eunuch.”

8

“STAY CALM,” said Delmastro as Locke led Jean, Streva, Jabril, and Big Konar up onto the dock. “We’re all friends here. Just a wealthy family coming up for a visit to your lovely little village. City. Thing.” She kept her knife between herself and the older dock attendant, so there was no chance of anyone seeing it from more than a few feet away. Konar took the younger dock attendant, placing one arm around his shoulder as though they knew each other, and muttered something into his ear that made the color drain from the poor fellow’s face.

Slowly, carefully, the Orchids all made their way onto the dock. At the heart of the group, those wearing layers of fine clothing tried not to make too much noise, laden down as they were with an arsenal of clattering weapons beneath their cloaks and skirts. It had been too much to suppose that the dock attendants wouldn’t notice sabers and hatchets in the belts of the rowers.

“Here we are, then,” said Locke.

“Looks like a nice place,” said Jean.

“Looks are most assuredly deceiving. Now we just wait for the captain to get things started.”

9

“EXCUSE ME? Excuse me, sir?”

Zamira Drakasha, alone in the Orchid’s smallest boat, stared up at the bored-looking guard behind the ornamented gunwale of the yacht closest to her ship. That yacht, about fifteen yards long, had a single mast and banks of four oars per side. Those oars were locked upward now, poised like the wings of a stuffed and mounted bird. Just abaft the mast was a tent-like pavilion with faintly fluttering silk walls. This tent was between the guard and the mainland.

The guard peered down at her, squinting. Zamira was wearing a thick, shapeless yellow dress that was almost a robe. She’d left her hat in her cabin, and pulled the bangles and ribbons out of her hair.

“What do you want?”

“My mistress has left me to tend to chores on her ship, while she takes her pleasure ashore,” said Zamira. “I have several heavy things to move, and I was wondering if I could beg for your help.”

“You want me to come over there and be a mule for you?”

“It would be so kind of you.”

“And, ah, what are you prepared to do in exchange?”

“Why, offer my heartfelt thanks to the gods for your goodness,” said Zamira, “or perhaps I could brew you some tea?”

“You have a cabin over there?”

“Yes, by the kindness of my mistress—”

“A few minutes alone with you and that mouth of yours, and I’d be happy to move your shit for you.”

“How … how inappropriate! My mistress will—”

“Who’s your mistress, then?”

“The Lady-in-Becoming Ezriane de la Mastron, of Nicora—”

“Nicora? Ha! As if anyone would give a shit. Get lost.”

The guard turned away, chuckling to himself.

“Ah,” said Zamira. “So be it. I know when I’m not wanted.”

She reached forward and moved the dun-colored tarpaulin on the bottom of the boat, just ahead of her feet. Beneath it was the heaviest crossbow in the Poison Orchid’s arsenal, carrying a barbed steel bolt the length of her upper arm.

“And I simply do not care.”

The guard was no doubt flustered by the sudden emergence, two seconds later, of a crossbow quarrel’s point from his sternum. Zamira wondered if he had time to speculate on the location of the rest of the bolt before he collapsed, the upper and lower halves of his spine no longer on speaking terms.

Zamira pulled the yellow dress up and over her head, then tossed it into the back of the boat. Beneath it she wore her Elderglass vest, light tunic and breeches, boots, and a pair of slender leather bracers. Her sword-belt was at her waist, empty; she reached beneath her rowing bench, pulled out her sabers, and slid them into their scabbards. She rowed her little boat up against the yacht’s side and waved to Nasreen, who stood at the Orchid’s bow. Two crewfolk climbed over the brig’s side and dove into the water.

The swimmers were alongside a minute later. Zamira helped them out of the water and sent them forward to man one of the sets of oars. She then pulled the pins to release the yacht’s anchor chains; no sense in wasting time hoisting it up. With her two sailors rowing and Zamira manning the rudder, it took just a few minutes to shift the yacht behind the Poison Orchid.

Her crew began to come quietly down onto the yacht, armed and armored, looking completely incongruous as they squeezed themselves onto the fragile, scrollwork-covered vessel. Zamira counted forty-two before she felt the boat could take no more; crewfolk were crouched on deck, stuffed into the cabin, and manning all the oars. This would do; nearly two-thirds of her crew on shore to handle the main attack, and the other third on the Orchid to hit the vessels in the harbor.

She waved at Utgar, who would be in charge of that last duty. He grinned and left the entry port to begin his final preparations.

Zamira’s rowers brought the yacht out and around the Orchid; they turned to larboard just past her stern and pointed themselves straight toward the beach. Beyond that the buildings and tiered gardens of the rich little valley could be seen, laid out neat as food before a banquet.

“Who brought the finishing touch?” Zamira asked.

One of her crewmen unfolded a red silk banner and began securing it to the ensign halyard dangling from the yacht’s mast.

“Right, then.” Zamira knelt at the bow of the yacht and gave her sword-belt a habitual adjustment. “Oars, with a will! Put us on that beach!”

As the yacht surged forward across the temporarily calm waters of the bay, Zamira noticed a few small figures atop the nearby cliffs finally taking alarm. One or two of them ran toward the city; it looked as though they’d arrive about the same time Zamira expected to feel the sand of the beach beneath her boots.

“That’s it,” she shouted. “Send up the red and let’s have some music!”

As the scarlet banner shot up the halyard and caught the wind, every Orchid on the yacht let loose with a wild, wordless howl. Their yells echoed throughout the harbor, the disguised Orchids at the dock began seizing weapons, every visible person on the cliffs was now fleeing for the city, and Zamira’s sabers flashed in the sunlight as she drew them for action.

It was the very definition of a beautiful morning.

10

“WAS IT absolutely necessary to sack Salon Corbeau so thoroughly?” said Stragos.

Locke and Jean were seated in the archon’s office, surrounded by the faint shadowy flutterings of his thousand mechanical insects. It might just have been the shadows of the low-lit room, but it seemed to Locke that the lines on Stragos’ face had deepened in the days since he’d last seen him.

“It was loads of fun. You have some particular attachment to the place?”

“Not for my own sake, Lamora—it’s just that I had the clear impression that you were going to focus your activities on shipping in the vicinity of Tal Verrar.”

“Salon Corbeau is generally considered to be in the vicinity of—”

“Is it a ship, Lamora?”

“There were ships in the harbor—”

“I have the gods-damned numbers here, from my agents,” said Stragos. He stabbed at a piece of parchment with two fingers. “Two feluccas sunk. Forty-six yachts, pleasure barges, and smaller craft, burned or sunk. One hundred and eighteen slaves stolen. Nineteen of Countess Saljesca’s private guard slain, sixteen wounded. The vast majority of Salon Corbeau’s residences and guest villas burnt, the gardens all but destroyed. Her replica stadium gutted. Miscellaneous damages and losses exceeding ninety-five thousand solari at a first estimate. About the only things you missed were a few shops and Lady Saljesca’s residence itself!”

Locke smirked. That had been by design; after Saljesca’s most important guests had fled to her fortresslike manor and barricaded themselves there with her remaining soldiers, attacking the manor would have been fruitless; the Orchids would have been slaughtered beneath the walls. But with their only opposition bottled up atop the valley, Drakasha’s crew had been free to run amok for more than an hour, looting and burning the valley at leisure. They’d lost only four crewfolk in the attack.

As for the shops, well—Locke had specifically requested that the area surrounding the Baumondain family business be left alone.

“We didn’t have time to hit everything,” he said. “And now that Salon Corbeau’s more or less ruined, some of those artisans might see fit to settle in Tal Verrar. Safer down here, with you and your military around, right?”

“How can you spend your time executing a raid like that so efficiently,” said Stragos, “when your efforts toward my primary design are so perfunctory?”

“I object—”

“One attack by Orrin Ravelle—thank you for that, by the way—the night of the festa, against an Iridani ketch hired by a mad eccentric. Two more reported attacks, both in the vicinity of Salon Corbeau, one by Ravelle and one by the unknown “Captain de la Mastron.” Does Drakasha fear to take credit for her own work?”

“We’re trying to create the impression of multiple pirates at work—”

“What you are trying is my patience. You have stolen no major cargos, burned no ships at sea, nor even murdered any crewfolk. You content yourselves with money and portable valuables, you humiliate and frighten your prisoners, you do little more than vandalize their vessels, and then you vanish.”

“We can’t weigh ourselves down with heavier cargo; we’ve got a lot of roaming to do.”

“It seems to me that you have a fair bit of killing to do,” said Stragos. “The city is more bemused now than concerned; I continue to suffer in the public eye for the Ravelle affair, but few fear that this spree of … hooliganism truly bodes ill for Verrari trade.

“Even the sack of Salon Corbeau has failed to arouse anxiety. Your recent attacks give the impression that you now fear to approach the city again; that these waters remain safe.” Stragos glared before continuing. “Were I purchasing goods from a tradesman, at the moment, I would not be well pleased with their quality.”

“The difference, of course,” said Locke, “is that when I get fitted for, say, new jackets, I don’t poison my tailor until he has the length of the sleeves right—”

“My life and fortunes are at stake,” said Stragos, rising from his chair. “And so are yours, dependent upon your success. I require butchers, not jesters. Take ships within sight of my city’s walls. Put their crews to the sword. Take their cargo or burn it—the time has come to be serious. That and that alone will stir this city to its foundations.

“Do not return,” he said, emphasizing every word, “until you have spilled blood in these waters. Until you have become a scourge.”

“So be it,” said Locke. “Another sip of our antidote—”

“No.”

“If you wish us to work with absolute confidence—”

“You will keep,” said Stragos. “Like pickled eggs in a jar. It has been less than two weeks since your last dose. You are in no danger for six more.”

“But—wait, Archon.” Jean interrupted him as he was turning to leave. “One thing more. When we came to this city on the night of the festa, we were attacked again.”

Stragos’ eyes narrowed. “The same assassins as before?”

“If you mean the same mystery, yes, we think so,” said Jean. “Some lurked in wait for us at the docks after we visited Requin. If they received a tip-off concerning our presence in the city, they moved damned fast.”

“And the only place we went,” added Locke, “before visiting the Golden Steps was here.”

“My people had nothing to do with it,” said Stragos. “Indeed, this is the first I have heard of the matter.”

“We left four dead behind us,” said Jean.

“Unremarkable. The constables found nearly thirty bodies throughout the city after the festa; there are always arguments and robberies to supply them.” Stragos sighed. “Obviously, this is nothing of my doing, and I have nothing more to tell you on the matter. I presume you’ll be returning straight to your ship when you leave.”

“At speed,” said Locke. “Staying as far from the islands as we can.”

“The complications of some previous malfeasance have obviously come back to ensnare you,” said Stragos. “Now leave. No more antidote and no more consultation. You extend your lease on fair health again only once you send panicked merchants to my gates, begging for help because death lurks beyond these harbors. Go now and do your job.”

He whirled and left without a further word. A moment later a squad of Eyes marched in through the main door and waited expectantly.

“Well, damn,” muttered Jean.

11

“WE’LL GET the bastard,” said Ezri as they lay together in her cabin that night. The Poison Orchid, now calling itself the Mercurial, was treading heavy seas about twenty miles southwest of Tal Verrar, and the two of them clung to one another as they rocked back and forth in the hammock.

“With difficulty,” said Jean. “He won’t see us now until we do some serious work on his behalf … and if we do that, we might push things to the point that he no longer needs us. We’ll get a knife, rather than an antidote. Or … if it comes to that, he’ll get the knife—”

“Jean, I don’t want to hear that,” she said. “Don’t talk about it.”

“It’s got to be faced, love—”

“I don’t believe it,” she said. “I don’t. There’s always a way to attack or a way to escape. That’s the way it is out here.” She rolled over on top of him and kissed him. “I told you not to give up, Jean Tannen, and the thing about me is I get my way.”

“Gods,” whispered Jean, “how did I ever live before I met you?”

“Sadly, poorly, miserably,” she said. “I make everything so much better. It’s why the gods put me here. Now quit moping and tell me something pleasant!”

“Something pleasant?”

“Yeah, slackwit, I’ve heard that other lovers sometimes tell one another pleasant things when they’re alone—”

“Yes, but with you it’s sort of on pain of death, isn’t it?”

“It could be. Let me find a saber—”

“Ezri,” he said with sudden seriousness. “Look—when this is over, Stragos and all, Leocanto and I might be … very rich men. If our other business in Tal Verrar goes well.”

“Not if,” she said. “When.”

“All right,” he said. “When it does … you really could come with us. Leo and I spoke about it a bit. You don’t have to choose one life or another, Ezri. You can just sort of … go on leave for a bit. We all could.”

“What do you mean?”

“We could get a yacht,” said Jean, “in Vel Virazzo, there’s this place—the private marina, where all the swells keep their boats and barges. They usually have a few for sale, if you’ve got a few hundred solari on hand, which we intend to. We have to go to Vel Virazzo anyway, to sort of … finish our business. We could have a boat fitted out in a couple of days, and then just … poke around a bit! Drift. Enjoy ourselves. Pretend to be useless gentlefolk for a while.”

“And come back to all this later, you mean?”

“Whenever you wanted,” said Jean. “Have it as you like. You always get your way, don’t you?”

“Live on a yacht for a while with you and Leocanto,” she said. “No offense, Jean, you’re passable for a landsman, but by his own admission Leocanto couldn’t con a shoe across a puddle of piss—”

“What do you think we’d be bringing you along for, hmmm?”

“Well, I would have imagined that this had something to do with it,” she said, moving her hands strategically to a more interesting location.

“Ah,” he said, “and so it does, but you could sort of be honorary captain, too—”

“Can I name the boat?”

“As if you’d let anyone else do it!”

“All right,” she whispered. “If that’s the plan, that’s the plan. We’ll do it.”

“You really mean—”

“Hell,” she said, “with just the swag we pulled from Salon Corbeau, everyone on this crew can stay drunk for months when we get back to the Ghostwinds. Zamira won’t miss me for a while.” They kissed. “Half a year.” They kissed again. “Year or two, maybe.”

“Always a way to attack,” Jean mused between kisses, “always a way to escape.”

“Of course,” she whispered. “Hold fast, and sooner or later you’ll always find what you’re after.”

12

JAFFRIM RODANOV paced the quarterdeck of the Dread Sovereign in the silvery-orange light of earliest morning. They were bound north by west with the wind on the starboard quarter, about forty miles southwest of Tal Verrar. The seas were running at five or six feet.

Tal Verrar. Half a day’s sailing to the city they’d avoided like a colony of slipskinners these past seven years; to the home of a navy that could crush even his powerful Sovereign if roused to anger. There was no genuine freedom in these waters, only a vague illusion. Fat merchant ships he could never touch; a rich city he could never sack. Yet he could live with that. It was grand, provided only that the freedom and the plunder of the southern seas could remain.

“Captain,” said Ydrena, appearing on deck with a chipped clay mug of her usual brandy-laced morning tea in one hand, “I don’t mean to ruin a fine new morning—”

“You wouldn’t be my first if I needed my ass kissed more than I needed my ship sailed.”

“A week out here without a lead, Captain.”

“We’ve seen two dozen sails of merchants, luggers, and pleasure galleys just these past two days,” said Rodanov. “And we have yet to see a naval ensign. There’s still time to find her.”

“No quarrel with that logic, Captain. It’s the finding her that’s—”

“A royal pain in the ass. I know.”

“It’s not as though she’ll be roaming around announcing herself as Zamira Drakasha of the Poison Orchid,” said Ydrena, taking a sip of her tea. “ ‘Well met, we’re infamous shipwreckers from the Ghostwinds; mind if we pull alongside for a visit?’ ”

“She can claim whatever name she likes,” said Rodanov, “paint whatever she wants on her stern, mess with her sail plan until she looks like a constipated xebec, but she’s only got one hull. Dark witchwood hull. And we’ve been seeing it for years.”

“All hulls are dark until you get awful close, Captain.”

“Ydrena, if I had a better notion, believe me, we’d be pursuing it.” He yawned and stretched, feeling the heavy muscles in his arms flex pleasantly. “Only word we’ve got is a few ships getting hit, and now Salon Corbeau. She’s circling out here somewhere, keeping west. It’s what I’d do—more sea room.”

“Aye,” said Ydrena. “Such a very great deal of sea room.”

“Ydrena,” he said softly, “I’ve come a long way to break an oath and kill a friend. I’ll go as far as it takes, and I’ll haunt her wake as long as it takes. We’ll quarter this sea until one of us finds the other.”

“Or the crew decides they’ve had—”

“It’s a good long haul till we cross that line. In the meantime, double all our top-eyes by night. Triple them by day. We’ll put half the fucking crew up the masts if we have to.”

“New sail ahoy,” called a voice from atop the foremast. The cry was passed back down the deck, and Rodanov ran forward, unable to restrain himself. They’d heard the cry fifty times that week if they’d heard it once, but each time might be the time.

“Where away?”

“Three points off the starboard bow!”

“Ydrena,” Rodanov shouted, “set more canvas! Straight for the sighting! Helm, bring us about north-northeast on the starboard tack!”

Whatever the sighting was, the Dread Sovereign was at home in wind and waters like this; her size and weight allowed her to crash through waves that would steal speed from lighter vessels. They would close with the sighting very soon.

Still, the minutes passed interminably. They came about to their new course, seizing the power of the wind now blowing from just abaft their starboard beam. Rodanov prowled the forecastle, waiting—

“Captain Rodanov! She’s a two-master, sir! Say again, two masts!”

“Very good,” he shouted. “Ydrena! First mate to the forecastle!”

She was there in a minute, pale blond hair fluttering in the breeze. She tossed back the last of her morning tea as she arrived.

“Take my best glass to the foretop,” he said. “Tell me … as soon as you know anything.”

“Aye,” she said. “At least it’s something to do.”

The morning progressed with torturous slowness, but at least the sky was cloudless. Good conditions for spotting. The sun grew higher and brighter, until—

“Captain,” hollered Ydrena. “Witchwood hull! That’s a two-masted brig with a witchwood hull!”

He couldn’t stand waiting passively anymore. “I’m coming up myself,” he shouted.

Laboriously, he crawled up the foremast shrouds, to the observation platform at the maintop, a place he’d left to smaller, younger sailors for many years. Ydrena was perched there, along with a crewman who shuffled aside to make room for him on the platform. Rodanov took the glass and peered at the ship on the horizon, stared at it until not even the most cautious part of himself would let him deny it.

“It’s her,” he said. “She’s done something fancy to her sails, but that’s the Orchid.”

“What now?”

“Set every scrap of canvas we can bear,” he said. “Steal as much of this ocean from her as we can before she recognizes us.”

“Do you want to try and bring her up with signals? Offer parley, then jump her?”

“ ‘Let us speak behind our hands, lest our lips be read as the book of our designs,’ ” he said.

“More of your poetry?”

“Verse, not poetry. And no. She’ll recognize us, sooner or later, and when she does she’ll know exactly what our business is.”

He passed the glass back to Ydrena, and prepared to go back down the shrouds.

“Straight on for her, cloaks off and weapons free. We can give her that much, for the last fight she’ll ever have.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

BETWEEN BRETHREN

1

“DOES JEROME KNOW that you’re asking me to do this?”

“No.”

Locke stood beside Drakasha at the taffrail, huddled close to her so they could converse privately. It was the seventh hour of the morning, more or less, and the sun was ascending into a cloudless bowl of blue sky. The wind was from the east, a touch abaft their starboard beam, and the waves were getting rowdy.

“And you feel that—”

“Yes, I do feel that I can speak for both of us,” said Locke. “There’s no other choice. We won’t see Stragos again unless you do as he asks. And to be frank, if you do as he asks, I think our usefulness ends. We’ll have one more chance at physical access to him. It’s time to show this fucker how we used to do things in Camorr.”

“I thought you specialized in dishonest finesse.”

“I also do a brisk trade in putting knives to peoples’ throats and shouting at them,” said Locke.

“But if you request another meeting after we sink a few ships for him, don’t you think he’ll be prepared for treachery? Especially in a palace crowded with soldiers?”

“All I have to do is get close to him,” said Locke. “I’m not going to pretend I could fight my way through a wall of guards, but from six inches with a good stiletto, I’m the hand of Aza Guilla Herself.”

“Hold him hostage, then?”

“Simple. Direct. Hopefully effective. If I can’t trick an antidote out of him, or cut a deal with his apothecary, maybe I can frighten him half to death.”

“And you honestly believe you’ve thought this through?”

“Captain Drakasha, I could barely sleep for pondering it. Why do you think I wandered back here to find you?”

“Well—”

“Captain!” The mainmast watch was hailing the deck. “Got action behind us!”

“What do you mean?”

“Sail maybe three points off the larboard quarter, at the horizon. Just came around real sudden. Went from sort of westerly to pointed right at us.”

“Good eyes,” said Drakasha. “Keep me informed. Utgar!”

“Aye, Captain?”

“Double the watch on each mast. On deck there! Make ready for a course change! Stand by tacks and braces! Wait for my word!”

“Real trouble, Captain?”

“Probably not,” said Drakasha. “Even if Stragos had changed his mind since yesterday and decided to hunt us down now, a Verrari warship wouldn’t be coming from that direction.”

“Hopefully.”

“Aye. So what we do is we change our own heading, nice and slow. If their course change was innocent, they’ll sail merrily past.” She cleared her throat. “Helm, come round northwest by north, smartly! Utgar! Get the yards braced for a wind on the starboard quarter!”

“Aye, Captain!”

The Poison Orchid slowly heeled even farther to larboard, until she was headed almost due northwest. The stiff breeze now blew across the quarterdeck, nearly into Locke’s face. To the south he fancied that he could see tiny sails; from the deck the vessel was still hull-down.

A few minutes later came the shout. “Captain! She’s come five or six points to her larboard! She’s for us again!”

“We’re off her starboard bow,” said Drakasha. “She’s trying to close with us. But that doesn’t make sense.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait. Might be a bounty-privateer.”

“How could they know it’s us?”

“Probably got a description of the Orchid from the crew of that ketch you visited. Look, we could only hope to disguise my girl for so long. These lovely witchwood planks of hers are too distinctive.”

“So … how much of a problem is this?”

“Depends on who’s got the speed. If she’s a bounty-privateer, that’s a profitless fight. She’ll be carrying dangerous folk and no swag. So if we’re the faster, I mean to show her our ass and wave farewell.”

“And if not?”

“A profitless fight.”

“Captain,” hollered one of the top-eyes, “she’s a three-master!”

“This just gets better and better,” said Drakasha. “Go wake up Ezri and Jerome for me.”

2

“BAD LUCK,” said Delmastro. “Bad damned luck.”

“Only for them, if I have my way,” said Zamira.

The captain and her lieutenant stood at the taffrail, staring at the faint square of white that marked their pursuer’s position on the horizon. Locke waited with Jean a few steps away, at the starboard rail. Drakasha had nudged the ship a few points south, so that they were traveling west-northwest with the wind fine on the starboard quarter, what she claimed was the Orchid’s best point of sail. Locke knew this was something of a risk; if their opponent was the faster, they could lay an intercepting course that would bring them up much sooner than a stern chase. The trouble was that such a chase to the north could not last; unlimited sea room existed only to their west.

“I’m not sure we’re gaining any ground, Captain,” said Delmastro after a few minutes of silence.

“Nor I. Damn this jumpy sea. If she’s a three-master she may have the weight to carve a better speed out of it.”

“Captain!” The cry from up the mainmast was even more urgent than usual. “Captain, she’s not falling away, and … Captain, beggin’ pardon, but you might want to come and see this for yourself.”

“See what?”

“If I ain’t mad I’ve seen that ship before,” shouted the watch-woman. “I’d swear it. I’d appreciate another set of eyes.”

“I’ll take a look,” said Delmastro. “Mind if I fetch up your favorite glass?”

“Drop it, and I’ll give your cabin over to Paolo and Cosetta.”

Locke watched as Delmastro went up the mainmast a few minutes later armed with Zamira’s pride and joy, a masterpiece of Verrari optics bound in alchemically treated leather. It was a few minutes more before her shout fell to the deck.

“Captain, that’s the Dread Sovereign!”

“What? Del, are you absolutely sure?”

“Seen her often enough, haven’t I?”

“I’m coming up myself!”

Locke exchanged a stare with Jean as Zamira leapt into the mainmast shrouds. A buzz of muttering and swearing had arisen among the crewfolk on deck. About a dozen abandoned their chores and headed aft, craning their necks for a glimpse of the sail in the south. They cleared away in alarm when Drakasha and Delmastro returned to the quarterdeck, looking grim.

“So it’s him?” said Locke.

“It is,” said Drakasha. “And if he’s been looking for us for any length of time, it means he sailed not all that long after we did.”

“So … he could be carrying a message or something, right?”

“No.” Drakasha removed her hat and ran her other hand through her braids, almost nervously. “He opposed this plan more than anyone else on the council of captains. He didn’t sail as long and as far as we did, to risk his ship within spitting distance of Tal Verrar, to deliver any message.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to postpone our previous conversation, Ravelle. The point is moot until we’re sure this ship will still be floating at the end of the day.”

3

LOCKE STARED out across the whitecaps at the Dread Sovereign, now well over the horizon, fixed on them like a needle drawn toward a lodestone. It was the tenth hour of the morning, and Rodanov’s progress at their expense was obvious.

Zamira slammed her glass shut and whirled away from the taffrail, where she’d been studying the same phenomenon.

“Captain,” said Delmastro, “there must be something … if we can just keep him off until nightfall—”

“Then we’d have options, aye. But only a straight stern chase could buy us that much time, and if we fly north we’ll find the coast long before dusk. Not to mention the fact that she’s fresh-careened and we’re past due. The plain truth is, we’ve already lost this race.”

Drakasha and Delmastro said nothing to each other for several moments, until Delmastro cleared her throat.

“I’ll, um, start getting things ready, shall I?”

“You’d better. Let the Red watch keep sleeping as long as you can, if any of them are still asleep.”

Delmastro nodded, grabbed Jean by the tunic sleeve, and pulled him with her toward the main-deck cargo hatch.

“You mean to fight,” said Locke.

“I have no choice but to fight. And neither do you, if you want to live to see dinner. Rodanov has nearly twice our numbers. You understand what a mess we’re looking at.”

“And it’s all for my sake, more or less. I’m sorry, Captain—”

“Avast bullshit, Ravelle. I won’t second-guess my decision to help you, so no one else gets to, either. This is Stragos’ doing, not yours. One way or another his plans would have put us in a tight spot.”

“Thank you for that, Captain Drakasha. Now … I know we’ve had our talk concerning the real extent of my skills in battle, but most of the crew probably still thinks I’m some sort of man-killer. I … I guess I’m saying—”

“You want a spot in the thick of it?”

“Yes.”

“Thought you might ask. I already have a place for you,” she said. “Don’t think you’ll have it easy.”

She stepped away for a moment and shouted forward. “Utgar!”

“Aye, Captain?”

“Fetch the deep-sea lead and give me a cast!”

Locke raised his eyebrows by way of a question, and she said, “Need to know how much water we have beneath our feet. Then I’ll know about how long it’ll take the anchor to drop.”

“Why would you want to drop an anchor?”

“On that matter, you’ll just have to wait to be amazed. Along with Rodanov, hopefully … but that would be asking a great deal.”

“Captain,” Utgar yelled several minutes later, “got about ninety fathoms under us!”

“Right,” she said. “Ravelle, I know you’re off watch right now, but you were witless enough to wander back here and call attention to yourself. Grab a couple of Blues and bring up some ale casks from down below. Try to stay quiet for the sake of the Reds still sleeping. I’ll call all hands in about an hour, and it’s never wise to send people into a tussle like this with their throats too dry.”

“I’ll be happy to do that, Captain. About an hour, then? When do you think we’ll be—”

“I mean to bring the fight before noon. Only one way to win when you’re being chased by someone bigger and tougher than you are. Turn straight around, punch their teeth out, and hope the gods are fond of you.”

4

“ALL HANDS,” shouted Ezri one last time, “all hands at the waist! Idlers and lazy motherfuckers on deck! If you have watchmates still below, haul ’em up yourselves!”

Jean stood at the front of the crowd amidships, waiting for Drakasha to say her piece. She stood at the rail with Ezri, Nasreen, Utgar, Mumchance, Gwillem, and Treganne behind her. The scholar looked deeply annoyed that something as trivial as a murderous ship-to-ship fight could justify disrupting her usual habits.

“Listen well,” shouted Drakasha. “The ship bearing down on us is the Dread Sovereign. Captain Rodanov has taken exception to our business in these waters, and he’s come a long way to give us a fight.”

“We can’t fight that many people,” shouted someone in the crowd.

“It’s not as though we have a choice. They’re closing to board now whether we like it or not,” said Drakasha.

“But what if it’s just you he’s after?” A crewman Jean didn’t recognize spoke up; to give him credit, he too was standing at the front of the crowd, right where Drakasha and all of her officers could see him. “We give you to him, we save ourselves a hell of a fight. This ain’t a navy, and I got the right to be as fond of my life as—”

Jabril pushed through the crowd behind the man and punched him in the small of the back. The man fell writhing to the deck.

“We don’t know that it’s just Drakasha he wants,” Jabril shouted. “Me, I ain’t waitin’ at the rail with my breeches down for someone to kiss my cock! Most of you know as well as I—if captain fights captain it ain’t convenient to let two sides’a the story get back to Port Prodigal!”

“Hold, Jabril,” said Zamira. She hurried down the quarterdeck stairs, stepped over to the would-be pragmatist, and helped him sit up. She then stood before her assembled crew, within reach of the first row. “Basryn here is right about one thing. This isn’t a navy; so you do have the right to be fond of your own lives. I’m not your gods-damned empress. Anyone wants to try handing me over to Rodanov, I’m right here. Now’s your chance.”

When nobody stepped forward from the crowd, Drakasha heaved Basryn to his feet and looked him straight in the eyes. “Now, you can have the smallest boat,” she said, “you and anyone else who wants to help you take it. Or you can stay.”

“Ah, hell,” he said, groaning. “I’m sorry, Captain. I guess … I guess I’d rather live as a coward than die a fool.”

“Oscarl,” said Drakasha, “when we’re done here, get a party together and hoist out the small boat, on the quick. Anyone else wants off with Basryn, that’s what I’m giving you. If Rodanov wins, take your chances. If I win … understand that we’re at least fifty miles from land and you’re not coming back aboard.”

The man nodded, and that was that. Drakasha released him and he stumbled into the crowd, holding his back and ignoring the glares of those around him.

“Heed this, now,” shouted Drakasha. “The sea isn’t our friend today; that son of a bitch has more bite in the water than we do. A chase in any direction can’t buy us more than a few hours. If we’re going to settle this at kissing distance, I intend to set the terms of the courtship.

“We need to kill two for one just to have any of us left standing, so obviously we need to do better even than that. If we lock up with him so that one of our sides is against his bow, we can crowd in all around his boarding point and outnumber him at the only place it matters. That big fat crew of his won’t mean a damn thing if he has to feed it piece by piece right through our teeth.

“So, at the waist, I’ll put you in ranks, like the old Therin Throne legions. Swords and shields up front, spears and halberds behind. Don’t take your sweet time. If you can’t kill someone, knock them into the water. Just get them out of the damn fight!

“Del will choose our ten best archers and send you aloft to do the obvious. Five per mast. I wish I could send more, but we’re going to need every blade on deck we can get.

“Ravelle, Valora, I’m going to give you a few crewfolk to form our flying company. Your job is the Sovereign’s boats. They’ll try and board us from all points of the compass once we’re engaged at the waist, so you go wherever they go. One person on deck can keep five in a boat, provided you act with haste.

“Nasreen, you’ll choose a party of three and stand by at the starboard anchor for my command. Once it’s given, you’ll guard the bow against boats and free Ravelle’s party to fight elsewhere.

“Utgar, you’re with me to load crossbows. Now, there’s ale at the forecastle and I want to see the cask dry before we do this. Drink up, find your armor. If you’ve got mail or leathers you’ve been saving, pile it on. I don’t care how much you sweat; you’ll never need it again like you’ll need it today.”

Drakasha dismissed the crew by turning away from them and striding back up the quarterdeck stairs. Pandemonium erupted amidships; suddenly crewfolk were shoving past one another in all directions, some going for their armor and weapons, others headed for what might be their last drink in life.

Ezri vaulted the quarterdeck railing and shouted as she strode forward into the chaos, “Fire watches set double sand buckets! Rig the larboard razor net and hoist it high! Jerome, get your lazy ass up on the quarterdeck! Form up the flying company there!”

Jean waved and followed Drakasha up to the stern of the ship, where Utgar waited, looking nervous. Treganne was just descending the companionway stairs, muttering something about “bulk rates.”

Suddenly, a low dark shape shot up the companionway and ran for Drakasha. She looked down in response to a sudden tug on her breeches and found Paolo clutching at her, unselfconsciously.

“Mommy, the noise!”

Zamira smiled and swept him up off the deck, cradling him against the lapels of her jacket. She turned into the wind and let it push her hair out of her face. Jean could see that Paolo’s eyes were on the Dread Sovereign as it heaved and swayed beneath the cloudless sky, implacably clawing across the distance between them.

“Paolo, love, Mommy needs you to help her hide you and your sister in the rope locker on the orlop deck, all right?”

The little boy nodded, and Zamira kissed him on the forehead, burying her nose in his tangle of short dark curls with her eyes closed.

“Oh, good,” she said a moment later. “Because after that, Mommy needs to fetch her armor and her sabers. And then she needs to go board that lying motherfucker’s ship and sink it like a stone.”

5

JAFFRIM RODANOV was at the bow of his ship, the Poison Orchid steady in the center of his glass, when she suddenly whirled to larboard and pointed herself at him like an arrow. Her mainsails shivered and began to vanish as Drakasha’s crew hauled them up for battle.

“Ah,” he said. “There we go, Zamira. Doing the only sensible thing at last.”

Rodanov had dressed for a fight, as usual, in a leather coat reinforced with mail inset at the back and the lapels. The nicks and creases in the battered old thing were always a comfort to him, a reminder that people had been trying and failing to kill him for years.

On his hands he wore his favored segmented blackened-steel gauntlets. In the confusion of a close melee, they could catch blades and break skulls.

For the less personal work of actually forcing his way aboard the Orchid, he leaned on a waist-high iron-studded club. He folded his glass carefully and slipped it into a pocket, resolving to return it to the binnacle before the fight began. Not like the last time.

“Orders, Captain?”

Ydrena waited on the forecastle stairs, her own curved sword sheathed on her back, with the majority of his crew ready behind her.

“She’s for us,” boomed Rodanov. “I know this doesn’t come easy, but Drakasha’s raiding in Verrari waters. She’ll call down hell on the life we all enjoy—unless we stop her now.

“Form up to starboard, as we planned. Shields up front. Crossbows behind. Remember, one volley, then throw ’em down and pull steel. Boat crews, over the starboard side once we’re locked with the Orchid. Grapples ready at the waist and bow. Helm! You have your orders—make it perfect or pray you die in the fight.

“This day will be red! Drakasha is a foe to be reckoned with. But what are we, over all the winds and waters of the Sea of Brass?”

“Sovereign!” the crew shouted as one.

“Who are we, never boarded and never beaten?”

“Sovereign!”

“What do our enemies scream, when they speak the name of their doom at the judgment of the gods?”

“Sovereign!”

“We are!” He waved his club above his head. “And we have some surprises for Zamira Drakasha! Bring the cages forward!”

Three teams of six sailors apiece brought canvas-covered cages to the forecastle deck. These cages had wooden carrying handles set well beyond their steel-mesh sides. They were about six feet long, and half as wide and high.

“Nothing to eat since yesterday, right?”

“No,” said Ydrena.

“Good.” Rodanov double-checked the sections of the starboard rail his carpenter had weakened, so one good shove would knock them over for about a ten-foot length. A blemish on his beloved Sovereign, but one that could be fixed easily enough later. “Set them down over here. And kick the cages. Let’s get them riled up.”

6

THE TWO ships crashed through the waves toward each other, and for a second time Locke Lamora found himself about to get involved rather intimately in a battle at sea.

“Steady, Mum,” called Drakasha, who stood peering out over the larboard quarterdeck rail. Locke and Jean waited nearby, armed with hatchets and sabers. Jean also had a pair of leather bracers liberated from the property of Basryn, who was nowhere to be seen since he alone had gone over the side with the small boat. My boat, Locke thought, somewhat bitterly.

For their “flying company,” Locke and Jean had Malakasti, Jabril, and Streva, as well as Gwillem. All save the latter had shields and spears; the timid-looking quartermaster wore a leather apron stuffed with heavy lead bullets for the sling he carried in his left hand.

Most of the crew waited amidships, ranked as Drakasha had ordered; those with large shields and stabbing swords up front, those with polearms in back. The mainsails were drawn up, fire buckets were set out, the larboard entry port was protected by what Delmastro had called a “skinner net,” and the Poison Orchid was rushing to the Dread Sovereign’s embrace like a long-separated lover.

Delmastro appeared out of the mess at the waist. She looked much as she had the first time Locke had ever seen her, with her leather armor on and her hair pulled back for action. Paying no heed to the weapons they were carrying at their belts, she leapt onto Jean, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He put his arms behind her back and they kissed until Locke chuckled out loud. Not the sort of thing one saw just before most battles, he imagined.

“This day is ours,” she said when they parted at last.

“Try not to kill everyone over there before I even get involved, right?” Jean grinned down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag.

“What’s this?”

“Lock of my hair,” she said. “Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life.”

“Thank you, love,” he said.

“Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever’s bothering you, and you can say, ‘You have no idea who you’re fucking with. I’m under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favor.’ ”

“And that’s supposed to make them stop?”

“Shit no, that’s just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they’re standing there looking at you funny.”

They hugged again, and Drakasha cleared her throat.

“Del, if it’s not too much trouble, we’re planning to attack that ship just ahead of us, so could you—”

“Oh, yeah, the fight for our lives. I guess I could help you out for a few minutes, Captain.”

“Luck, Del.”

“Luck, Zamira.”

“Captain,” said Mumchance, “now—”

“Nasreen!” Drakasha bellowed at the top of her considerable voice. “Starboard anchor away!”

“Sound collision,” called Delmastro a moment later. “All hands brace yourselves! Up aloft! Grab a mast, grab a line!”

Someone began to ring the foremast bell frantically. The two ships were closing with astonishing speed. Locke and Jean crouched on the larboard quarterdeck stairs, clinging tight to the inner rail. Locke glanced over at Drakasha and saw that she was counting something, mouthing each number intently to herself. Curious, he tried to puzzle them out and concluded she wasn’t counting in Therin.

“Captain,” said Mumchance, calm as someone ordering coffee, “other ship—”

“Helm harda-larboard,” Drakasha shouted. Mumchance and his mate began manhandling the ship’s wheel to the left. Suddenly there was a creak and a snapping noise from the bow; the ship shuddered end to end and was jerked to starboard as though caught in the teeth of a gale. Locke felt his stomach protesting and clung to the rail with all of his strength.

“Anchor party,” yelled Drakasha, “cut the cable!”

Locke had an excellent view of the Dread Sovereign, rushing down on them, scarcely a hundred yards away. He gasped to think of that heavy ship’s bowsprit plunging like a spear into the Orchid or her massed crewfolk, but even as he watched, the three-master heeled over to larboard, making a turn of her own.

Rodanov avoided a head-on collision, and Locke had to guess that was intentional; while it might have done serious damage to the Orchid, it would have locked his ship precisely where Zamira could best resist his boarders, and possibly sunk both ships sooner or later.

What happened was spectacular enough; the sea creamed white between the two vessels, and Locke heard the protesting waves hissing like steam baking furiously from hot coals. There was no way for the Sovereign or the Orchid to shed all their forward momentum, but they slid into each other along their sides with a rolling cushion of water between them. The whole world seemed to shake as they met; timbers creaked, masts shuddered, and high overhead an Orchid was pitched from her position. She struck the Sovereign’s deck, becoming the first casualty of the battle.

“Spanker! Spanker!” Zamira cried, and everyone on the quarterdeck looked up in unison as the Orchid’s spanker sail was unfurled in the most unseamanlike fashion possible by the small crew detailed to it. Fluttering down to full extension, it was braced in place with desperate speed. Ordinarily, the fore-and-aft sail would never have been placed side-on to a wind, but in this case the stiff breeze from the east pushed against it by intention, heaving the Orchid’s stern away from contact with the Dread Sovereign. Mumchance hauled his wheel to starboard now, trying to help the process along.

There was a series of screams and snapping noises from forward; the Dread Sovereign’s bowsprit was destroying or fouling much of the forward rigging, but Drakasha’s plan seemed to be working. That bowsprit hadn’t punched a hole in the hull, and now Rodanov’s starboard bow was the only part of his ship in contact with Drakasha’s larboard side. From high above, Locke thought, the gods might have seen the two ships as drunken fencers, their bowsprits crossed but doing relatively little harm as they waved about.

Unseen things clawed the air with a snakelike hiss, and Locke realized that arrows were raining around him. The fight had well and truly begun.

7

“CLEVER SYRESTI bitch,” muttered Rodanov, and he crawled back to his feet after the collision. Drakasha was using her spanker for leverage to prevent full broadside-to-broadside contact. So be it; he had his own advantages ready to play.

“Let ’em loose!” he shouted.

A crewman standing well back from the rear of the three cages (with shield bearers flanking him) pulled the rope that released their doors. These were set just inches back from the collapsible section of the rail, which had been conveniently knocked clean away when the ships met.

A trio of adult valcona—starving, shaken up, and pissed off beyond all measure—exploded from their confinement shrieking like the vengeful undead. The first thing they laid eyes on was the group of Orchids lining up across the way. Though heavily armed and armored, Zamira’s people had no doubt expected to repel human boarders first.

The three attack birds launched themselves through the air and landed amidst shields and polearms, laying about with their beaks and their dagger-sized claws. Orchids screamed, shoved against one another, and caused utter chaos in their desperate struggle to either swing at or flee from the ferocious beasts.

Rodanov grinned fiercely. They’d been worth it—even though they’d cost too much in Prodigal, even though they’d stunk up the hold, even though they’d be dead soon enough. Every Orchid they mutilated was one less for his people to face, and it was always impossible to put a price on making your enemy shit their breeches.

“Away boats,” he yelled. “Sovereigns! On me!”

8

THE SCREAMS from forward were more than human; Locke scrambled up the quarterdeck stairs on his hands and knees, straining to see what was going on. Brown shapes were flailing about within the packed masses of Zamira’s “legions” along the larboard side. What the hell was that? Drakasha herself dashed past, twin sabers out, running for the point of greatest chaos.

Several sailors aboard Rodanov’s ship hurled grappling hooks across the gap between the vessels. A team of Drakasha’s crewfolk, waiting for this, hurried to the larboard rail to sever the grappling lines with hatchets. One of them toppled with an arrow in his throat; the rest made short work of every line Locke could see.

A sharp, flat thwack told of an arrow landing nearby; Jean grabbed him by his tunic collar and hauled him all the way onto the quarterdeck. His “flying company” was crouched behind their small shields; Malakasti was using hers to cover Mumchance as well, who manned the wheel from a crouch. Someone screamed and fell from the rigging aboard the Sovereign; a second later Jabril cried, “Gah!” as an arrow struck splinters from the taffrail beside his head.

To Locke’s surprise, Gwillem suddenly stood up in the midst of all this and, with a placid look on his face, began to whirl a bullet overhand in the cradle of his sling. As his arm went up he released one of the sling’s cords, and a second later a bowman on the Sovereign’s quarterdeck fell backward. Jean pulled Gwillem back to the deck when the Vadran began to reach for another projectile.

“Boats,” hollered Streva. “Boats coming around her!”

Two boats, each carrying about twenty sailors, were pulling fast from behind the Dread Sovereign, curving around to approach the Orchid’s stern. Locke wished mightily for a few arrows to season their passage, but the archers above had orders to ignore the boats. They were strictly the business of that legendary hero of the plunging beer cask, Orrin Ravelle.

He did, however, have one major advantage, and as usual its name was Jean Tannen. Sitting incongruously on the polished witchwood planks of the deck were several large round stones, plucked laboriously from the ship’s ballast.

“Do the brute thing, Jerome,” Locke shouted.

As the first boat of Sovereigns approached the taffrail, a pair of sailors armed with crossbows stood up to clear the way for a woman readying a grappling hook. Gwillem wound up and flung one of his stones downward, opening a bowman’s head and toppling the body backward into the mess of would-be boarders. A moment later Jean stepped to the taffrail, hoisting a hundred-pound rock the size of an ordinary man’s chest over his head. He hollered wordlessly and flung it down into the boat, where it shattered not just the legs of two rowers but the deck of the little craft itself. As water began to gush up through the hole, panic ensued.

Then crossbow bolts came from the second boat. Streva, caught up watching the travails of the first, took one in the ribs and fell backward onto Locke, who pushed the unfortunate young man away, knowing it was beyond his power to help. The deck was already bright red with blood. A moment later Malakasti gasped as an arrow from the Sovereign’s upper yards punched through her back; she fell against the taffrail and her shield went over the side.

Jabril pushed her spear away and yanked her down to the deck. Locke could see that the arrow had punctured one of her lungs, and the wet-sounding breaths she was fighting for now would be her last. Jabril, anguish on his face, tried to cover her with his body until Locke shouted at him, “More coming! Don’t lose your fucking head!”

Gods-damned hypocrite, he thought to himself, heart hammering.

On the sinking boat below, another sailor wound up to toss a grappling hook. Gwillem struck again, shattering the man’s arm. Yet another rock followed from Jean. That was it for the remaining Sovereigns; with the boat going down and corpses crowding the seats, the survivors were spilling over the side. They might be trouble again in a few minutes, but for now they were out of the fight.

So was a third of Locke’s “company.” The second enemy boat came on, wary enough of the stones to keep well back. It circled around the stern and darted for the starboard side, a shark with wounded prey.

9

ZAMIRA PULLED her saber from the body of the last valcona and hollered at her people along the larboard side, “Re-form! Re-form! Plug the fucking gap, there!”

Valcona! Damn Rodanov for a clever bastard; at least five of her people lay dead because of the bloody things, and gods knew how many more had been injured or shaken. He’d been expecting her to try and go broadside-to-bow; the beasts had been waiting like a spring-loaded trap.

And there he was—impossible to miss, nearly the size of two men, wearing a dark coat and those damned gauntlets of his. In his hands, a club that must have weighed twenty pounds. His people flooded around him, cheering, and they poured against her first rank through the gap Rodanov had somehow contrived in his starboard rail. The point of decision was exactly the mess she’d expected: stabbing spears, flailing shields, corpses and living fighters alike too pressed by the crowd on either side to move, except downward. Some slipped through the ever-changing gap between ships, to be drowned or ground to a pulp as the two vessels scraped together again.

“Crossbows,” she yelled, “crossbows!”

Behind her spear-carriers, nearly every crossbow on the ship had been set out and loaded. The rear rank of waiting Orchids seized these and fired a ragged volley past the forward ranks; eight or nine of Rodanov’s people toppled, but he himself seemed untouched. A moment later there was a return volley from the deck of the Sovereign; Rodanov had had the same idea. Screaming men and women fell out of Zamira’s lines with feathered shafts in their heads and chests, not one of them a person she could spare.

Sovereigns were attempting to hurtle the wider gap to the right of the main fight; some of them made it, and clung tenaciously to her rail, struggling to pull themselves up. She solved that problem herself, slashing faces and cracking skulls with the butts of her sabers. Three, four—more of them were coming. She was already gasping for breath. Not quite the tireless fighter she’d once been, she reflected ruefully. Arrows bit the air around her, more of Rodanov’s people leapt, and it looked as though every single gods-damned pirate on the Sea of Brass was on the deck of the Dread Sovereign, lined up and waiting to storm her ship.

10

LOCKE’S “FLYING company” was now engaged at the starboard rail of the quarterdeck; while Mumchance and one of his mates wielded spears to fend off swimmers from any other angle, Locke, Jean, Jabril, and Gwillem tried to fight off the second boat.

This one was far sturdier than its predecessor; Jean’s two hurled rocks had killed or injured at least five people, but failed to knock holes in the wood. Rodanov’s crewfolk stabbed at them with boat hooks; it was an awkward duel between these and the spears of the Orchids. Jabril cried out as a hook gouged one of his legs, and he retaliated by stabbing a Sovereign in the neck.

Gwillem stood up and hurled a bullet down into the boat; he was rewarded for his effort by a loud scream. As he reached into his pouch for another, an arrow seemed to appear in his back as though by magic. He sagged forward against the starboard rail, and sling bullets rolled onto the deck, clattering.

“Shit,” Locke yelled. “Are we out of big rocks?”

“Used them all,” said Jean. A woman with a dagger in her teeth vaulted acrobatically up to the rail and would have made it over had Jean not bashed her in the face with a shield. She toppled into the water.

Jabril frantically swept with his spear as four or five Sovereigns at once got their hands up above the rail; two let go, but in a moment two more were rolling onto the deck, sabers in hand. Jabril fell onto his back and speared one in the stomach; Jean got his hands on Gwillem’s sling and threw it around the throat of the other, garroting the man, just like old times in Camorr. Another sailor poked his head up and shoved a crossbow through the rails, aiming for Jean. Locke felt every inch the legendary hero of the plunging beer cask as he kicked the man in the face.

Rising screams from the water told of some new development; warily, Locke glanced over the edge. A roiling, gelatinous mass floated beside the boat like a translucent blanket, pulsing with a faint internal luminescence that was visible even by day. As Locke watched, a swimming man was drawn, screaming, into this mass. In seconds, the gelatinous substance around his legs clouded red and he began to spasm. The thing was drawing the blood out of his pores as a man might suck the juice from a pulpy fruit.

A death-lantern, drawn as ever to the scent of blood in the water. A gods-awful way to go, even for people Locke was actively trying to kill—but it and the others sure to come would take care of the swimmers. No more Sovereigns were climbing up the sides; the few left in the boat below were frantically trying to escape the thing in the water beside them. Locke dropped his spear and took a few much-needed deep breaths. A second later an arrow hit the rail two feet above his head; another hissed past it completely; a third struck the wheel. “Cover,” he hollered, looking around frantically for a shield. A moment later Jean grabbed him and dragged him to the right, where he was holding Gwillem’s body up before him. Jabril crawled behind the binnacle, while Mumchance and his mate mimicked Jean’s ploy with Streva’s body. Locke felt the impact as at least one arrow sank into the quartermaster’s corpse.

“Might feel bad later about using the dead like this,” hollered Jean, “but hell, there’s certainly enough of them around.”

11

YDRENA KOROS came over the rail and nearly killed Zamira with the first slash of her scimitar. The blade rebounded off Elderglass—still, Zamira burned at the thought that her guard had slipped. She struck back with both sabers; but Ydrena, small and lithe, had all the room she needed to parry one and avoid the other. So fast, so effortlessly fast—Zamira gritted her teeth. Two blades on one, and Koros still filled the air between them with a deadly silver blur; Zamira lost her hat and very nearly her neck, parrying only at the last second. Another slash hissed against her vest, a second sliced one of her bracers. Shit—she backed into one of her own sailors. There was nowhere else to go on the deck.

Koros conjured a curving, broad-bladed dagger in her left hand, feinted with it, and swept her scimitar at Zamira’s knees. Zamira released her sabers and stepped into Koros’ guard, putting them chest to chest. She grabbed Ydrena’s arms with her own, forcing them out and down with all her strength. In that, at last, she had the advantage—that and one thing more. Fighting dirty usually prevailed over fighting prettily.

Zamira brought her left knee up into Ydrena’s stomach. Ydrena sank; Zamira grabbed her hair and slammed her in the chin. The smaller woman’s teeth made a sound like clattering billiard balls. Zamira heaved her to her feet and threw her backward, onto the sword of the Sovereign directly behind her. A brief look of surprise flared on the woman’s blood-smeared face, then died with her. Zamira felt more relief than triumph.

She fetched her sabers from the deck where they’d fallen; as the sailor now in front of her pulled his sword from Ydrena and let her body drop, he suddenly found one of Zamira’s blades in his chest. The battle ground on, and her actions became mechanical—her sabers rose and fell against the screaming tide of Rodanov’s people, and the deaths ran together into one red cacophony. Arrows flew, blood slicked the deck beneath her feet, and the ships rolled and yawed atop the sea, lending a nightmarish shifting quality to everything.

It might have been minutes or ages before she found Ezri at her arm, pulling her back from the rail. Rodanov’s people were falling back to regroup; the deck was thick with dead and wounded, her own survivors were all but standing on them as they stumbled into one another and fell back themselves.

“Del,” gasped Zamira, “you hurt?”

“No.” Ezri was covered in blood; her leathers had been slashed and her hair was partially askew, but otherwise she seemed to be correct.

“The flying company?”

“No idea, Captain.”

“Nasreen? Utgar?”

“Nasreen’s dead. Haven’t seen Utgar since the fight started.”

“Drakasha,” came a voice above the moans and mutterings of the confusion on both sides. Rodanov’s voice. “Drakasha! Cease fighting! Everyone, cease fighting! Drakasha, listen to me!”

12

RODANOV GLANCED at the arrow sunk into his right upper arm. Painful, but not the deep, grinding agony that told of a touch to the bone. He grimaced, used his left hand to steady the arrowhead, and then reached up with his right to snap the shaft just above it. He gasped, but that would do until he could deal with it properly. He hefted his club again, shaking blood onto the deck of the Sovereign.

Ydrena dead; gods-damn it, his first mate for five years, on the bloody deck. He’d laid about with his club to get to her side, splintering shields and beating aside spears. At least half a dozen Orchids to him, and he’d been their match—Dantierre he’d knocked clean over the side. But the fighting space was too narrow, the rolling of the ships unpredictable, his crewfolk too thin around him. Zamira’d suffered miserably, but at this confined point of contact he was stymied. A lack of brawling at the Orchid’s stern meant that the boats had probably fared the same. Shit. Half his crew was gone, at least. It was time to spring his second surprise. His calling a halt to the battle was the signal to bring it on. All in, now—last game, last hand, last turn of the cards.

“Zamira, don’t make me destroy your ship!”

13

“GO TO hell, you oath-breaking son of a bitch! You come try again, if you think you still have any crewfolk willing to die in a hurry!”

Locke had left Jabril, Mumchance, and Mumchance’s mate—along with the death-lanterns, he supposed—to guard the stern. He and Jean hurried forward, through the strangeness of air suddenly free from arrows, past the mounds of dead and wounded. Scholar Treganne stumped past, her false leg loud against the desk, single-handedly dragging Rask behind her. At the waist, Utgar stood, using a hook to pull up the main-deck cargo hatch grating. A leather satchel was at his feet; Locke presumed he was on some business for the captain and ignored him.

They found Drakasha and Delmastro at the bow, with about twenty surviving Orchids staring at twice their number of Sovereigns across the way. Ezri hugged Jean fiercely; she looked as though she’d been through a great deal of blood but not yet lost any of her own. Up here the Orchid seemed to have no deck; only a surface layer of dead and nearly dead. Blood drained off the sides in streams.

“Not me,” shouted Rodanov.

“Here,” yelled Utgar at the Orchid’s waist. “Here, Drakasha!”

Locke turned to see Utgar holding a gray sphere, perhaps eight inches in diameter, with a curiously greasy surface. He cradled it in his left hand, holding it over the open cargo hatch, and his right hand clutched something sticking out of the top of the sphere.

“Utgar,” said Drakasha, “what the hell do you think you’re—”

“Don’t make a fucking move, right? Or you know what I’ll do with this thing.”

“Gods above,” whispered Ezri, “I don’t believe this.”

“What the hell is that?” Locke asked.

“Bad news,” she said. “Fucking awful news. That’s a shipbane sphere.”

14

JEAN LISTENED as she explained quickly.

“Alchemy, black alchemy, expensive as hell. You have to be fucking crazy to bring one to sea, same reason most captains shy away from fire-oil. But worse. Whole thing goes white-hot. You can’t touch it; can’t get close. Leave it on deck and it burns right through; down into the innards, and it sets anything on fire. Hell, it can probably set water on fire. Sure doesn’t go out when you douse it.”

“Utgar,” said Drakasha, “you motherfucker, you traitor, how could—”

“Traitor? No. I’m Rodanov’s man; am and have been since before I joined. His idea, hey? If I’ve done you good service, Drakasha, I’ve just been doing my job.”

“Have him shot,” said Jean.

“That thing he’s holding is the twist-match fuse,” said Ezri. “He moves his right hand, or we kill him and make that thing drop, it comes right out and ignites. This is what those damned things are for, get it? One man can hold a hundred prisoner if he just stands in the right spot.”

“Utgar,” she said. “Utgar, we’re winning this fight.”

“You might’ve been. Why do you think I stepped in?”

“Utgar, please. This ship is heaped with wounded. My children are down there!”

“Yeah. I know. So you’d best lay down your arms, hey? Back up against the starboard rail. Archers down from the masts. Everybody calm—and I’m sure for everyone but you, Drakasha, there’s a happy arrangement waiting.”

“Throats cut and over the side,” shouted Treganne, who appeared at the top of the companionway with a crossbow in her hands. “That’s the happy arrangement, isn’t it, Utgar?” She stumped to the quarterdeck rail and put the crossbow to her shoulder. “This ship is heaped with wounded, and they’re my responsibility, you bastard!”

“Treganne, no,” Drakasha screamed.

But the scholar’s deed was already done; Utgar seemed to jump and shudder as the bolt sank into the small of his back. The gray sphere tipped forward and fell from his left hand; his right hand pulled away, trailing a thin white cord. He toppled to the deck, and his device vanished from sight into the hold below.

“Oh, hell,” said Jean.

“No, no, no,” Ezri whispered.

“Children,” Jean found himself saying. “I can get them—”

Ezri stared at the cargo hatch, aghast. She looked at him, then back to the hatch.

“Not just them,” she said. “Whole ship.”

“I’ll go,” said Jean.

She grabbed him, wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly he could barely breathe, and whispered in his ear, “Gods damn you, Jean Tannen. You make this … you make it so hard.”

And then she hit him in the stomach, harder than even he had thought possible. He fell backward, doubled in agony, realizing her intentions as she released him. He screamed in wordless rage and denial, reaching for her. But she was already running across the deck toward the hatch.

15

LOCKE KNOWS what Ezri means to do the instant he sees her make a fist, but Jean, his reflexes dulled by love or fatigue or both, plainly doesn’t. And before Locke can do anything, she’s hit Jean, and given him a shove backward so that Locke tumbles over him. Locke looks up just in time to see Ezri jump into the cargo hold, where an unnatural orange glare rises from the darkness a second later.

“Oh, Crooked Warden, damn it all to hell,” he whispers, and he sees everything as time slows like cooling syrup—

Treganne at the quarterdeck rail, dumbfounded; clearly ignorant of what her erstwhile good deed has done.

Drakasha stumbling forward, sabers still in her hands, moving too slowly to stop Ezri or join her.

Jean crawling, barely able to move but willing himself after her with any muscle that will lend him force, one hand reaching uselessly after a woman already gone.

The crew of both ships staring, leaning on their weapons and on one another, the fight for a moment forgotten.

Utgar reaching for the bolt in his back, flailing feebly. It has been five seconds since Ezri leapt down into the cargo hold. Five seconds is when the screaming, the new screaming, starts.

16

SHE EMERGED from the main-deck stairs, holding it in her hands. No, more than that, Locke realized with horror—she must have known her hands wouldn’t last. She must have cradled it close for that very reason.

The sphere was incandescent, a miniature sun, burning with the vivid colors of molten silver and gold. Locke felt the heat against his skin from thirty feet away, recoiled from the light, smelled the strange tang of scorched metal instantly. She ran, as best she could run; as she made her way toward the rail it became a jog, and then a desperate hop. She was on fire all the way, screaming all the way, unstoppable all the way.

She made it to the larboard rail and with one last convulsive effort, as much back and legs as what was left of her arms, she heaved the shipbane sphere across the gap to the Dread Sovereign. It grew in brightness even as it flew, a molten-metal comet, and Rodanov’s crewfolk recoiled from it as it landed on their deck.

You couldn’t touch such a thing, she’d said—well, clearly you could. But Locke knew you couldn’t touch it and live. The arrow that took her in the stomach an eyeblink later was too late to beat her throw, and too late to do any real work. She fell to the deck, trailing smoke, and then all hell broke loose for the last time that morning.

“Rodanov,” yelled Drakasha. “Rodanov!”

There was an eruption of light and fire at the waist of the Dread Sovereign; the incandescent globe, rolling to and fro, had at last burst. White-hot alchemy rained down hatches, caught sails, engulfed crewfolk, and nearly bisected the ship in seconds.

“If they would burn the Sovereign,” shouted Rodanov, “all hands take the Orchid!”

“Fend off,” cried Drakasha, “fend off and repel boarders! Helm hard a-larboard, Mum! Hard a-larboard!”

Locke could feel a growing new heat against his right cheek; the Sovereign was already doomed, and if the Orchid didn’t disentangle from her shrouds and bowsprit and assorted debris, the fire would take both ships for a meal. Jean crawled slowly toward Ezri’s body. Locke heard the sounds of new fighting breaking out behind them, and thought briefly of paying attention to it, but then realized that if he left Jean now he would never forgive himself. Or deserve forgiveness.

“Dear gods,” he whispered when he saw her, “please, no. Oh, gods.”

Jean moaned, sobbing, his hands held out above her. Locke didn’t know where he would have touched her, either. There was so little her left—skin and clothing and hair burnt into one awful texture. And still she moved, trying feebly to rise. Still she fought for something resembling breath.

“Valora,” said Scholar Treganne, hobbling toward them. “Valora don’t, don’t touch—”

Jean pounded the deck and screamed. Treganne knelt beside what was left of Ezri, pulling a dagger from her belt sheath. Locke was startled to see tears trailing down her cheeks.

“Valora,” she said. “Take this. She’s dead already. She needs you, for the gods’ sake.”

“No,” sobbed Jean. “No, no, no—”

“Valora, look at her, gods damn it. She is beyond all help. Every second is an hour to her and she is praying for this knife.”

Jean snatched the knife from Treganne’s hand, wiped a tunic sleeve across his eyes, and shuddered. Gasping deep breaths despite the terrible smell of burning that lingered in the air, he moved the knife toward her, jerking in time with his sobs like a man with palsy. Treganne placed her hands over his to steady them, and Locke closed his eyes.

Then it was over.

“I’m sorry,” said Treganne. “Forgive me, Valora. I didn’t know—I didn’t know what that thing was, what Utgar had. Forgive me.”

Jean said nothing. Locke opened his eyes again, and saw Jean rising as though in a trance, his sobs all but stifled, the dagger still held loosely in his hand. He moved, as though he saw nothing of the battle still raging behind him, across the deck toward Utgar.

17

TEN MORE Orchids fell at the bow saving them, following Zamira’s orders, shoving with all their might against the Sovereign with spears and boat hooks and halberds. Shoving to get her bowsprit and rigging clear of the Orchid, while Rodanov’s survivors at the bow fought like demons to escape. But they did it, with Mumchance’s help, and the two battered ships tore apart at last.

“All hands,” shouted Zamira, dazed by the effort it suddenly required. “All hands! Tacks and braces! Put us west before the wind! Fire party to main hold! Get the wounded aft to Treganne!” Assuming Treganne was alive, assuming … much. Sorrow later. More hardship now.

Rodanov hadn’t joined the final fight to board the Orchid; Zamira had last seen him running aft, fighting his way through the blaze and headed for the wheel. Whether in a last hopeless effort to save his ship or destroy hers, he’d failed.

18

“HELP,” UTGAR whispered. “Help. Get it out. I can’t reach it.”

His movements were faint, and his eyes were going glassy. Jean knelt beside him, stared at him, and then brought the dagger down overhand into his back. Utgar took a shocked breath; Jean brought the knife down again and again while Locke watched; until Utgar was most certainly dead, until his back was covered in wounds, until Locke finally reached over and grabbed him by the wrist.

“Jean—”

“It doesn’t help,” said Jean, in a disbelieving voice. “Gods, it doesn’t help.”

“I know,” said Locke. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Jean launched himself at Locke, pinning him to the deck, one hand around his throat. Locke gagged and fought back, and it did him about as much good as he expected. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I tried,” said Locke. “She pushed you into me. She knew what we’d do, Jean. She knew. Please—”

Jean released him and sat back as quickly as he had attacked. He looked down at his hands and shook his head. “Oh, gods, forgive me. Forgive me, Locke.”

“Always,” said Locke. “Jean, I am so, so sorry—I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world. For the world, do you hear me?”

“I do,” he said quietly. He buried his face in his hands and said nothing more.

To the southeast, the fire aboard the Dread Sovereign turned the sea red; it roared up the masts and sails, rained charred canvas like volcanic ash upon the waves, devoured the hull, and at last subsided into a billowing mountain of smoke and steam as the ship’s charred hulk slipped beneath the waters.

“Ravelle,” said Drakasha, placing a hand on Locke’s shoulder and interrupting his reverie, “if you can help, I—”

“I’m fine,” said Locke, stumbling to his feet. “I can help. Just maybe … leave Jerome—”

“Yes,” she said. “Ravelle, we need—”

“Zamira, enough. Enough Ravelle this, Kosta that. Around the crew, sure. But my friends call me Locke.”

“Locke,” she said.

“Locke Lamora. Don’t, ah—ahhh, who the hell would you tell anyway?” He reached up to set a hand on hers, and in a moment they had drawn one another into a hug. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Ezri, Nasreen, Malakasti, Gwillem—”

“Gwillem?”

“Yeah, he—one of Rodanov’s archers, I’m sorry.”

“Gods,” she said. “Gwillem was with the Orchid when I stole her. Last of the original crew. Ra—Locke. Mum has the wheel and we’re safe for the moment. I need … I need to go down and see my children. And I need … I need you to look after Ezri. They can’t see her like that.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Look, go down. I’ll take care of things on deck. We’ll get the rest of the wounded back to Treganne. We’ll get all the bodies covered up.”

“Very good,” said Zamira quietly. “You have the deck, Master Lamora. I’ll return shortly.”

I have the deck, thought Locke, staring around at the shambles left by the battle: swaying rigging, damaged shrouds, splintered railings, arrows embedded damn near everywhere. Bodies crowded every corner of the waist and forecastle; survivors moved through them like ghosts, many of them hobbling on spears and bows for makeshift canes.

Gods. So this is what a command is. Staring consequences in the eye and pretending not to flinch.

“Jean,” he whispered, crouching over the bigger man where he sat on the deck. “Jean, stay here. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be close. I just need to take care of things, all right?”

Jean nodded, faintly.

“Right,” said Locke, glancing around again, this time looking for the least injured. “Konar,” he yelled. “Big Konar! Get a pump rigged, the first one you can find that works. Run a hose to this cargo hatch and give the main deck hold a good soak. We can’t have anything smoldering down there. Oscarl! Come here! Get me sail canvas and knives. We’ve got to do something about all these … all these people.”

All the crewfolk dead upon the deck. We’ve got to do something about them here, Locke thought. And then I’m going to do something about them in Tal Verrar. Once and for all.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SETTLING ACCOUNTS

1

“CROOKED WARDEN, Silent Thirteenth, your servant calls. Place your eyes upon the passing of this woman, Ezri Delmastro, Iono’s servant and yours. Beloved of a man who is beloved by you.” Locke’s voice broke, and he struggled for self-control. “Beloved of a man who is my brother. We … we grudge you this one, Lord, and I don’t mind saying so.”

Thirty-eight left standing; fifty they’d put over the side, and the rest had been lost during the battle. Locke and Zamira shared the funeral duties. Locke’s recitations had grown more numb with each one, but now, at this last ritual of the night, he found himself cursing the day he’d been chosen as a priest of the Crooked Warden. His presumed thirteenth birthday, under the Orphan’s Moon. What power and what magic it had seemed back then. The power and the magic to give funeral orations. He scowled, buried his cynical thoughts for Ezri’s sake, and continued.

“This is the woman who saved us all. This is the woman who beat Jaffrim Rodanov. We deliver her, body and spirit, to the realm of your brother Iono, mighty lord of the sea. Lend her aid. Carry her soul to She who weighs us all. This we pray with hopeful hearts.”

Jean knelt over the canvas shroud, and on it he placed a lock of dark brown hair. “My flesh,” he whispered. He pricked his finger with a dagger, and let a red drop fall. “My blood.” He leaned down to the unmoving head beneath the canvas, and left a lingering kiss. “My breath, and my love.”

“These things bind your promise,” said Locke.

“My promise,” said Jean, rising to his feet. “A death-offering, Ezri. Gods help me to make it worthy. I don’t know if I can, but gods help me.”

Zamira, standing nearby, stepped up to take one side of the wooden plank holding Ezri’s canvas-wrapped body. Locke took the other; Jean, as he’d warned Locke before the ceremony, was unable to help. He wrung his hands and looked away. In a moment it was over—Locke and Zamira tipped the plank, and the sailcloth shroud slid out the entry port, into the dark waves below. It was an hour past sunset, and at long last they were truly done.

The wordless circle of tired, mostly wounded crewfolk began to disperse, back to Treganne’s fussing or their bare-bones watches. Rask had replaced Ezri, Nasreen, and Utgar alike for the time being; with his head swaddled in a thick linen bandage, he began grabbing the more able-bodied survivors and pointing out chores for their attention.

“And now?” asked Locke

“Now we limp, with the wind mostly against us, back to Tal Verrar.” Zamira’s voice was tired, but her gaze was level. “We had an understanding, before this. I’ve lost more than I bargained for, friends and crew both. We lack the strength to take so much as a fishing vessel now, so I’m afraid what remains is up to you.”

“As we promised,” said Locke. “Stragos. Yeah. Get us there, and I’ll … think of something.”

“You won’t have to,” said Jean. “Just put in and send me off.” He looked down at his feet. “Then leave.”

“No,” said Locke. “I won’t just stay here while—”

“Only takes one for what I’ve got in mind.”

“You just promised a death-offering—”

“She gets it. Even if it’s me, she gets it.”

“You think Stragos won’t be suspicious to see just one of us?”

“I’ll tell him you’re dead. Tell him we had a fight at sea; that part’s honest enough. He’ll see me then.”

“I won’t let you go alone.”

“And I won’t let you come with. What do you think you can do, fight me?”

“Shut up, the pair of you,” said Zamira. “Gods. Just this morning, Jerome, your friend here tried to convince me to let him do exactly what you’re planning right now.”

“What?” Jean glared at Locke and ground his teeth together. “You miserable little sneak, how could you—”

“What? How dare I contemplate what you were going to do to me? You self-righteous strutting cock, I’ll—”

“What?” shouted Jean.

“—I’ll throw myself at you, and you’ll beat the shit out of me,” said Locke. “And then you’ll feel awful! How about that, huh?”

“I already feel awful,” said Jean. “Gods, why can’t you just let me do this? Why can’t you give me this much? At least you’ll be alive; you can try to find another alchemist, another poisoner. It’s a better chance than I’ll have.”

“Like hell,” said Locke. “That’s not how we work, and if you wanted it otherwise, you should have left me bleeding to death in Camorr. I seem to recall being pretty set on it at the time.”

“Yeah, but—”

“It’s different when it’s you, isn’t it?”

“I—”

“Gentlemen,” said Zamira, “or whatever you are. All other considerations aside, I gave my little boat to Basryn this afternoon so the bastard could die on the waves instead of on my ship. You’ll have a hell of a time getting one of the other boats in to Tal Verrar by yourself, Jerome. Unless you propose to fly, for I’m not taking the Orchid more than a bowshot past the breakwater reefs.”

“I’ll swim if I bloody well have to—”

“Don’t be stupid in your anger, Jerome.” Drakasha grabbed him by the shoulders. “Be cold. Cold’s the only thing that’s going to work, if you’re going to give me anything back for what’s been done to my crew. For my first mate.”

“Shit,” Jean muttered.

“Together,” said Locke. “You didn’t leave me in Camorr, or Vel Virazzo. The hell if I’ll leave you here.”

Jean scowled, grabbed the rail, and stared down at the water. “It’s a damn shame,” he said at last. “All that money at the Sinspire. Pity we’ll never get it out. Or the other things.”

Locke grinned, recognizing the abrupt change of subject as Jean’s way of salving his pride as he gave in.

“Sinspire?” said Zamira.

“We’ve left a few parts of our story untold, Zamira. Forgive us. Sometimes these schemes get a bit heavy to haul around. We, ah, have a few thousand solari on the books at the Sinspire. Hell, I’d let you have my share if there were any way to get it, but the point is moot.”

“If only we’d found someone in the city to hold some of it for us,” said Jean.

“No use wailing over spilled beer,” said Locke. “I doubt we cultivated a single friend in Tal Verrar that we weren’t hiring or tipping. Sure could use a fucking friend now.” He joined Jean at the rail and pretended to be as absorbed in the sea as the bigger man did, but all he could think of were shrouded bodies splashing into the water.

Bodies falling, just as he and Jean had planned to use ropes, to fall safely out of—

“Wait a gods-damned minute,” said Locke. “A friend. A friend. That’s what we fucking need. We’ve spun Stragos and Requin like plates. Who haven’t we even bothered to deal with in the past two years? Who have we been ignoring?”

“The temples?”

“Good guess, but no—who’s got a direct stake in this bloody mess?”

“The Priori?”

“The Priori,” said Locke. “Those fat, secretive, conniving bastards.” Locke drummed his fingers against the rail, trying to push his sorrow out of his thoughts and will a dozen loose, improbable plans into one coherent scheme. “Think. Who’d we game with? Who’d we see at the Sinspire?”

“Ulena Pascalis.”

“No. She just barely got her seat at the table.”

“De Morella—”

“No. Gods, nobody takes him seriously. Who could move the Priori to do something absolutely rash? Who’s been around long enough to either command respect or pull strings to enforce it? Inner Seven is what we need. The hell with everyone else.”

Conjuring on the political realities of the Priori was akin to divination by chicken entrails, thought Locke. There were three tiers of seven in the merchant councils; the purpose of every seat on the lower two was public knowledge. Only the names of the Inner Seven were known—what hierarchy they held, what duties they performed was a mystery to outsiders.

“Cordo,” said Jean.

“Old Cordo, or Lyonin?”

“Both. Either. Marius is Inner Seven; Lyonin’s on his way up. And Marius is older than Perelandro’s balls. If anyone could move the Priori, presumably as part of some insane thing you’re dreaming up—”

“It’s only half-insane.”

“I know that fucking look on your face! I’m sure either Cordo’s the one you want; pity we’ve never met the bastards.” Jean stared at Locke with a wary expression. “You do have that look on your face. What do you mean to do?”

“I mean … what if I mean to have it all? Why are we plotting suicide as a first option? Why don’t we at least try first? Get to Requin. Pull the job. Get to Stragos. Squeeze an answer or an antidote out of him. Then give it to him, one way or another.” Locke mimed shoving a dagger into an invisible archon of Tal Verrar. It was so satisfying he mimed it again.

“How the hell do we do this?”

“That’s a grand question,” said Locke. “The best question you’ve ever asked. I know we need some things. First, the way it’s been lately, every person in Tal Verrar is likely to be waiting for us at the docks with crossbows and torches. We need better disguises. Shoddiest priesthood of the twelve?”

“Callo Androno,” said Jean.

“Begging His forgiveness, you got it,” said Locke.

Callo Androno; Eyes on the Crossroads; god of travel, languages, and lore. His itinerant priests as well as his settled scholars disdained finery, taking pride in the roughness of their garments.

“Zamira,” said Locke, “if there’s anyone on board who can still push a needle and thread, we need two robes. Make them from sailcloth, spare clothes, anything. I hate to say it, but there’s got to be a lot of spare clothing lying around now.”

“The survivors will dice for the goods, and I’ll share out the coin among them,” she said. “But I can claim a few things first.”

“And we need something blue,” said Locke. “The blue Androni headbands. As long as we wear those, we’re holy men, not just ill-dressed vagrants.”

“Ezri’s blue tunic,” said Jean. “It’s … it’d be in her cabin, where she left it. It’s a bit faded, but—”

“Perfect,” said Locke. “Now, Zamira, when we came back from our first visit to Tal Verrar with this ship, I gave you a letter for safekeeeping. It has Requin’s seal on it. Jerome, I need you to finesse that thing off like Chains showed us. You’re better at it than me and it has to be good.”

“I suppose I can try. I’m not sure … how good I can be at anything right now.”

“I need your best. I need you to do it. For me. And for her.”

“Where do you want the seal moved?”

“Clean parchment. Paper. Anything. Do you have one sheet, Zamira?”

“A full sheet? I don’t think Paolo and Cosetta have left us any. But several of them are only partially scribbled on; I may be able to cut one in half.”

“Do it. Jerome, you’ll find some of the tools you need in my old sea chest, in Zamira’s cabin. Can he use it, and some lanterns, Captain?”

“Paolo and Cosetta refuse to come out of the rope locker,” said Zamira. “They’re too upset. I’ve brought bed things and alchemical lights down for them. The cabin is at your disposal.”

“You’ll need your cards, too,” said Jean. “Or so I presume.”

“Hell yes, I mean to use the cards. I’ll need them, plus the best set of gear we can scrape together. Daggers. Short lengths of cord, preferably demi-silk. Coin, Zamira—tight little purses of fifty or sixty solari in case we have to buy our way past a problem. And some coshes. If you don’t have any, there’s sand and sail canvas—”

“And a pair of hatchets,” said Jean.

“There’s two in my cabin. I took them out of your chest, actually.”

“What?” A flicker of excitement actually crossed Jean’s face. “You have them?”

“I needed a pair. I didn’t know they were special; otherwise I’d have given them back when you came off the scrub watch—”

“Special? They’re more like family than weapons,” said Locke.

“So how does this all fall together, then?” said Jean.

“As I said, excellent question, one I intend to ponder at length—”

“We won’t see Tal Verrar again until tomorrow night if this weather holds,” said Zamira. “I guarantee you’ll have a good long time to ponder. And you’ll be doing most of it up the foremast as top-eyes. I still need you to make yourself useful.”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Of course. Captain, when we come in to Tal Verrar, bring us from the north, if you would. Whatever else we do, our first stop needs to be the Merchants’ Quarter.”

“Cordo?” asked Jean.

“Cordo,” said Locke. “Older or Younger, I don’t care. They’ll see us if we have to crawl in through their gods-damned windows.”

2

“WHAT THE—,” said a portly, well-dressed servant who had the misfortune to walk around the corner, past the alcove containing the fourth-floor window Locke and Jean had just crawled in through.

“Hey,” said Locke. “Congratulations! We’re reverse burglars, here to give you fifty gold solari!” He tossed his coin purse at the servant, who caught it in one hand and gaped at its weight. In the next second and a half the man spent not raising an alarm, Jean coshed him.

They’d come in through the northwest corner of the top story of the Cordo family manor; battlements and iron spikes had made a climb to the roof unattractive. It was just shy of the tenth hour of the evening, a perfect mid-Aurim night on the Sea of Brass, and Locke and Jean had already squirmed through a thorny hedgerow, dodged three parties of guards and gardeners, and spent twenty minutes scaling the damp, smooth stone of Cordo Manor just to get this far.

Their makeshift priestly robes of Callo Androno, along with most of their other needs, were tucked into backpacks sewn with haste by Jabril. Possibly thanks to those robes, no one had loosed a crossbow bolt at them since they’d set foot on solid Verrari ground, but the night was young, thought Locke—so very, very young.

Jean dragged the unconscious servant into the window alcove and glanced around for other complications while Locke quietly slipped the double frosted-glass windows shut and rehitched their latch. Only a slender, carefully bent piece of metal had allowed him to open that latch; the Right People of Camorr called the tool a “breadwinner,” because if you could get in and out of a household rich enough to own latching glass windows, your dinner was assured.

As it happened, Locke and Jean had stolen into just enough great houses much like this one—if none quite so vast—to know vaguely where to look for their quarry. Master bedchambers were often located adjacent to comforts like smoking rooms, studies, sitting parlors, and—

“Library,” muttered Jean as he and Locke padded quietly down the right-hand corridor. Alchemical lights in tastefully curtained alcoves gave the place a pleasantly dim orange-gold glow. Through a pair of open doors in the middle of the hall, on their left, Locke could just glimpse shelves of books and scrolls. No other servants were in sight.

The library was a thing of minor wonder; there must have been a thousand volumes, as well as hundreds of scrolls in orderly racks and cases. Charts of the constellations, painted on alchemically bleached leather, decorated the few empty spots on the walls. Two closed doors led to other inner rooms, one to their left and one in front of them.

Locke flattened himself against the left-hand door, listening. He heard a faint murmur and turned to Jean, only to find that Jean had halted in his tracks next to one of the bookshelves. He reached out, plucked a slim octavo volume—perhaps six inches in height—from the stacks, and hurriedly stuffed it into his backpack. Locke grinned.

At that moment, the left-hand door opened directly into him, giving him a harmless but painful knock on the back of the head. He whirled to find himself face-to-face with a young woman carrying an empty silver tray. She opened her mouth to scream and there was nothing else for it; Locke’s left hand shot out to cover her mouth while his right went for a dagger. He pushed her back into the room from which she’d come, and past the door Locke felt his feet sinking into plush carpet an inch deep.

Jean came through right behind him and slammed the door. The servant’s tray fell to the carpet, and Locke pushed her aside. She fell into Jean’s arms with an “Oooomph!” of surprise, and Locke found himself at the foot of a bed that was roughly ten feet on a side, draped in enough silk to sail a rather substantial yacht.

Seated on pillows at the far end of that bed, looking vaguely comical with his thin body surrounded by so much empty, opulent space, was a wizened old man. His long hair, the color of sea foam, fell free to his shoulders above a green silk gown. He was sorting through a pile of papers by alchemical light as Locke, Jean, and the unwilling servant woman all barged into his quarters.

“Marius Cordo, I presume,” said Locke. “For the future, might I suggest an investment in some artificer gearwork for your window latches?”

The old man’s eyes went wide, and the papers scattered from his hands. “Oh, gods,” he cried. “Oh, gods protect me! It’s you!”

3

“OF COURSE it’s me,” said Locke. “You just don’t know who the hell I am yet.”

“Master Kosta, we can discuss this. You must know that I am a reasonable and extremely wealthy man—”

“All right, you do know who the hell I am,” said Locke, disquieted. “And I don’t give a shit about your money. I’m here to—”

“In my place, you would have done the same,” said Cordo. “It was business is all, just business. Spare me, and let that too be a business decision, based on gain of gold, jewels, fine alchemicals—”

“Master Cordo,” said Locke, “look, I—” He scowled, turned to the servant. “Is this man, ah, senile?”

“He’s absolutely competent,” she answered coldly.

“I assure you I am,” roared Cordo. Anger changed his countenance utterly. “And I will not be put off from business by assassins in my own bedroom! Now, you will either kill me immediately or negotiate the price of my release!”

“Master Cordo,” said Locke, “tell me two things, and be perfectly bloody clear about them both. First, how do you know who I am? Second, why do you think I’m here to kill you?”

“I was shown your faces,” said Cordo, “in a pool of water.”

“In a pool of—” Locke felt his stomach lurch. “Oh, damn, by a—”

“By a Karthani Bondsmage, representing his guild on a personal matter. Surely you now realize—”

“You,” said Locke. “I’d have done the same in your place, is what you said. You’ve been sending those gods-damned assassins after us! Those fuckers at the docks, that barkeeper with the poison, those teams of men on festa night—”

“Obviously,” said Cordo. “And you’ve been elusive, unfortunately. With a bit of help from Maxilan Stragos, I believe.”

“Unfortunately? Unfortunately? Cordo, you have no idea what a lucky son of a bitch you are that they didn’t succeed! What did the Bondsmagi tell you?”

“Come now. Surely your own plans—”

“Tell me in their words or I will kill you!”

“That you were a threat to the Priori, and that in light of sums paid for their services previously, they thought it in their best interests to tender a warning of your presence.”

“To the Inner Seven, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“You stupid bastards,” said Locke. “The Bondsmagi used you, Cordo. Think on that next time you consider giving them money. We—Master de Ferra and myself—are on their fuck-with list, and they tossed us between you and Stragos for a laugh. That’s all! We didn’t come here to do anything to the Priori.”

“So you say—”

“Why aren’t I murdering you right now, then?”

“A simultaneously pleasing and vexing point,” said Cordo, biting his lip.

“The fact is,” said Locke, “that for reasons which are forever going to remain way the hell beyond your understanding, I’ve broken into your manor to do one thing—give you the head of Maxilan Stragos on a platter.”

“What?”

“Not literally. I have plans for that head, actually. But I know how gods-damned happy you’d be to have the archonate kicked over like an anthill, so I’m only going to say this once: I mean to remove Maxilan Stragos from power permanently, and I mean to do it tonight. I must have your help.”

“But … you are some sort of agent of the archon—”

“Jerome and I are unwilling agents,” said Locke. “Stragos’ personal alchemist gave us a latent poison. So long as Stragos controls the antidote, we can serve him or die pretty awfully. But the fucker just had to keep pushing us, and now he’s pushed too far.”

“You could be … you could be provocateurs, sent by Stragos to—”

“What, test your loyalty? In what court, under what oath, before what law? Same question as before, this time in relation to the idiotic conjecture that I actually do Stragos’ bidding—why aren’t I murdering you, then?”

“As to that … a fair point.”

“Here,” said Locke, moving around the bed to sit beside Cordo. “Have a dagger.” He tossed his blade into the old man’s lap. At that moment, there was a pounding on the door.

“Father! Father, one of the servants is injured! Are you well? Father, I’m coming in!”

“My son has a key,” said the elder Cordo as the click of it sounded in the door mechanism.

“Ah,” said Locke, “I’ll be needing this back, then.” He snatched his dagger again, stood beside Cordo, and pointed it at the old man in a vaguely threatening fashion. “Hold still. This won’t take but a minute.”

A well-built man in his midthirties burst into the room, an ornate rapier in his hands. Lyonis Cordo, second-tier Priori, his father’s only heir, and a widower for several years. Perhaps the most eligible bachelor in all of Tal Verrar, all the more notable in that he rarely visited the Sinspire.

“Father! Alacyn!” Lyonis took a step into the room, brandishing his weapon with a flourish and spreading his arms to block the door. “Release them, you bastards! The household guards are roused, and you’ll never make it down to the—”

“Oh, for Perelandro’s sake, I’m not even going to pretend,” said Locke. He passed the dagger back to the elder Cordo, who held it between two fingers like some sort of captured insect. “Look. There. What sort of whimsical assassin am I, then? Sheathe your sword, shut the door, and open your ears. We have a lot of business to discuss.”

“I … but—”

“Lyonis,” said the elder Cordo, “this man may be out of his mind, but as he says, neither he nor his partner are assassins. Put up your weapon and tell the guards to …” He turned to Locke suspiciously. “Did you badly injure any of my people breaking in, Kosta?”

“One slight bump on the head,” said Locke. “Do it all the time. He’ll be fine, whoever he was.”

“Very well.” Marius sighed and passed the dagger fussily back to Locke, who tucked it back into his belt. “Lyonis, tell the guards to stand down. Then be seated and lock the door again.”

“May I go, if nobody’s going to be doing any assassinating in these chambers?” asked Alacyn.

“No. Sorry. You’ve already heard too much. Take a seat and get comfortable while you listen to the rest.” Locke turned to the elder Cordo. “Look, for obvious reasons, she cannot leave this house until our business is done tonight, right?”

“Of all the—”

“No, Alacyn, he’s right.” The elder Cordo waved his hands placatingly. “Too much rides on this, and if you’re loyal to me, you know it. If, forgive me, you’re not, you know it all the more. I’ll have you confined to the study, where you’ll be comfortable. And I’ll compensate you very, very handsomely for this, I promise.”

Released by Jean, she sat down in a corner and folded her arms grumpily. Lyonis, looking as though he doubted his own sanity, briskly dismissed the squad of tough-looking brutes that pounded into the library a moment later, sheathed his rapier, and pulled the bedchamber door closed. He leaned back against it, his scowl matching Alacyn’s.

“Now,” said Locke, “as I was saying, by the end of this night, come hell or Eldren-fire, my partner and I will be in close physical proximity to Maxilan Stragos. One way or another, we are removing him from power. Possibly from life itself, if we have no choice. But in order to get there our way, we’re going to need to demand some things of you. And you must understand, going in, that this is it. This is for real. Whatever your plans are to take the city from Stragos, have them ready to spring. Whatever your measures are to keep his army and navy tied down until you can remind them who pays their salaries, activate them.”

“Remove Stragos?” Lyonis looked simultaneously awed and alarmed. “Father, these men are mad—”

“Quiet, Lyo.” The elder Cordo raised his hand. “These men claim to be in a unique position to effect our desired change. And they have … declined to harm me for certain actions already taken against them. We will hear them out.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Here’s what you need to understand. In a couple of hours, Master de Ferra and I are going to be arrested by the Eyes of the Archon as we leave the Sinspire—”

“Arrested?” said Lyonis. “How can you know—”

“Because I’m going to set an appointment,” said Locke. “And I’m going to ask Stragos to have us arrested.”

4

“THE PROTECTOR will not see you, nor will the waiting lady. Those are our orders.”

Locke was sure he could feel the Eye officer’s disdainful glare even through his mask.

“He will now,” said Locke, as he and Jean pulled alongside the archon’s landing in the smaller, more nimble boat they had talked out of the elder Cordo. “Tell him that we’ve done as he requested when we last met, and we really need to speak about it.”

The officer took a few seconds to consider, then went for the signal chain. While they waited for a decision, Locke and Jean removed all of their weapons and gear, stashed it in their bags, and left those in the bottom of the boat. Eventually, Merrain appeared at the top of the landing stairs and beckoned; they were patted down with the usual thoroughness and escorted up to the archon’s study.

Jean trembled at the sight of Stragos, who was standing behind his desk. Locke noticed Jean clenching and unclenching his fists, so he squeezed his arm hard.

“Is this happy news?” asked the archon.

“Has anyone come in to report a fire at sea yesterday, around noon, anywhere west of the city?” asked Locke.

“Two merchant ships reported a large pillar of smoke on the western horizon,” said Stragos. “No further news that I’m aware of, and no syndicate claiming any loss.”

“They will soon enough,” said Locke. “One ship, burnt and sunk. Not a survivor aboard. It was headed for the city and it was wallowing with cargo, so I’m sure it will be missed eventually.”

“Eventually,” said Stragos. “So what do you want now, a kiss on the cheek and a plate of sweetmeats? I told you not to trifle with me again until—”

“Think of our first sinking as earnest money,” said Locke. “We’ve decided that we want to show our wine and drink it too.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“We want the fruit of our efforts at the Sinspire,” said Locke. “We want what we spent two years working for. And we want it tonight, before we do anything else.”

“Well, you can’t necessarily have it tonight. What, did you imagine I could give you some sort of writ, a polite request to Requin to allow you to carry out whatever your game is?”

“No,” said Locke, “but we’re going over there right now to pull it on him, and until we’re safely away with our swag, not another ship gets sunk in your waters at the hands of the Poison Orchid.”

“You do not dictate the terms of your employment to me—”

“I do, actually. Even if we are trusting you to give us our lives back when our enslavement to you is complete, we’re no longer confident that the conditions in this city will allow us to pull our Sinspire scheme after you get your way. Think, Stragos. We certainly have been. If you mean to put the Priori squarely under your thumb, there could be chaos. Bloodshed and arrests. Requin’s in bed with the Priori; his fortune needs to be intact if we’re going to relieve him of any of it. So we want what’s ours safely in our hands first, before we finish this affair for you.”

“You arrogant—”

“Yes,” Locke shouted. “Me. Arrogant. We still need our fucking antidote, Stragos. We still need it from your hands. And we demand another extension, if nothing else. Tonight. I want to see your alchemist standing beside you when we return here in a couple of hours.”

“Of all the bloody—what do you mean, when you return here?”

“There’s only one way for us to walk away safely from the Sinspire, once Requin knows we’ve taken him for a ride,” said Locke. “We need to leave the Sinspire directly into the hands of your Eyes, who’ll be waiting to arrest us.”

“Why, before all the gods, would I have them do that?”

“Because once we’re safely back here,” said Locke, “we will slip out quietly, back to the Poison Orchid, and later this very night, we’ll hit the Silver Marina itself. Drakasha has one hundred and fifty crewfolk, and we spent the afternoon taking two fishing boats to use as fire-craft. You wanted the crimson flag in sight of your city? By the gods, we’ll put it in the harbor. Smash and burn as much as we can, and hit whatever’s in reach on our way out. The Priori will be at your gates with bags of money, pleading for a savior. The people will riot if they don’t get one. Is that immediate enough for you? We could do what you wanted. We could do it tonight. And a punitive raid for the Ghostwind Isles—well, how quickly can you pack your sea chest, Protector?”

“What are you taking from Requin?” asked Stragos, after a long, silent rumination.

“Nothing that can’t be transported by one man in a serious hurry.”

“Requin’s vault is impenetrable.”

“We know,” said Locke. “What we’re after isn’t in it.”

“How can I be sure you won’t get yourselves uselessly killed while doing this?”

“I can assure you we will,” said Locke, “unless we find immediate safety in the public, legal custody of your Eyes. And then we vanish, whisked away for crimes against the Verrari state, on a matter of the archonate’s privilege. A privilege which you will soon be at leisure to flaunt. Come on, admit that it’s bloody beautiful.”

“You will leave the object of your desire with me,” said the archon. “Steal it. Fine. Transport it here. But since you’ll need your poison neutralized anyway, I will keep it for you until we part.”

“That’s—”

“A necessary comfort to myself,” said Stragos, his voice laden with threat. “Two men who knew themselves to be facing certain death could easily flee, and then drink, binge, and whore themselves in comfort for several weeks before the end, if they suddenly found a large sum of money in their hands, couldn’t they?”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Locke, feigning irritation. “Every single thing we leave with you—”

“Will be given scrupulous good care. Your investment of two years will be waiting for you at our parting of the ways.”

“I guess we have no choice, then. Agreed.”

“Then I will have a writ made out immediately for the arrest of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra,” said Stragos. “And I will grant this request—and then, by the gods, you and that Syresti bitch had better deliver.”

“We will,” said Locke. “To the utmost of our ability. An oath has been sworn.”

“My soldiers—”

“Eyes,” said Locke. “Send Eyes. There have to be agents of the Priori among your regulars; I’m staking my life on the fact that you keep more of an eye on your Eyes, as it were. Plus they scare the shit out of people. This is a shock operation.”

“Hmmm,” said Stragos. “The suggestion is reasonable.”

“Then please listen carefully,” said Locke.

5

IT FELT good to be stripping down to nothing.

Emerging from a long spell of false-facing could be like coming up for air after nearly drowning, Locke thought. Now all the baggage of their multitiered lies and identities was peeling away, sloughing off behind them as they pounded up the stairs to the Golden Steps one last time. Now that they knew the source of their mystery assassins, they had no need to sham as priests and skulk about; they could run like simple thieves with the powers of the city close on their heels.

Which was exactly what they were.

He and Jean should have been loving it, laughing about it together, reveling in their usual breathless joy at crime well executed. Richer and cleverer than everyone else. But tonight Locke was doing all the talking; tonight Jean struggled to keep his composure until the moment he could lash out, and gods help whoever got in his way when he did.

Calo, Galdo, and Bug, Locke thought. Ezri. All he and Jean had ever wanted to do was steal as much as they could carry and laugh all the way to a safe distance. Why had it cost them so many loved ones? Why did some stupid motherfucker always have to imagine that you could cross a Camorri with impunity?

Because you can’t, Locke thought, sucking air through gritted teeth as the Sinspire loomed overhead, throwing blue-and-red light into the dark sky. You can’t. We proved it once and we’ll prove it again tonight, before all the gods.

6

“STAY CLEAR of the service entrance, you—oh, gods, it’s you! Help!”

The bouncer who’d received Jean’s painful ministrations to his ribs at their previous meeting recoiled as Locke and Jean ran across the service courtyard toward him. Locke saw that he was wearing some sort of stiff brace beneath the thin fabric of his tunic.

“Not here to hurt you,” panted Locke. “Fetch … Selendri. Fetch her now.”

“You’re not dressed to speak with—”

“Fetch her now and earn a coin,” said Locke, wiping sweat from his brow, “or stand there for two more seconds and get your fucking ribs rebroken.”

Half a dozen Sinspire attendants gathered around in case of trouble, but they made no hostile moves. A few minutes after the injured bouncer had disappeared within the tower, Selendri came back out in his place.

“You two are supposed to be at sea—”

“No time to explain, Selendri. The archon has ordered us to be arrested. There’s a squad of Eyes coming up to get us as we speak. They’ll be here in minutes.”

“What?”

“He figured it out somehow,” said Locke. “He knows we’ve been plotting with you against him, and—”

“Don’t speak of this here,” Selendri hissed.

“Hide us. Hide us, please!”

Locke could see panic, frustration, and calculation warring on the unscarred side of her face. Leave them here to their fate, and let them spill everything they knew to the archon’s torturers? Kill them in the courtyard, before witnesses, without the plausible explanation of an “accidental” fall? No. She had to take them in. For the moment.

“Come,” she said. “Hurry. You and you, search them.”

Sinspire attendants patted Locke and Jean down, coming up with their daggers and coin purses. Selendri took them.

“This one has a deck of cards,” said an attendant after fishing in Locke’s tunic pockets.

“He would,” said Selendri. “I don’t give a damn. We’re going to the ninth floor.”

Into the grandeur of Requin’s shrine to avarice for one last time; through the crowds and the layers of smoke hanging like unquiet spirits in the air, up the wide spiraling stairs through the floors of increasing quality and risk.

Locke glanced about as they went up; was it his imagination, or were there no Priori preening in here tonight? Up to the fourth floor, up to the fifth—and there, naturally, he nearly walked into Maracosa Durenna, who gaped with a drink in her hand as Selendri and her guards dragged Locke and Jean past her. On Durenna’s face, Locke could see more than bafflement or irritation—oh, gods. She was pissed.

Locke could only imagine how he and Jean looked to her—hairier, leaner, and burnt brown by the sun. Not to mention underdressed, sweaty, and clearly in a great deal of trouble with the house. He grinned and waved at Durenna as they ascended the stairs, and she passed out of view.

Up through the last floors, through the most rarefied layers of the house. Still no Priori—coincidence, or encouraging sign?

Up into Requin’s office, where the master of the ’Spire was standing before a mirror, pulling on a long-tailed black evening coat trimmed in cloth-of-silver. He bared his teeth at the sight of Locke and Jean, the malice in his eyes easily a match for the fiery alchemical glare of his optics.

“Eyes of the Archon,” said Selendri. “On their way to arrest Kosta and de Ferra.”

Requin growled, lunged forward like a fencer, and backhanded Locke with astonishing force. Locke slid across the floor on his ass and slammed into Requin’s desk. Knickknacks rattled alarmingly above him, and a metal plate clattered to the tiles.

Jean moved forward, but the two burly Sinspire attendants grabbed him by the arms, and with a well-oiled click Selendri had her concealed blades out to dissuade him.

“What did you do, Kosta?” roared Requin. He kicked Locke in the stomach, knocking him back against the desk once again. A wineglass fell from the desktop and shattered against the floor.

“Nothing,” gasped Locke. “Nothing. He just knew, Requin; he knew we were conspiring against him. We had to run. Eyes on our heels.”

“Eyes coming to my ’Spire,” Requin growled. “Eyes that may be about to violate a rather important tradition of the Golden Steps. You’ve put me in a very tenuous situation, Kosta. You’ve fucked everything up, haven’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Locke, crawling to his hands and knees. “I’m sorry, there was nowhere else to run. If he … if he got his hands on us—”

“Quite,” said Requin. “I’m going down to deal with your pursuers. You two will remain here. We’ll discuss this the moment I get back.”

When you come back, thought Locke, you’ll have more of your attendants with you. And Jean and I will “slip” out the window.

It was time to do it.

Requin’s boot heels echoed first against tile, then against the iron of his little staircase as he descended to the level below. The two attendants holding Jean released him, but kept their eyes on him, while Selendri leaned back atop Requin’s desk with her blades out. She stared coldly at Locke as he got back to his feet, wincing.

“No more sweet nothings to mutter in my ear, Kosta?”

“Selendri, I—”

“Did you know he was planning to kill you, Master de Ferra? That his dealings with us these past few months hinged on our allowing that to happen?”

“Selendri, listen, please—”

“I knew you were a poor investment,” she said. “I just never realized the situation would turn so quickly.”

“Yes, you were right. I was a bad investment, and I don’t doubt that Requin will listen more closely to you in the future. Because I never wanted to kill Jerome de Ferra. Jerome de Ferra isn’t a real person. Neither is Calo Callas.

“In fact,” he said, grinning broadly, “you have just delivered us to exactly where we need to be, for the payoff to two long years of hard work, so we can rob the fucking hell out of you and your boss.”

The next sound in the room was that of a Sinspire attendant hitting the wall, with the impression of one of Jean’s fists reddening an entire side of his face.

Selendri acted with remarkable speed, but Locke was ready for her; not to fight, but simply to duck and weave, and to stay away from that bladed hand of hers. He vaulted over the desk, scattering papers, and laughed as the two of them feinted from side to side, dancing to see who would stumble past its protective bulk first.

“You die, then, Kosta,” she said.

“Oh, and you were planning to spare us. Please. By the way—Leocanto Kosta’s not real, either. So many little things you just do not know, eh?”

Behind them, Jean grappled with the second attendant. Jean slammed his forehead into the man’s face, breaking his nose, and the man fell to his knees, burbling. Jean stepped behind him and drove his elbow down on the back of the man’s neck with all of his upper body behind it. Involved as he was in avoiding Selendri, Locke winced at the noise the attendant’s skull made as it struck the floor.

A moment later, Jean loomed behind Selendri, blood from the attendant’s broken nose streaming down his face. She slashed with her blades, but Jean’s anger had him in a rare, vicious form. He caught her brass forearm, folded her in half with a punch to the stomach, whirled her around, and held her by the arms. She writhed and fought for breath.

“This is a nice office,” said Jean quietly, as though he’d just shaken hands with Selendri and her attendants rather than beaten the hell out of them. Locke frowned, but went on with the scheme—time was of the essence.

“Watch closely, Selendri, because I can only do this trick once,” he said, producing his deck of fraudulent playing cards and shuffling them theatrically. “Is there a liquor in the house? A very strong liquor, the sort that brings tears to a man’s eyes and fire to his throat?” He feigned surprise at the presence of a brandy bottle on the shelf behind Requin’s desk, next to a silver bowl filled with flowers.

Locke seized the bowl, tossed the flowers on the floor, and set the empty container atop the desk. He then opened the brandy bottle and poured the brown liquor into the bowl, to a depth of about three fingers.

“Now, as you can see, I hold nothing in my hands save this perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary deck of perfectly unremarkable playing cards. Or do I?” He gave the deck one last shuffle and then dropped it into the bowl. The alchemical cards softened, distended, and began to bubble and foam. Their pictures and symbols dissolved, first into a color-streaked white mess, then into an oily gray goo. Locke found a rounded buttering knife on a small plate at a corner of the desk, and he used it to vigorously stir the gray goo until all traces of the playing cards had vanished.

“What the hell are you doing?” Selendri asked.

“Making alchemical cement,” said Locke. “Little wafers of resin, painted to look like cards, formulated to react with strong liquor. Sweet gods above, you do not want to know what this cost me. Hell, I had no choice but to come rob you after I had it made.”

“What do you intend—”

“As I know from vivid personal experience,” said Locke, “this shit dries harder than steel.” He ran over to the spot on the wall where the climbing closet would emerge, and he began to slather the gray goo all over the faint cracks that marked its door. “So once I paint it all over this lovely concealed entrance, and then pour it into the lock of the main door, why—in about a minute, Requin’s going to need a battering ram if he wants to see his office again this evening.”

Selendri tried to scream for help, but the damage to her throat was too much; it was a loud and eerie sound, but it didn’t carry downstairs with the force she needed. Locke scampered down the iron stairs, closed the main doors to Requin’s office, and hurriedly sealed the locking mechanism within a glob of already-firming cement.

“And now,” he said when he returned to the center of the office, “the next curiosity of the evening, concerning this lovely suite of chairs with which I furnished our esteemed host. It turns out that I do know what the Talathri Baroque is after all, and that there is a reason why someone in his right mind would build such a nice thing out of a wood as fundamentally weak as shear-crescent.”

Locke seized one of the chairs. He tore the seat cushion and its underlying panel off with his bare hands, exposing a shallow chamber within the seat packed tight with tools and equipment—knives, a leather climbing belt, clips and descenders, and assorted other implements. He shook these out onto the ground with a clatter, and then hoisted the chair above his head, grinning.

“It makes ’em so much easier to smash.”

And that he did, bringing the chair down hard on Requin’s floor. It shattered at all the joints, but didn’t fly apart, because its splintered chunks were held together by something threaded through the hollow cavities within its legs and back. Locke fumbled with the wreckage for a few moments before successfully extracting several long lengths of demi-silk line.

Locke took one of these, and with Jean’s help soon had Selendri tied into the chair behind Requin’s desk. She kicked and spat and even tried to bite them, but it was no use.

Once she was secured, Locke picked a knife out of the pile of tools on the ground while Jean got to work smashing the other three chairs and extracting their hidden contents. As Locke approached Selendri with the blade in his hand, she gave him a contemptuous stare.

“I can’t tell you anything meaningful,” she said. “The vault is at the base of the tower, and you’ve just sealed yourselves up here. So frighten me all you like, Kosta, but I have no idea what you think you’re doing.”

“Oh, you think this is for you?” Locke smiled. “Selendri. I thought we knew each other better than that. As for the vault, who the hell said anything about it?”

“Your work to find a way in—”

“I lied, Selendri. I’ve been known to do that. You think I was really experimenting on clockwork locks and keeping notes for Maxilan Stragos? Like hell. I was sipping brandies on your first and second floors, trying to pull myself back together after I nearly got cut to pieces. Your vault’s fucking impenetrable, sweetheart. I never wanted to go anywhere near it.”

Locke glanced around, pretending to notice the room for the very first time.

“Requin sure does keep a lot of really expensive paintings on his walls, though, doesn’t he?”

With a grin that felt even larger than it was, Locke stepped up to the closest one and began, ever so carefully, to cut it out of its surrounding frame.

7

LOCKE AND Jean threw themselves backward from Requin’s balcony ten minutes later, demi-silk lines leading from their leather belts to the perfect anchor-noose knots they’d tied on the railing. There hadn’t been enough room in the chairs for belay lines, but sometimes you couldn’t get anywhere in life without taking little risks.

Locke hollered as they slid rapidly down through the night air, past balcony after balcony, window after window of bored, satisfied, incurious, or jaded gamers. His glee had temporarily wrestled his sorrow down. He and Jean fell for twenty seconds, using their iron descenders to avoid a headlong plummet, and for those twenty seconds all was right with the world, Crooked Warden be praised. Ten of Requin’s prized paintings—lovingly trimmed from their frames, rolled up, and stuffed into oilcloth carrying tubes—were slung over his shoulder. He’d had to leave two on the wall, for lack of carrying cases, but once again space in the chairs had been limited.

After Locke had conceived the idea of going after Requin’s fairly well-known art collection, he’d nosed around for a potential buyer among the antiquities and diversions merchants of several cities. The price he’d eventually been offered for his hypothetical acquisition of “the art objects” had been gratifying, to say the least.

Their slide ended on the stones of Requin’s courtyard, where the ends of their lines hung three inches above the ground. Their landing disturbed several drunk couples strolling the perimeter of the yard. No sooner were they shrugging out of their lines and harnesses than they heard the rush of heavily booted feet and the clatter of arms and armor. A squad of eight Eyes ran toward them from the street side of the Sinspire.

“Stand where you are,” the Eye in the lead bellowed. “As an officer of archon and Council, I place you under arrest for crimes against Tal Verrar. Raise your hands and offer no struggle, or no quarter will be given.”

8

THE LONG, shallow-draft boat drew up against the archon’s private landing, and Locke found his heart hammering. Now came the delicate part, the ever-so-delicate part.

He and Jean were thrust from the boat by the Eyes surrounding them. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and they’d been relieved of their paintings. Those were carried, very carefully, by the last of the arresting Eyes to step off the boat.

The arresting officer stepped up to the Eye in command of the landing and saluted. “We’re to take the prisoners to see the Protector immediately, Sword-prefect.”

“I know,” said the landing officer, an unmistakable note of satisfaction in his voice. “Well done, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir. The gardens?”

“Yes.”

Locke and Jean were marched through the Mon Magisteria, through empty hallways and past silent ballrooms, through the smells of weapon oil and dusty corners. At last they emerged into the archon’s gardens.

Their feet crunched on the gravel of the path as they made their way through the deeply scented night, past the faint glow of silver creeper and the stuttering luminescence of lantern beetles.

Maxilan Stragos sat waiting for them near his boathouse, on a chair brought out for the occasion. With him were Merrain and—oh, how Locke’s heart quickened—the bald alchemist, as well as two more Eyes. The arresting Eyes, led by their sergeant, saluted the archon.

“On their knees,” said Stragos casually, and Locke and Jean were forced down to the gravel before him. Locke winced, and tried to take in the details of the scene. Merrain wore a long-sleeved tunic and a dark skirt; from his angle Locke could see that her boots weren’t courtly fripperies, but black, flat-soled field boots, good for running and fighting. Interesting. Stragos’ alchemist stood with a large gray satchel, looking nervous. Locke’s pulse quickened once again at the thought of what might be in that bag.

“Stragos,” said Locke, pretending that he didn’t know exactly what was on the archon’s mind, “another garden party? Your armored jackasses can untie us now; I doubt there are agents of the Priori lurking in the trees.”

“I have sometimes wondered to myself,” said Stragos, “precisely what it would take to humble you.” He beckoned the Eye at his right side forward. “I have regretfully concluded that it’s probably impossible.”

The Eye kicked Locke in the chest, knocking him backward. Gravel slid beneath him as he tried to squirm away; the Eye reached down and yanked him back up by his tunic collar.

“Do you see my alchemist? Here, as you requested?” said Stragos.

“Yes,” said Locke.

“That’s what you get. All you will ever get. I have kept my word. Enjoy your useless glimpse.”

“Stragos, you bastard, we still have work to do for—”

“I think not,” said the archon. “I think your work is already done. And at long last, I think I can see precisely why you so aggravated the Bondsmagi that they passed you into my care.”

“Stragos, if we don’t get back to the Poison Orchid—”

“My spotters have reported a ship answering that description anchored to the north of the city. I’ll be out to fetch her soon enough, with half the galleys in my fleet. And then I’ll have another pirate to parade through the streets, and a crew to drop into the Midden Deep one by one while all of Tal Verrar cheers me on.”

“But we—”

“You have given me what I need,” said Stragos, “if not in the manner in which you intended. Sergeant, did you encounter any difficulty in securing these prisoners from the Sinspire?”

“Requin refused to allow us entry to the structure, Protector.”

“Requin refused to allow you entry to the structure,” said Stragos, clearly savoring each word. “Thereby treating an informal tradition as though it had any precedence over my legal authority. Thereby giving me cause to send my troops in platoons, and do what the bought-and-paid-for constables won’t—throw that bastard in a box, until we find out just how long he’s willing to stay quiet about the activities of his good friends the Priori. Now I have my fighting chance. There’s no need for you two to cause further violence in my waters.”

“Stragos, you motherfucker—”

“In fact,” said the archon, “there’s no need for you two, at all.”

“We had a deal!”

“And I would have kept to it, had you not scorned me in the one matter which could brook no disobedience!” Stragos rose from his chair, shaking with anger. “My instructions were to leave the men and women at Windward Rock alive! Alive!”

“But we—,” began Locke, absolutely mystified. “We used the witfrost, and we did leave them—”

“With their throats cut,” said Stragos. “Only the two on the roof lived; I presume you were too lazy to climb up and finish them off.”

“We didn’t—”

“Who else was raiding my island that night, Kosta? It’s not exactly a shrine for pilgrims, is it? If you didn’t do it, you allowed the prisoners to do it. Either way, the fault is yours.”

“Stragos, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That won’t bring my four good men and women back, will it?” Stragos put his hands behind his back. “And with that, we’re done. The sound of your voice, the tone of your arrogance, the sheer effrontery contained within that tongue of yours … you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no ceremony, and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword.”

The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the archon.

“Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.”

Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.”

“I—”

Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon’s face.

9

THEY DID it like this.

The Eyes removed Locke and Jean from Requin’s courtyard and shoved them into a heavy carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses, and three stood at the sides and rear, as outriders.

At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.

Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from their places, caught defenseless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves and shields.

“Move along,” they shouted at the wide-eyed bystanders, the wisest of whom had already ducked for cover. “Nothing to see here. Business of archon and Council.”

As the bodies hit the cobblestones outside the carriage, the door flew open and the three inside made a futile attempt to aid their fallen comrades. Two more squads of constables, with help from a number of private individuals in plain dress who just happened to get involved at the same signal, charged and overpowered them. One fought back so hard that he was slain by accident; the other two were soon forced down beside the carriage, and their bronze masks removed.

Lyonis Cordo appeared, wearing the uniform of an Eye, complete in every detail save for the mask. He was followed by seven more men and women in nearly complete costumes. With them was a young woman Locke didn’t recognize. She knelt in front of the two captured Eyes.

“You I don’t know,” she said to the one on the right. Before the man had time to realize what was happening, a constable had passed a dagger across his throat and shoved him to the ground. Other constables were quickly dragging the rest of the bodies out of sight.

“You,” said the woman, regarding the sole surviving Eye. “Lucius Caulus. You I know.”

“Kill me now,” said the man. “I’ll give you nothing.”

“Of course,” said the woman. “But you have a mother. And a sister, who works in the Blackhands Crescent. And you have a brother-by-bonding on the fishing boats, and two nephews—”

“Fuck you,” Caulus said. “You wouldn’t—”

“While you watched. I would. I will. Every single one of them, and you’ll be in the room the whole time, and they’ll know that you could save them with a few words.”

Caulus looked at the ground and began to sob. “Please,” he said. “Let this stay between us—”

“Tal Verrar remains, Caulus. The archon isn’t Tal Verrar. But I don’t have time to play games with you. Answer my questions or we will find your family.”

“Gods forgive me,” said Caulus, nodding.

“Were you given any special code phrases or procedures to use when reentering the Mon Magisteria?”

“N-no …”

“What, exactly, were the orders that you heard given to your sergeant?”

When the brief interrogation was over, and Caulus carted off—alive, to keep him in fear of consequences should he be leaving anything out—along with the bodies, the false Eyes armed themselves with the weapons and harnesses of the real thing, and drew on the brass masks. Then the carriage was off again, speeding on its way to the boat waiting at the inner docks, lest any of Stragos’ agents should get across the bay in time to warn of what they’d seen.

“That was about as good as we could hope for,” said Lyonis, sitting inside the carriage with them.

“How good are those fake uniforms?” asked Locke.

“Fake? You misunderstand. The uniforms weren’t the hard part; our sympathizers in Stragos’ forces supplied us with these some time ago. It’s the masks that are damned difficult. One per Eye, no spares; they keep them like family heirlooms. And they spend so much time looking at them even a close copy would be noticed.” Cordo held up his mask and grinned. “After tonight, hopefully, we’ll never see the damned things again. Now what the hell is in those oilcloth tubes?”

“A gift from Requin,” said Locke. “Unrelated personal business.”

“You know Requin well?”

“We share a taste for the art of the late Therin Throne period,” said Locke, smiling. “In fact, we’ve even exchanged some pieces of work recently.”

10

AS LYONIS knocked the archon to the ground, the other false Eyes tore their masks off and took action. Locke and Jean slid out of the purely decorative knots at their wrists in less than a second.

One of Lyonis’ men underestimated the skills of the real Eye he faced; he fell to his knees with most of his left side sliced open. Two more Priori pretenders closed in and harried the Eye until his guard slipped; they knocked him down and stabbed him several times. The other tried to run and fetch aid, but was slain before he could take five steps.

Merrain and the alchemist looked around, the alchemist far more nervously than Merrain, but two of Lyonis’ people put them at swordpoint.

“Well, Stragos,” said Lyonis, hauling the archon back to his knees, “warmest regards from the House of Cordo.” He raised his arm, sword reversed to strike, and grinned.

Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground, and stood over him, seething. “The deal, Cordo!”

“Yeah,” said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground. “Well, it’s like this. You’ve done us quite a service, but we don’t feel comfortable having loose ends running around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—”

“You amateur double-crossers,” said Locke. “You make us professionals cringe. You think you’re so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual friend offer an opinion on the subject.”

Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled, knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read:

I WOULD TAKE IT AS A PERSONAL AFFRONT IF THE BEARERS OF THIS NOTE WERE TO BE HARMED OR HINDERED IN ANY WAY, ENGAGED AS THEY ARE UPON AN ERRAND OF MUTUAL BENEFIT. THE EXTENSION OF EVERY COURTESY TO THEM WILL BE NOTED AND RETURNED AS THOUGH A COURTESY TO MYSELF. THEY BEAR MY FULL AND ABSOLUTE TRUST.

R

All, of course, above Requin’s personal seal.

“I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance house,” said Locke. “But you must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—”

“Enough. I take your point.” Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back at Locke. “What do you ask?”

“I only want two things,” said Locke. “The archon and his alchemist. What you do with this gods-damned city is entirely your business.”

“The archon must—”

“You were about to gut him like a fish. He’s my business now. Just know that whatever happens to him won’t be an inconvenience for you.”

The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected himself—the other side of the fortress.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisteria’s gate,” said Cordo. “We’re bringing people in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known.”

“If you try to storm—”

“We’re not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside comprehend the new situation, we’re confident they’ll accept the authority of the councils.”

“You’d better hope that’s the case across Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “But enough of this shit. Hey, Stragos, let’s go have a chat with your pet alchemist.”

Jean hoisted the archon—still clearly in shock—to his feet, and began to haul him over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.

“You,” said Locke, pointing at the bald man, “are about to start explaining a hell of a lot of things, if you know what’s good for you.”

The alchemist shook his head. “Oh, but I … I …”

“Pay close attention,” said Locke. “This is the end of the archonate, understand? The whole institution is getting sunk in the harbor once and for all tonight. After this, Maxilan Stragos won’t have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with nobody to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a permanent antidote?”

“I … I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the archon’s service, yes. Just in case.”

“Xandrin, don’t—,” said Stragos. Jean punched him in the stomach.

“Oh, no. Do, Xandrin, do,” said Locke.

The bald man reached into his satchel and held up a glass vial, full of transparent liquid. “One dose is what I carry. This is enough for one man—do not split it. This will cleanse the substance from the humors and channels of the body.”

Locke took the vial from him, his hand trembling. “And this … how much will it cost to have another alchemist make more?”

“It’s impossible,” said Xandrin. “I designed the antidote to defy reactive analysis. Any sample subjected to alchemical scrutiny will be ruined. The poison and its antidote are my proprietary formulation—”

“Notes,” said Locke. “Recipes, whatever you call the damn things.”

“In my head,” said Xandrin. “Paper is a poor keeper of secrets.”

“Well then,” said Locke, “until you cook us up another dose, it looks like you’re fucking well coming with us. Do you like the sea?”

11

MERRAIN MADE her decision then. If the antidote couldn’t be duplicated, and she could knock the vial to the ground … the troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin.

If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.

She moved her right arm slightly, dropping the hilt of her poisoned dagger into her hand, and took a deep breath.

Merrain moved so fast that the false Eye standing to her side never even had the chance to raise his sword. Her sideways stab, not preceded by any telltale glance or lunge, took him in the side of the neck. She slid the blade sideways as she withdrew, tearing whatever she could in case the poison took a few extra seconds to do its work.

12

MERRAIN’S FIRST victim had just uttered a gasp of surprise when she moved again, slashing across the back of Xandrin’s neck with a knife she’d produced from nowhere. Locke stared for a split second, startled; he counted himself fast, but if she’d been aiming for him he realized that he never would have seen the blow coming in time.

As Xandrin cried out and stumbled forward, Merrain kicked at Locke, a fast attack rather than a solid one. She caught his arm and the vial flew from his fingers; Locke barely had time to yell, “Shit!” before he was diving after it, heedless of the gravel he was about to skin himself against or anything else Merrain might care to do to him. He plucked the still-intact vial off the ground, uttered a whisper of thanks, and was then knocked aside as Jean rushed past, arms extended.

As he hit the ground with the vial clutched to his chest, Locke saw Merrain wind up and hurl her knife; Jean struck her at the moment of release, so that rather than impaling Stragos through the neck or chest as she’d clearly intended, she bounced her blade off the gravel at his feet. The archon flinched away from the weapon nonetheless.

Merrain, improbably, put up an effective struggle against Jean; she freed one arm from his grasp somehow and elbowed him in the ribs. Lithe and no doubt desperate as all hell, she kicked his left foot, broke his grip, and tried to stumble away. Jean retained enough of a hold on her tunic to tear off her left sleeve all the way to the shoulder; thrown off balance as it gave way, he fell to the ground.

Locke caught a flash of an elaborate, dark tattoo against the pale skin of Merrain’s upper arm—something like a grapevine entwined around a sword. Then she was off like a crossbow bolt, darting into the night, away from Jean and the false Eyes who chased her in vain for a few dozen steps before giving up and swearing loudly.

“Well what the—oh, hell,” said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. “Oh, shit, shit, hell,” Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“No,” said Jean from behind him. “Oh, gods, why did she do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Locke.

“What the hell do we do?”

“We … shit. Damned if I know that, either.”

“You should—”

“Nobody’s doing anything,” said Locke. “I’ll keep this safe. Once this is over, we’ll sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We’ll come up with something.”

“You can—”

“Time to go,” said Locke, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “Get what we came here for and go, before things get more complicated.” Before troops loyal to the archon notice that he’s having a bad night. Before Lyonis finds out that Requin is actually hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the ground to bite us on the ass.

“Cordo,” he shouted, “where’s that bag you promised?”

Lyonis gestured to one of his surviving false Eyes, and the woman passed a heavy burlap sack to Locke. Locke shook it out—it was wider than he was, and nearly six feet long.

“Well, Maxilan,” he said, “I offered you the chance to forget all of this, and let us go, and keep what you had, but you had to be a fucking asshole, didn’t you?”

“Kosta,” said Stragos, at least seeming to rediscover his voice, “I … I can give you …”

“You can’t give me a gods-damned thing.” Stragos seemed to be thinking of making an attempt for Merrain’s dagger, so Locke gave it a hard kick. It skittered across the gravel and into the darkness of the gardens. “Those of us in our profession, those who hold with the Crooked Warden, have a little tradition we follow when someone close to us dies. In this case, someone who got killed as a result of this mad fucking scheme of yours.”

“Kosta, don’t throw away what I can offer—”

“We call it a death-offering,” said Locke. “Means we steal something of value, proportional to the life we lost. Except in this case I don’t think there’s anything in the world that qualifies. But we’re doing our best.”

Jean stepped up beside him and cracked his knuckles.

“Ezri Delmastro,” he said, very quietly, “I give you the archon of Tal Verrar.”

He punched Stragos so hard that the archon’s feet left the gravel. In a moment, he was stuffing the unconscious old man into the burlap sack. Another moment, and the sack was tied off, and slung over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

“Well, Lyonis,” said Locke, “best of luck with your revolution, or whatever the hell it is. We’re sneaking out of here before things have a chance to get any more interesting on us.”

“And Stragos—”

“You’ll never see him again,” said Locke.

“Good enough, then. Are you leaving the city?”

“Not half fast enough for our gods-damned taste.”

13

JEAN DUMPED him on the quarterdeck, under the eyes of Zamira and all the surviving crew. It had been a long and arduous trip back—first to retrieve their backpacks from Cordo’s little boat, and then to dutifully retrieve Drakasha’s ship’s boat, and then to row nearly out to sea—but it had all been worth it. The entire night had been worth it, Locke decided, just to see the expression on Stragos’ face when he found Zamira standing over him.

“Dr … r … akasha,” he mumbled, then spit one of his teeth onto the deck. Blood ran in several streams down his chin.

“Maxilan Stragos, former archon of Tal Verrar,” she said. “Final archon of Tal Verrar. Last time I saw you my perspective was somewhat different.”

“As was … mine.” He sighed. “What now?”

“There are too many debts riding on your carcass to buy them off with death,” said Zamira. “We thought long and hard about this. We’ve decided that we’re going to try to keep you around as long as we possibly can.”

She snapped her fingers, and Jabril stepped forward, carrying a mass of sturdy, if slightly rusted, iron chains and cuffs in his arms. He dropped them on the deck next to Stragos and laughed as the old man jumped. The hands of other crewfolk seized him, and he began to sob in disbelief as his legs and arms were clamped, and as the chains were draped around him.

“You’re going in the orlop, Stragos. You’re going into the dark. And we’re going to treat it as a special privilege, to carry you around with us wherever we go. In any weather, in any sea, in any heat. We’re going to haul you a mighty long way. You and your irons. Long after your clothes fall off, I guarantee, you’ll still have those to wear.”

“Drakasha, please …”

“Throw him as far down as we got,” she said, and half a dozen crewfolk began carrying him toward a main-deck hatch. “Chain him to the bulkhead. Then let him get cozy.”

“Drakasha,” he screamed, “you can’t! You can’t! I’ll go mad!”

“I know,” she said. “And you’ll scream. Gods, how you’ll wail down there. But that’s okay. We can always do with a bit of music at sea.”

Then he was carried below the Poison Orchid’s deck, to the rest of his life.

“Well,” said Drakasha, turning to Locke and Jean. “You two delivered. I’ll be damned, but you got what you wanted.”

“No, Captain,” said Jean. “We got what we went after, mostly. But we didn’t get what we wanted. Not by a long gods-damned shot.”

“I’m sorry, Jerome,” she said.

“I hope nobody ever calls me that again,” said Jean. “The name is Jean.”

“Locke and Jean,” she said. “All right, then. Can I take you two somewhere?”

“Vel Virazzo, if you don’t mind,” said Locke. “We’ve got some business to transact.”

“And then you’ll be rich men?”

“We’ll be in funds, yes. Do you want some, for your—”

“No,” she said. “You went into Tal Verrar and did the stealing. Keep it. We’ve got swag enough from Salon Corbeau, and so few ways to split it now. We’ll be fine. So what will you do after that?”

“We had a plan,” said Locke. “Remember what you told me at the rail that night? If someone tries to draw lines around your ship, just … set more sail?”

Drakasha nodded.

“I guess you could say we’re going to give it a try,” said Locke.

“Will you need anything else, then?”

“Well,” said Locke, “for safety’s sake, given our past history … perhaps you’d let us consider borrowing one of your ship’s cats?”

14

THEY MET the next day, at Requin’s invitation, in what could only be described as the wreckage of his office. The main door was smashed off its hinges, the suite of chairs still lay broken across the floor, and of course almost all of the paintings on the walls had been sliced out of their frames. Requin seemed to derive a perverse pleasure in seating the seven Priori on fine chairs in the midst of the chaos and pretending that all was perfectly normal. Selendri paced the room behind the guests.

“Has everything gone more smoothly for you ladies and gentlemen since last night?” asked Requin.

“Fighting’s ended in the Sword Marina,” said Jacantha Tiga, youngest of the Inner Seven. “The navy is on the leash.”

“The Mon Magisteria is ours,” said Lyonis Cordo, standing in for his father. “All of Stragos’ captains are in custody, except for two captains of intelligence—”

“We can’t have another fucking Ravelle incident,” said a middle-aged Priori.

“I’ve got people working on that issue myself,” said Requin. “They won’t go to ground within the city, I can promise that much.”

“The ambassadors from Talisham, Espara, and the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows have publicly expressed confidence in the leadership of the council,” said Tiga.

“I know,” said Requin, smiling. “I forgave them some rather substantial debts last night, and suggested that they might make themselves useful to the new regime. Now, what about the Eyes?”

“About half of them are alive and in custody,” said Cordo. “The rest are dead, with just a few thought to be trying to stir up resistance.”

“They won’t get far,” said Tiga. “Loyalty to the old archonate won’t buy food or beer. I expect they’ll turn up dead here and there once they annoy the regulars too much.”

“We’ll have the rest quietly gotten rid of over the next few days,” said Cordo.

“Now, I wonder,” said Requin, “if that’s really so very wise. The Eyes of the Archon represent a significant pool of highly trained and committed people. Surely there’s got to be a better use for them than filling graves.”

“They were loyal to Stragos alone—”

“Or perhaps to Tal Verrar, were you to ask them.” Requin placed a hand over his heart. “My patriotic duty compels me to point this out.”

Cordo snorted. “They were his shock troops, his bodyguards, his torturers. They’re useless to us, if not actively seditious.”

“Perhaps, for all of his vaunted military understanding, our dear departed archon employed the Eyes inefficiently,” said Requin. “Perhaps the business with the faceless masks was too much. They might have been better off in plainclothes, as an enhancement to his intelligence apparatus, rather than terrorizing people as his enforcers.”

“Maybe for his sake,” said Tiga. “Had he done so, that intelligence apparatus might have foiled our move against him yesterday. It was a close thing.”

“Still,” said Cordo, “hard to keep a kingdom when you no longer have a king.”

“Yes,” said Tiga, “we’re all so very impressed, Cordo. Subtly mention your involvement in passing as often as you like, please.”

“At least I—”

“And more difficult still to keep a kingdom,” interrupted Requin, “when you discard perfectly good tools left behind by the king.”

“Forgive us our density,” said Saravelle Fioran, a woman nearly as old as Marius Cordo, “but what precisely are you driving at, Requin?”

“Merely that the Eyes, properly vetted and retrained, could be a significant asset to Tal Verrar, if used not as shock troops but as … a secret constabulary?”

“Says the man in charge of the very people such a force would be charged with hunting down,” scoffed Cordo.

“Younger Cordo,” said Requin, “those are also the ‘very people’ whose interference with your family business is kept to an acceptable minimum through my involvement. They are the very people who were instrumental in delivering our victory yesterday—carrying your messages, filling the streets to detain army reinforcements, distracting Stragos’ most loyal officers while some of you were allowed to approach this affair with the air of amateurs dabbling at lawn bowling.”

“Not I—,” said Cordo.

“No, not you. You did fight. But I flaunt my hypocrisy with a smile on my face, Lyonis. Don’t you dare pretend, here in our highest privacy, that your disdain somehow absolves you for your involvement with the likes of me. You don’t want to imagine a city with crime unregulated by the likes of me! As for the Eyes, I am not asking, I am telling. Those few who were true fanatics for Stragos can conveniently trip and land on swords, yes. The rest are too useful to throw away.”

“On what grounds,” said Tiga, “do you presume to lecture—”

“On the grounds that six of the seven people sitting here have seen fit to store goods and funds at the Sinspire vault. Items that, let us be frank, need not ever reappear in the event that I begin to feel anxious about our relationship.

“I have an investment in this city, the same as you. I would not take kindly to having a foreign power interrupt my affairs. To give Stragos his due, I cannot imagine that the army and navy in your hands will inspire a great deal of awe in our enemies, given what happened last time the Priori governed during a war. Therefore I see fit to hedge all of our bets.”

“Surely we could discuss this in just a few days,” said Lyonis.

“I think not. Inconveniences like our surviving Eyes have a habit of disappearing before arguments can broaden, don’t they? It’s a busy time. Messages might be lost, or misconstrued, and I’m sure there’d be a perfectly plausible reason for whatever happened.”

“So what do you want?” asked Fioran.

“If you’re going to take the Mon Magisteria as an administrative center for our shiny new government, I would imagine that a suite of offices would be a good start. Something nice and prestigious, before all the nice ones are gone. Plus I’ll expect a rudimentary operating budget by the end of the week; I’ll set down the rough finnicking myself. Salaries for the next year. Speaking of which, I will expect at least three or four positions within the hierarchy of this new organization to be placed entirely at my discretion. Salaries in the range of ten to fifteen solari per annum.”

“So you can pass out sinecures to some of your jumped-up thieves,” said Lyonis.

“So I can aid them in their transition to life as respectable citizens and defenders of Tal Verrar, yes,” said Requin.

“Will this be your own transition to life as a respectable citizen?” asked Tiga.

“Here I thought I already was,” said Requin. “Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and should be taken all the more seriously for the fact that she used to be one.”

Selendri couldn’t help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her.

“Now, Requin, hold on,” said Cordo.

“I see no need,” said Requin. “I don’t believe your six fellows are actually going to deny me this very minor and very patriotic request, are they?”

Cordo looked around, and Selendri knew what he was seeing on the faces of the other Priori; if he formally tried to stop this, he would be alone, and he would weaken not only his father’s borrowed position but his own future prospects.

“I think her starting compensation should be something handsome, rather handsome,” said Requin cheerfully. “And of course she’ll require use of official carriages and barges. An official residence; Stragos had dozens of houses and manors at his disposal. Oh, and I think her office at the Mon Magisteria should be the nicest and most prestigious of all. Don’t you?”

They kissed one another for a very long time, alone in the office once the Priori had left in various states of bemusement, worry, and aggravation. As he usually did, Requin removed his gloves to run the brown, pocked skin of his hands over her, over the matching scar tissue on her left-hand side as well as the healthy flesh on her right.

“There you are, my dear,” he said. “I know you’ve been chafing here for some time, running up and down these tower steps, fetching and bowing for drunkards of quality.”

“I’m still sorry for my failure to—”

“Our failure was entirely shared,” said Requin. “In fact, I fell for Kosta and de Ferra’s line of bullshit harder than you did—you retained your suspicion the whole way. Left to your own devices, you would have thrown them out the window early on and avoided the entire mess at the end, I’m sure.”

She smiled.

“And those smirking Priori assume I’m inflicting one last grand sinecure on them where you’re concerned.” Requin ran his fingers through her hair. “Gods, are they in for a surprise. I can’t wait to see you in action. You’ll build something that will make my little coteries of felantozzi look tawdry.”

Selendri stared around at the wreckage of the office. Requin laughed. “I suppose,” he said, “that I have to admire the audacious little shits. To spend two years planning such a thing, and then the business with the chairs … and with my seal! My, Lyonis was throwing a fit.…”

“I’d have thought you’d be furious,” said Selendri.

“Furious? I suppose I am. I was rather fond of that suite of chairs.”

“I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—”

“Ah, the paintings, yes.” Requin grinned mischievously. “Well, as for that … the walls have been left somewhat underdecorated. How would you like to go down to the vault with me to start fetching out the real ones?”

“What do you mean, the real ones?”

EPILOGUE

RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES

1

“What the hell do you mean, ‘reproductions’?”

Locke sat in a comfortable, high-backed wooden chair in the study of Acastus Krell, Fine Diversions dealer of Vel Virazzo. He wrapped both hands around his slender glass of lukewarm tea to avoid spilling it.

“Surely you can’t be unfamiliar with the term, Master Fehrwight,” said Krell. The old man would have been sticklike if not for the grace of his movements; he paced his study like a dancer in a stage production, manipulated his magnifying lenses like a duelist striking a pose. He wore a loose brocaded gown of twilight-blue silk, and as he looked up now the hairless gleam of his head emphasized the eerily penetrating nature of his stare. This study was Krell’s lair, the center of his existence. It lent him an air of authority.

“I am,” said Locke, “in the matter of furniture, but as for paintings—”

“It’s a rarer thing, to be sure, but there can be no doubt. I have never actually seen the original versions of these ten paintings, gentlemen, but there are critical incongruities in the pigments, brushstrokes, and general weathering of their surfaces. They are not genuine art objects of the Talathri Baroque.”

Jean absorbed this morosely, hands folded before him, saying nothing and ignoring his tea. Locke tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“Explain,” he said, struggling to keep his temper in check.

Krell sighed, his own aggravation clearly tempered by sympathy for their situation. “Look,” he said, carefully holding up one of the paintings they’d stolen, an image of Therin Throne nobles seated at a gladiatorial game, receiving the tribute of a mortally wounded fighter. “Whoever painted this is a master artisan, a fantastically patient and skillful individual. It would have required hundreds of hours per painting, and the work must have been done with full access to the originals. Obviously, the … gentleman from which you procured these objects had qualms about exposing the originals to danger. I’d wager my house and all of its gardens that they’re in his vault.”

“But the … incongruities. How can you know?”

“The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons. A fact not known outside the emperor’s court until years after it fell. In their paintings, Talathri’s chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brushstrokes whose size and direction jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection, as it were. Like the beauty mark some Vadrans favor for their ladies.”

“And you can tell this at a glance?”

“I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works.”

“Damnation,” said Locke.

“It suggests to me,” said Krell, “that the artist who created these—or their employer—so genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden marks of distinction.”

“Well, that’s very heartwarming.”

“I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mold or sunlight, no intrusion of smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy.” Krell smiled sadly. “I have aged to a fine old state. These have not.”

“So what does this mean, for our arrangement?”

“I am aware,” said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the painting down, “that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even these facsimiles from the … gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration.”

Jean snorted and stared at the wall.

“Your thanks,” said Locke, “and your admiration, however well meant—”

“Are not legal tender,” said Krell. “I’m not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari.”

“Two?” Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. “The sum we originally discussed was thirty thousand, Master Krell!”

“And for originals,” said Krell, “I would have gladly paid that original sum; for genuine artifacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations completely unconcerned with the … potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar.”

“Two,” muttered Locke. “Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two thousand solari for two years is what you’re offering us.”

“No.” Krell steepled his spindly fingers. “Two thousand solari for ten paintings. However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process required to retrieve them.”

“Three thousand,” said Locke.

“Twenty-five hundred,” said Krell, “and not a centira more. I can find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari, and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured them in some distant city. I don’t doubt that he would be generous. But if you don’t wish to accept my price … you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern, perhaps.”

“Twenty-five hundred,” said Locke. “Damn it all to hell.”

“So I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I’d like a decision. Do you accept the offer?”

2

“TWENTY-FIVE HUNDRED,” said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled toward Vel Virazzo’s marina. “I don’t fucking believe it.”

“It’s more than a lot of people have, I suppose,” muttered Jean.

“But it’s not what I promised,” said Locke. “I’m sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen. Gods above.” He put his head in his hands. “Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever listen to me?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Jean. “We did pull it off. We did get out with everything we planned. It’s just … it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know.”

“Shit,” said Locke.

Their carriage slowed, then creaked to a halt. There was a clatter and a scrape as their footman placed a wooden step, and then the door opened into daylight. The smell of the sea flooded into the compartment, along with the sound of crying gulls.

“Do you still … want to do this?” Locke bit his lip at Jean’s lack of reaction. “I know … that she was meant to be here with us. We can just forget about it, leave it where it is, take carriages—”

“It’s fine,” said Jean. He pointed at the burlap bag on the seat beside Locke. The bag seemed to be undulating, possessed by a motive force within itself. “Besides, we went to the trouble of bringing a cat this time.”

“I suppose we did.” Locke poked the bag and smiled thinly at the resulting attack from inside. “But still, you—”

Jean was already rising to leave the carriage.

3

“MASTER FEHRWRIGHT! So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. And yours as well, Master—”

“Callas,” said Locke. “Tavrin Callas. Forgive my friend; he’s had a trying day. I’ll conduct our business.”

“Of course,” said the master of Vel Virazzo’s private yacht harbor. Here the pleasure barges and day-sailing vessels of Vel Virazzo’s notable families—who could be counted on two hands without using all the available fingers—were kept under constant guard.

The harbormaster led them to the end of one of his docks, where a sleek one-masted sailing vessel rocked gently on the swells. Forty feet long, lacquered teak and witchwood, trimmed with brass and silver. Her rigging was the finest new demi-silk, and her furled sails were the white of clean beach sand.

“Everything prepared according to your letters, Master Fehrwight,” said the harbormaster. “I apologize for the fact that it required four days rather than three—”

“No matter,” said Locke. He passed over a leather satchel containing solari he’d counted out in the carriage. “Balance of payment, in full, and the promised three-day bonus, for your work party. I’ve no reason to be stingy.”

“You are entirely too kind,” said the harbormaster, bowing as he accepted the heavy purse. Nearly eight hundred solari gone already.

“And the provisions?” asked Locke.

“Complete as specified,” said the harbormaster. “Rations and water for a week. The wines, the oilcloaks and other emergency gear—all there, and checked by myself.”

“Our dinner?”

“Coming,” said the harbormaster. “Coming. I expected a runner several minutes ago. Wait—here’s the boy now.”

Locke glanced back toward their carriage. A small boy had just appeared from behind it, jogging with a covered basket larger than his chest cradled in his arms. Locke smiled.

“Our dinner concludes our business,” he said as the boy approached and handed the basket up to Jean.

“Very good, Mater Fehrwight. Tell me, will you be putting out—”

“Immediately,” said Locke. “We have … a great many things to leave behind.”

“Will you require assistance?”

“We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. “We’re always sufficient.”

It took them less than five minutes to load the boat with their baggage from the carriage; they had little to speak of. A few spare clothes, work tunics and breeches, weapons, and their little kit of thieves’ conveniences.

The sun was settling into the west as Jean began to untie them from the dock. Locke hopped down onto the stern deck, a room-sized space surrounded by raised gunwales, and as his last act before their departure he opened the burlap sack and released the contents onto the boat.

The black kitten looked up at him, stretched, and began to rub himself against Locke’s right boot, purring loudly.

“Welcome to your new home, kid. All that you survey is yours,” said Locke. “But this doesn’t mean I’m getting attached to you.”

4

THEY ANCHORED a hundred yards out from the last of Vel Virazzo’s lantern towers, and beneath their ruby light they had the dinner that Locke had promised.

They sat on the stern deck, legs folded, with a small table between them. They each pretended to be absorbed in their bread and chicken, in their shark fins and vinegar, in their grapes and black olives. Regal attempted to make war on their meal several times, and only accepted an honorable peace after Locke bribed him with a chicken wing nearly the size of his body.

They went through a bottle of wine, a nondescript Camorri white, the sort of thing that smooths a meal along without becoming its centerpiece. Locke tossed the empty bottle overboard and they started another, more slowly.

“It’s time,” Jean said at last, when the sun had moved so low in the west that it seemed to be sinking into the starboard gunwale. It was a red moment, all the world from sea to sky the color of a darkening rose petal, of a drop of blood not yet dry. The sea was calm and the air was still; they were without interruptions, without responsibilities, without a plan or an appointment anywhere in the world.

Locke sighed, removed a glass vial of clear liquid from his inner coat pocket, and set it on the table.

“We discussed splitting it,” he said.

“We did,” said Jean. “But that’s not what we’re doing.”

“Oh?”

“You’re going to drink it.” Jean set both of his hands on the table, palm down. “All of it.”

“No,” said Locke.

“You don’t have a choice,” said Jean.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“We can’t take the chance of splitting it,” said Jean, his voice reasonable and controlled in just the fashion that told Locke he was ready for instant action. “Better that one of us be cured for certain, than for both of us to linger on and … die like that.”

“I’ll take my chances with lingering on,” said Locke.

“I won’t,” said Jean. “Please drink it, Locke.”

“Or what?”

“Or you know what,” said Jean. “You can’t overpower me. The reverse is definitely not true.”

“So you’ll—”

“Awake or unconscious,” said Jean, “it’s yours. I don’t care. Drink the fucking antidote, for the Crooked Warden’s sake.”

“I can’t,” said Locke.

“Then you force me to—”

“You don’t understand,” said Locke. “I didn’t say ‘won’t.’ I ‘can’t’.”

“What—”

“That’s just water in a vial I picked up in town.” Locke reached once more into his pocket, withdrew an empty glass vial, and slowly set it down beside the fake. “I have to say, knowing me the way you do, I’m surprised you agreed to let me pour your wine.”

5

“YOU BASTARD,” Jean roared, leaping to his feet.

“Gentleman Bastard.”

“You miserable fucking son of a bitch!” Jean was a blur as he moved, and Locke flinched backward in alarm. Jean snatched up the table and flung it into the sea, scattering the remnants of their dinner across the boat’s deck. “How could you? How could you do that to me?”

“I can’t watch you die,” said Locke flatly. “I can’t. You couldn’t ask me to—”

“So you didn’t even give me a choice!”

“You were going to fucking force-feed it to me!” Locke stood up, brushing crumbs and chicken-bone fragments from his tunic. “I knew you’d try something like that. Do you blame me for doing it first?”

“Now I get to watch you die, is that it? Her, and now you? And this is a favor?”

Jean collapsed onto the deck, buried his face in his hands, and began to sob. Locke knelt beside him and wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“It is a favor,” said Locke. “A favor to me. You save my life all the time because you’re an idiot and you don’t know any better. Let me … let me do it for you, just once. Because you actually deserve it.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Jean whispered. “You son of a fucking bitch, how can you do this? I want to hug you. And I want to tear your gods-damned head off. Both at once.”

“Ah,” said Locke. “Near as I can tell, that’s the definition of ‘family’ right there.”

“But you’ll die,” whispered Jean.

“It was always going to happen,” said Locke. “It was always going to happen, and the only reason it didn’t happen before now … is … you, actually.”

“I hate this,” said Jean.

“I do too. But it’s done. I suppose I have to feel okay about it.”

I feel calm, he thought. I guess I can say that. I feel calm.

“What do we do now?”

“Same as we planned,” said Locke. “Somewhere, anywhere, laziest possible speed. Up the coast, just roaming. No one after us. No one in the way, no one to rob. We’ve never really done this sort of thing before.” Locke grinned. “Hell, I honestly don’t know if we’ll be any good at it.”

“And what if you—”

“When I do I do,” said Locke. “Forgive me.”

“Yes,” said Jean. “And no. Never.”

“I understand, I think,” said Locke. “Get up and give me a hand with the anchor, would you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“This coast is so gods-damned old,” said Locke. “Falling apart. Seen it, seen everywhere like it. Let’s see if we can’t get this thing pointed somewhere else.”

He stood up, keeping one of his hands on Jean’s shoulder.

“Somewhere new.”

AFTERWORD

Nautical enthusiasts, of both the armchair and the hands-on persuasion, are bound to have noticed that a great deal of folding, spindling, and mutilating has taken place within Red Seas Under Red Skies where the jargon of the sea is concerned.

In some instances I can claim the honorable excuses: that I have abstracted for the sake of reader comprehension or adjusted for the cultural and technological peculiarities of Locke’s world. Others can only be explained by that most traditional affliction of authors—that I have screwed up somewhere and have no idea what I’m talking about. Things always work out best for the both of us, dear reader, when you can’t tell the difference. Toward that end, my fingers are crossed.

This, then, concludes the second volume of the Gentleman Bastard sequence.

Scott Lynch

New Richmond, Wisconsin

January 26, 2007

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Once more to the amazing Jenny, for being so many things over the years—girlfriend, best friend, first reader, constructive critic, and, at long last, wife.

To Anne Groell, Gillian Redfearn, and Simon Spanton, not only for being generally and specifically brilliant, but for not murdering me.

To Jo Fletcher, again with the not murdering me. Cheers!

To everyone at Orion Books who made my first (one can only hope) trip to England a joy, and tolerated me despite my wretched state of illness; especially to Jon Weir, faithful whip-cracker and guide.

To all the UK booksellers who bent over backward promoting and talking up The Lies of Locke Lamora when it was just a newborn baby book, not yet walking on its own two feet, so many thanks.

To Desiree, Jeff, and Cleo.

To Deanna Hoak, Lisa Rogers, Josh Pasternak, John Joseph Adams, Elizabeth Bear, Sarah Monette, Jason McCray, Joe Abercrombie, Tom Lloyd, Jay Lake, GRRM, and so many others.

To Loki, Valkyrie, Peepit, Artemis, and Thor, the best contingent of small household mammals ever assembled.

The Republic of Thieves is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Scott Lynch

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, New York, a Penguin Random House Company.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Lynch, Scott

The Republic of Thieves / Scott Lynch.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-553-80469-0 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
ebook ISBN: 978-0-553-90558-8

1. Swindlers and swindling—Fiction.  2. Brigands and robbers—Fiction.  3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3612.Y5427R47 2013

813′.6—dc23

2013024809

www.delreybooks.com

Jacket illustration: Benjamin Carré/Bragelonne

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Map

Prologue: The Minder

I: Her Shadow

Chapter One: Things Get Worse

Interlude: The Undrowned Girl

Chapter Two: The Business

Interlude: The Boy Who Chased Red Dresses

Intersect (I): Fuel

Chapter Three: Blood and Breath and Water

Interlude: Orphan’s Moon

Chapter Four: Across The Amathel

II: Cross-Purposes

Interlude: Striking Sparks

Chapter Five: The Five-Year Game: Starting Position

Interlude: Bastards Abroad

Chapter Six: The Five-Year Game: Change of Venue

Intersect (II): Tinder

Interlude: The Moncraine Company

Chapter Seven: The Five-Year Game: Countermove

III: Fatal Honesty

Interlude: Aurin and Amadine

Chapter Eight: The Five-Year Game: Infinite Variation

Interlude: Happenings in Bedchambers

Chapter Nine: The Five-Year Game: Reasonable Doubt

Intersect (III): Spark

Interlude: An Inconvenient Patron

Chapter Ten: The Five-Year Game: Final Approaches

Interlude: Death-Masks

Chapter Eleven: The Five-Year Game: Returns

Intersect (IV): Ignition

Last Interlude: Thieves Prosper

Chapter Twelve: The End of Old Dreams

Epilogue: Wings

Dedication

Afterword

PROLOGUE

THE MINDER

1

PLACE TEN DOZEN hungry orphan thieves in a dank burrow of vaults and tunnels beneath what used to be a graveyard, put them under the supervision of one partly crippled old man, and you will soon find that governing them becomes a delicate business.

The Thiefmaker, skulking eminence of the orphan kingdom beneath Shades’ Hill in old Camorr, was not yet so decrepit that any of his grimy little wards could hope to stand alone against him. Nonetheless, he was alert to the doom that lurked in the clutching hands and wolfish impulses of a mob—a mob that he, through his training, was striving to make more predatory still with each passing day. The veneer of order that his life depended on was insubstantial as damp paper at the best of times.

His presence itself could enforce absolute obedience in a certain radius, of course. Wherever his voice could carry and his own senses seize upon misbehavior, his orphans were tame. But to keep his ragged company in line when he was drunk or asleep or hobbling around the city on business, it was essential that he make them eager partners in their own subjugation.

He molded most of the biggest, oldest boys and girls in Shades’ Hill into a sort of honor guard, granting them shoddy privileges and stray scraps of near-respect. More important, he worked hard to keep every single one of them in constant deadly terror of himself. No failure was ever met with anything but pain or the promise of pain, and the seriously insubordinate had a way of vanishing. Nobody had any illusions that they had gone to a better place.

So he ensured that his chosen few, steeped in fear, had no outlet save to vent their frustrations (and thus enforce equivalent fear) upon the next oldest and largest set of children. These in turn would oppress the next weakest class of victim. Step by step the misery was shared out, and the Thiefmaker’s authority would cascade like a geological pressure out to the meekest edges of his orphan mass.

It was an admirable system, considered in itself, unless of course you happened to be part of that outer edge—the small, the eccentric, the friendless. In their case, life in Shades’ Hill was like a boot to the face at every hour of every day.

Locke Lamora was five or six or seven years old. Nobody knew for certain, or cared to know. He was unusually small, undeniably eccentric, and perpetually friendless. Even when he shuffled along inside a great smelly mass of orphans, one among dozens, he walked alone and he damn well knew it.

2

MEETING TIME. A bad time under the Hill. The shifting stream of orphans surrounded Locke like an unfamiliar forest, concealing trouble everywhere.

The first rule to surviving in this state was to avoid attention. As the murmuring army of orphans headed toward the great vault at the center of Shades’ Hill, where the Thiefmaker had called them, Locke flicked his glance left and right. The trick was to spot known bullies at a safe distance without making actual eye contact (nothing worse, the mistake of mistakes) and then, ever so casually, move to place neutral children between himself and each threat until it passed.

The second rule was to avoid responding when the first rule proved insufficient, as it too often did.

The crowd parted behind him. Like all prey animals, Locke had a honed instinct for approaching harm. He had enough time to wince preemptively, and then came the blow, sharp and hard, right between his shoulder blades. Locke smacked into the tunnel wall and barely managed to stay on his feet.

Familiar laughter followed the blow. It was Gregor Foss, years older and two stone heavier, as far beyond Locke’s powers of reprisal as the duke of Camorr.

“Gods, Lamora, what a weak and clumsy little cuss you are.” Gregor put a hand on the back of Locke’s head and pushed him along, still in full contact with the moist dirt wall, until his forehead bounced painfully off one of the old wooden tunnel supports. “Got no strength to stay on your own feet. Hell, if you tried to bugger a cockroach, the roach’d spin you round and do you up the ass instead.”

Everyone nearby laughed, a few from genuine amusement, the rest from fear of being seen not laughing. Locke kept stumbling forward, seething but silent, as though it were a perfectly natural state of affairs to have a face covered with dirt and a throbbing bump on the forehead. Gregor shoved him once more, but without vigor, then snorted and pushed ahead through the crowd.

Play dead. Pretend not to care. That was the way to keep a few moments of humiliation from becoming hours or days of pain, to keep bruises from becoming broken bones or worse.

The river of orphans was flowing to a rare grand gathering, nearly all the Hill, and in the main vault the air was already heavier and staler than usual. The Thiefmaker sat in his high-backed chair, his head barely visible above the press of children, while his oldest subjects carved paths through the crowd to take their accustomed places near him. Locke sought a far wall and pressed up against it, doing his best impression of a shadow. There, with the welcome comfort of a guarded back, he touched his forehead and indulged in a momentary pout. His fingers were slippery with blood when he took them away.

After a few moments, the influx of orphans trickled to a halt, and the Thiefmaker cleared his throat.

It was a Penance Day in the seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, a hanging day, and outside the dingy caves below Shades’ Hill the duke of Camorr’s people were knotting nooses under a bright spring sky.

3

“IT’S LAMENTABLE business,” said the Thiefmaker. “That’s what it is. To have some of our own brothers and sisters snatched into the unforgiving arms of the duke’s justice. Damned deplorable that they were slackards enough to get caught! Alas. As I have always been at pains to remind you, loves, ours is a delicate trade, not at all appreciated by those we practice upon.”

Locke wiped the dirt from his face. It was likely that his tunic sleeve deposited more grime than it removed, but the ritual of putting himself in order was calming. While he tended to himself the master of the Hill spoke on.

“Sad day, my loves, a proper tragedy. But when the milk’s gone bad you might as well look forward to cheese, hmm? Oh yes! Opportunity! It’s unseasonal fine hanging weather out there. That means crowds with spending purses, and their eyes are going to be fixed on the spectacle, aren’t they?”

With two crooked fingers (broken of old, and badly healed) he did a pantomime of a man stepping off an edge and plunging forward. At the end of the plunge the fingers kicked spasmodically and some of the older children giggled. Someone in the middle of the orphan army sobbed, but the Thiefmaker paid them no heed.

“You’re all going out to watch the hangings in groups,” he said. “Let this put fear into your hearts, loves! Indiscretion, clumsiness, want of confidence—today you’ll see their only possible reward. To live the life the gods have given you, you must clutch wisely, then run. Run like the hounds of hell on a sinner’s scent! That’s how we dodge the noose. Today you’ll have a last look at some friends who could not.

“And before you return,” he said, lowering his voice, “each of you will do them one better. Fetch back a nice bit of coin or flash, at all hazards. Empty hands get empty bellies.”

“Has we gots to?”

The voice was a desperate whine. Locke identified the source as Tam, a fresh catch, a lowest-of-the-low teaser who’d barely begun to learn the Shades’ Hill life. He must have been the one sobbing, too.

“Tam, my lamb, you gots to do nothing,” said the Thiefmaker in a voice like moldy velvet. He reached out and sifted through the crowd of orphans, parting them like dirty stalks of wheat until his hand rested on Tam’s shaven scalp. “But then, neither do I if you don’t work, right? By all means, remove yourself from this grand excursion. A limitless supply of cold graveyard dirt awaits you for supper.”

“But … can’t I, like, do something else?”

“Why, you could polish my good silver tea service, if only I had one.” The Thiefmaker knelt, vanishing briefly from Locke’s sight. “Tam, this is the job I got, so it’s the job you’re gonna do, right? Good lad. Stout lad. Why the little rivers from the eyes? Is it just ’cause there’s the hangings involved?”

“They—they was our friends.”

“Which means only—”

“Tam, you little piss-rag, stuff your whining up your stupid ass!”

The Thiefmaker whirled, and the new speaker recoiled from a slap to the side of his head. There was a ripple in the close-packed orphans as the unfortunate target stumbled backward and was returned to his feet by shoves from his tittering friends. Locke couldn’t suppress a smile. It always warmed his heart to see a bullying oldster knocked around.

“Veslin,” said the Thiefmaker with dangerous good cheer, “do you enjoy being interrupted?”

“N-no … no, sir.”

“How pleased I am to find us of a like mind on the subject.”

“Of … course. Apologies, sir.”

The Thiefmaker’s eyes returned to Tam, and his smile, which had evaporated like steam in sunlight a moment before, leapt back into place.

“As I was saying about our friends, our lamented friends. It’s a shame. But isn’t it a grand show they’re putting on for us as they dangle? A ripe plum of a crowd they’re summoning up? What sort of friends would we be if we refused to work such an opportunity? Good ones? Bold ones?”

“No, sir,” mumbled Tam.

“Indeed. Neither good nor bold. So we’re going to seize this chance, right? And we’re going to do them the honor of not looking away when they drop, aren’t we?”

“If … if you say so, sir.”

“I do say so.” The Thiefmaker gave Tam a perfunctory pat on the shoulder. “Get to it. Drops start at high noon; the Masters of the Ropes are the only punctual creatures in this bloody city. Be late to your places and you’ll have to work ten times as hard, I promise you. Minders! Call your teasers and clutchers. Keep our fresher brothers and sisters on short leashes.”

As the orphans dispersed and the older children called the names of their assigned partners and subordinates, the Thiefmaker dragged Veslin over to one of the enclosure’s dirt walls for a private word.

Locke snickered, and wondered whom he’d be partnered with for the day’s adventure. Outside the Hill there were pockets to be picked, tricks to be played, bold larceny to be done. Though he realized his sheer enthusiasm for theft was part of what had made him a curiosity and an outcast, he had no more self-restraint in that regard than he had wings on his back.

This half-life of abuse beneath Shades’ Hill was just something he had to endure between those bright moments when he could be at work, heart pounding, running fast and hard for safety with someone else’s valuables clutched in his hands. As far as his five or six or seven years had taught him, ripping people off was the greatest feeling in the whole world, and the only real freedom he had.

4

“THINK YOU can improve upon my leadership now, boy?” Despite his limited grip, the Thiefmaker still had the arms of a grown man, and he pinned Veslin against the dirt wall like a carpenter about to nail up a decoration. “Think I need your wit and wisdom when I’m talking out loud?”

“No, your honor! Forgive me!”

“Veslin, jewel, don’t I always?” With a falsely casual gesture, the Thiefmaker brushed aside one lapel of his threadbare coat and revealed the handle of the butcher’s cleaver he kept hanging from his belt. The faintest hint of blade gleamed in the darkness behind it. “I forgive. I remind. Are you reminded, boy? Most thoroughly reminded?”

“Indeed, sir, yes. Please …”

“Marvelous.” The Thiefmaker released Veslin, and allowed his coat to fall over his weapon once again. “What a happy conclusion for us both, then.”

“Thank you, sir. Sorry. It’s just … Tam’s been whining all gods-damned morning. He’s never seen anyone get the rope.”

“Once upon a time it was new to us all,” sighed the Thiefmaker. “Let the boy cry, so long as he plucks a purse. If he won’t, hunger’s a marvelous instructor. Still, I’m putting him and a couple other problems into a group for special oversight.”

“Problems?”

“Tam, for his delicacy. And No-Teeth.”

“Gods,” said Veslin.

“Yes, yes, the speck-brained little turd is so dim he couldn’t shit in his hands if they were stitched to his asshole. Nonetheless, him. Tam. And one more.”

The Thiefmaker cast a significant glance at a far corner, where a sullen little boy leaned with his arms folded across his chest, watching other orphans form their assigned packs.

“Lamora,” whispered Veslin.

“Special oversight.” The Thiefmaker chewed nervously at the nails of his left hand. “There’s good money to be squeezed out of that one, if he’s got someone keeping him sensible and discreet.”

“He nearly burnt up half the bloody city, sir.”

“Only the Narrows, which mightn’t have been missed. And he took hard punishment for that without a flinch. I consider the matter closed. What he needs is a responsible sort to keep him in check.”

Veslin was unable to conceal his expression of disgust, and the Thiefmaker smirked.

“Not you, lad. I need you and your little ape Gregor on distraction detail. Someone else gets made, you cover for ’em. And get back to me straightaway if anyone gets taken.”

“Grateful, sir, very grateful.”

“You should be. Sobbing Tam … witless No-Teeth … and one of hell’s own devils in knee-breeches. I need a bright candle to watch that crew. Go wake me up one of the Windows bunch.”

“Oh.” Veslin bit his cheek. The Windows crew, so called because they specialized in traditional burglary, were the true elite among the orphans of Shades’ Hill. They were spared most chores, habitually worked in darkness, and were allowed to sleep well past noon. “They won’t like that.”

“I don’t give a damn what they like. They don’t have a job this evening anyway. Get me a sharp one.” The Thiefmaker spat out a gnawed crescent of dirty fingernail and wiped his fingers on his coat. “Hell, fetch me Sabetha.”

5

“LAMORA!”

The summons came at last, and from the Thiefmaker himself. Locke padded warily across the dirt floor to where the master of the Hill sat whispering instructions to a taller child whose back was turned to Locke.

Waiting before the Thiefmaker were two other boys. One was Tam. The other was No-Teeth, a hapless twit whose beatings at the hands of older children had eventually given him his nickname. A sense of foreboding scuttled into Locke’s gut.

“Here we are, then,” said the Thiefmaker. “Three bold and likely lads. You’ll be working together on a special detail, under special authority. Meet your minder.”

The taller child turned.

She was dirty, as they all were, and though it was hard to tell by the pale silver light of the vault’s alchemical lanterns, she looked a little tired. She wore scuffed brown breeches, a long baggy tunic that at some distant remove had been white, and a leather flat cap over a tight kerchief, so that not a strand of her hair was visible.

Yet she was undeniably a she. For the first time in Locke’s life some unpracticed animal sense crept dimly to life to alert him to this fact. The Hill was full of girls, but never before had Locke dwelt on the thought of a girl. He sucked in a breath and realized that he could feel a nervous tingling at the tips of his fingers.

She had the advantage of at least a year and a good half-foot on him, and even tired she had that unfeigned natural poise which, in certain girls, makes young boys feel like something on the order of an insect beneath a heel. Locke had neither the eloquence nor the experience to grapple with the situation in anything resembling those terms. All he knew was that near her, of all the girls he’d seen in Shades’ Hill, he felt touched by something mysterious and much vaster than himself.

He felt like jumping up and down. He felt like throwing up.

Suddenly he resented the presence of Tam and No-Teeth, resented the implication of the word “minder,” and yearned to be doing something, anything, to impress this girl. His cheeks burned at the thought of how the bump on his forehead must look, and at being teamed up with two useless, sobbing clods.

“This is Beth,” said the Thiefmaker. “She’s got your keeping today, lads. Take what she says as though it came from me. Steady hands, level heads. No slacking and no gods-damned capers. Last thing we need is you getting ambitious.” It was impossible to miss the icy glance the Thiefmaker spared for Locke as he uttered this last part.

“Thank you very much, sir,” said Beth with nothing resembling actual gratitude. She pushed Tam and No-Teeth toward one of the vault exits. “You two, wait at the entrance. I need to have a private word with your friend here.”

Locke was startled. A word with him? Had she guessed that he knew his way around clutching and teasing, that he was nothing like the other two? Beth glanced around, then put her hands on his shoulders and knelt. Some nervous animal in Locke’s guts turned somersaults as her gaze came level with his. The old compunction about refusing eye contact was not merely set aside, but vaporized from his mind.

Two things happened then.

First, he fell in love—though it would be years before he realized what the feeling was called and how thoroughly it was going to complicate his life.

Second, she spoke directly to him for the first time, and he would remember her words with a clarity that would jar his heart long after the other incidents of that time had faded to a haze of half-truths in his memory:

“You’re the Lamora boy, right?”

He nodded eagerly.

“Well, look here, you little shit. I’ve heard all about you, so just shut your mouth and keep those reckless hands in your pockets. I swear to all the gods, if you give me one hint of trouble, I will heave you off a bridge and it will look like a bloody accident.”

6

IT WAS an unwelcome thing, to suddenly feel half an inch tall.

Locke dazedly followed Beth, Tam, and No-Teeth out of the darkness of the Shades’ Hill vaults and into the late-morning sunshine. His eyes stung, and the daylight was only part of it. What had he done (and who had told her about it?) to earn the scorn of the one person he now wanted to impress more than any other in the world?

Pondering, his thoughts wandered uneasily to his surroundings. Out here in the ever-changing open there was so much to see, so much to hear. His survival instincts gradually took hold. The back of his mind was all for Beth, but he forced his eyes to the present situation.

Camorr today was bright and busy, making the most of its reprieve from the hard gray rains of spring. Windows were thrown open. The more prosperous crowds had molted, shedding their oilcloaks and cowls in favor of summery dress. The poor stayed wrapped in the same reek-soaked dross they wore in all seasons. Like the Shades’ Hill crowd, they had to keep their clothes on their backs or risk losing them to rag-pickers.

As the four orphans crossed the canal bridge from Shades’ Hill to the Narrows (it was a source of mingled pride and incredulity to Locke that the Thiefmaker was so convinced that one little scheme of his could have burnt this whole neighborhood down), Locke saw at least three boats of corpse-fishers using hooks to pluck bloated bodies from under wharves and dock pilings. Those would sometimes go ignored for days in cool, foul weather.

Beth led the three boys through the Narrows, dodging up stone stairs and across rickety wooden foot-bridges, avoiding the most cramped and twisted alleys where drunks, stray dogs, and less obvious dangers were sure to lurk. Tam and Locke stayed right behind her, but No-Teeth was constantly veering off or slowing down. By the time they left the Narrows and crossed to the overgrown garden passages of the Mara Camorrazza, the city’s ancient strolling park, Beth was dragging No-Teeth by his collar.

“Damn your pimple of a brain,” she said. “Keep to my heels and quit making trouble!”

“Not making trouble,” muttered No-Teeth.

“You want to cock this up and go hungry tonight? You want to give some brute like Veslin an excuse to pry out any teeth he hasn’t got to yet?”

“Nooooooo.” No-Teeth stretched the word out with a bored yawn, looked around as though noticing the world for the first time, then jerked free of Beth’s grip. “I want to wear your hat,” he said, pointing at her leather cap.

Locke swallowed nervously. He’d seen No-Teeth pitch these sudden, unreasonable fits before. There was something not quite right in the boy’s head. He frequently suffered for calling attention to himself inside the Hill, where distinctiveness without strength meant pain.

“You can’t,” said Beth. “Mind yourself.”

“I want to. I want to!” No-Teeth actually stomped the ground and balled his fists. “I promise I’ll behave. Give me your hat!”

“You’ll behave because I say so!”

No-Teeth’s response was to lunge and snatch the leather cap off Beth’s head. He yanked it so hard that her kerchief came as well, and an untidy spray of reddish-brown curls tumbled to her shoulders. Locke’s jaw fell.

There was something so indefinably lovely, so right, about seeing that hair free in the sunlight that he momentarily forgot that his enchantment was expressly one-way, and that this was anything but convenient for their task. As Locke stared he noticed that only the lower portion of her hair was actually brown. Above the ears it was rusty red. She’d had it colored once, and it had grown out since.

Beth was even faster than No-Teeth once her shock wore off, and before he could do anything with her cap it was back in her hands. She slapped him viciously across the face with it.

“Ow!”

Not placated, she hit him again, and he cringed backward. Locke recovered his wits and assumed the vacant expression used inside the Hill by the uninvolved when someone nearby was getting thrashed.

“Stop! Stop!” No-Teeth sobbed.

“If you ever touch this cap again,” Beth whispered, shaking him by his collar, “I swear to Aza Guilla who numbers the dead that I will deliver you straight to her. You stupid little ass!”

“I promise! I promise!”

She released him with a scowl, and with a few deft movements made her red curls vanish again beneath the tightly drawn kerchief. When the leather cap came down to seal them in, Locke felt a pang of disappointment.

“You’re lucky nobody else saw,” said Beth, shoving No-Teeth forward. “Gods love you, you little slug, you’re just lucky nobody else saw. Quick, now. At my heel, you two.”

Locke and Tam followed her without a word, as close as nervous ducklings fixed on a mother’s tail feathers.

Locke shook with excitement. He’d been horrified at the incompetence of his assigned partners, but now he wondered if their problems could do anything but make him look better in Beth’s eyes. Oh yes. Let them whine, let them throw fits, let them go home with nothing in their hands. Hell, let them tip off the city watch and get chased through the streets to the sounds of whistles and baying dogs. She’d have to prefer anything to that, including him.

7

THEY EMERGED at last from the Mara Camorrazza into a whirl of noise and confusion.

It was indeed unseasonably fine hanging weather, and the normally dreary neighborhood around the Old Citadel, the duke’s seat of justice, bustled like a carnival. Common folk were thick on the cobblestones, while here and there the carriages of the wealthy rattled through the mess with hired guards trotting alongside, passing out threats and shoves as they went. In some ways, Locke already knew, the world outside the Hill was much like the world within.

The four orphans formed a human chain to thread their way through the tumult. Locke held fast to Tam, who clung in turn to Beth. She was so unwilling to lose sight of No-Teeth that she thrust him before them all like a battering ram. From his perspective Locke glimpsed few adult faces; the world became an endless procession of belts, bellies, coattails, and carriage wheels. They made their way west by equal parts luck and perseverance, toward the Via Justica, the canal that had been used for hangings for half a thousand years.

At the edge of the canal embankment a low stone wall prevented a direct plunge to the water seven or eight feet below. This barrier was crumbling but still solid enough for children to sit upon. Beth never once loosened her grip on No-Teeth as she helped Locke and Tam up out of the press of the crowd. Locke scrambled to sit next to Beth, but it was Tam that squeezed up against her, leaving Locke no means to move him without causing a scene. He tried to conceal his annoyance by adopting a purposeful expression and looking around.

From here, at least, Locke had a better view of the affair. There were crowds on both sides of the canal and vendors hawking bread, sausages, ale, and souvenirs from boats. They used baskets attached to poles to collect their coins and deliver goods to those standing above.

Locke could make out groups of small shapes dodging through the forest of coats and legs—fellow Shades’ Hill orphans at work. He could also see the dark yellow jackets of the city watch, moving through the crowd in squads with shields slung over their backs. Disaster was possible if these opposing elements met and mixed like bad alchemy, but as yet there were no shouts, no watch-whistles, no signs of anything amiss.

Traffic had been stopped over the Black Bridge. The lamps that dotted the looming stone arch were covered with black shrouds, and a small crowd of priests, prisoners, guards, and ducal officials stood behind the execution platform that jutted from the bridge’s side. Two boats of yellowjackets had anchored in the canal on either side of the bridge to keep the water beneath the dropping prisoners clear.

“Don’t we has to do our business?” said No-Teeth. “Don’t we has to get a purse, or a ring, or something—”

Beth, who’d taken her hands off him for all of half a minute, now seized him again and whispered harshly, “Keep your mouth shut about that while we’re in the crowd. Mouth shut! We’re going to sit here and be mindful. We’ll work after the hanging.”

Tam shuddered and looked more miserable than ever. Locke sighed, confused and impatient. It was sad that some of their Shades’ Hill fellows had to hang, but then it was sad they’d been caught by the yellowjackets in the first place. People died everywhere in Camorr, in alleys and canals and public houses, in fires, in plagues that scythed down whole neighborhoods. Tam was an orphan too; hadn’t he realized all this? Dying seemed nearly as ordinary to Locke as eating supper or making water, and he was unable to make himself feel bad that it was happening to anyone he’d barely known.

As for that, it looked to be happening soon. A steady drumbeat rose from the bridge, echoing off water and stone, and gradually the excited murmur of the crowds dropped off. Not even divine services could make Camorri so respectfully attentive as a public neck-snapping.

“Loyal citizens of Camorr! Now comes noon, this seventeenth instant, this month of Tirastim in our seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani.” These words were shouted from atop the Black Bridge by a huge-bellied herald in sable plumage. “These felons have been found guilty of capital crimes against the law and customs of Camorr. By the authority of his grace, Duke Nicovante, and by the seals of his honorable magistrates of the Red Chamber, they are here brought to receive justice.”

There was movement beside him on the bridge. Seven prisoners were hauled forward, each by a pair of scarlet-hooded constables. Locke saw that Tam was anxiously biting his knuckles. Beth’s arm appeared around Tam’s shoulder, and Locke ground his teeth together. He was doing his job, behaving, refusing to make a spectacle of himself, and Tam was the one that received Beth’s tenderness?

“You get used to it, Tam,” Beth said softly. “Honor them, now. Brace up.”

On the bridge platform the Masters of the Ropes tightened nooses around the necks of the condemned. The hanging ropes were about as long as each prisoner was tall, and lashed to ringbolts just behind each prisoner’s feet. There were no clever mechanisms in the hanging platform, no fancy tricks. This wasn’t Tal Verrar. Here in the east, prisoners were simply heaved over the edge.

“Jerevin Tavasti,” shouted the herald, consulting a parchment. “Arson, conspiracy to receive stolen goods, assault upon a duke’s officer! Malina Contada, counterfeiting and attendant misuse of His Grace the Duke’s name and image. Caio Vespasi, burglary, malicious mummery, arson, and horse theft! Lorio Vespasi, conspiracy to receive stolen goods.”

So much for the adults; the herald moved on to the three children. Tam sobbed, and Beth whispered, “Shhhh, now.” Locke noted that Beth was coldly calm, and he tried to imitate her air of disinterest. Eyes just so, chin up, mouth just shy of a frown. Surely, if she glanced at him during the ceremony, she’d notice and approve.…

“Mariabella, no surname,” yelled the herald. “Theft and wanton disobedience! Zilda, no surname. Theft and wanton disobedience!”

The Masters were tying extra weights to the legs of this last trio of prisoners, since their own slight bodies might not provide for a swift enough conclusion at the ends of their plunges.

“Lars, no surname. Theft and wanton disobedience.”

“Zilda was kind to me,” whispered Tam, his voice breaking.

“The gods know it,” said Beth. “Hush now.”

“For crimes of the body you shall suffer death of the body,” continued the herald. “You will be suspended above running water and hanged there by the necks until dead, your unquiet spirits to be carried forth upon the water to the Iron Sea, where they may do no further harm to any soul or habitation of the duke’s domain. May the gods receive your souls mercifully, in good time.” The herald lowered his scroll and faced the prisoners. “In the duke’s name I give you justice.”

Drums rolled. One of the Masters of the Ropes drew a sword, in case any of the prisoners fought their handlers. Locke had seen a hanging before, and he knew the condemned only got one chance at whatever dignity was left to them.

Today the drops ran smooth. The drumroll crashed to silence. Each pair of hooded yellowjackets stepped forward and shoved their prisoner off the edge of the hanging platform.

Tam flinched away, as Locke had thought he might, but even he was unprepared for No-Teeth’s reaction when the seven ropes jerked taut with snapping noises that might have been hemp, or necks, or both.

“Ahhh​hhhh! Ahhhh​hhhhh​hhhh! AHHHH​HHHHH​HHHHH​HHHHH​HHHHHH!”

Each scream was longer and louder than the last. Beth clamped a hand over No-Teeth’s mouth and struggled with him. Over the water, four large bodies and three smaller ones swung like pendulums in arcs that quickly grew smaller and smaller.

Locke’s heart pounded. Everyone nearby had to be staring at them. He heard chuckling and disapproving comments. The more attention they drew to themselves, the harder it would be to go about their real business.

“Shhh,” said Beth, straining to keep No-Teeth under control. “Quiet, damn you. Quiet!”

“What’s the matter, girl?”

Locke was dismayed to see that a pair of yellowjackets had parted the crowd just behind them. Gods, that was worse than anything! What if they were prowling for Shades’ Hill orphans? What if they asked hard questions? He curbed an impulse to leap for the water below and froze in place, eyes wide.

Beth kept an arm locked over No-Teeth’s face yet managed to somehow squirm around and bow her head to the constables.

“My little brother,” she gasped out, “he’s never seen a hanging before. We don’t mean to cause a fuss. I’ve shut him up.”

No-Teeth ceased his struggles, but he began to sob. The yellowjacket who’d spoken, a middle-aged man with a face full of scars, looked down at him with distaste.

“You four come here alone?”

“Mother sent us,” said Beth. “Wanted the boys to see a hanging. See the rewards of idleness and bad company.”

“A right-thinking woman. Nothing like a good hanging to scare the mischief out of a sprat.” The man frowned. “Why ain’t she here with you?”

“Oh, she loves a hanging, does Mother,” said Beth. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper: “But, um, she’s got the flux. Bad. All day she’s been sitting on her—”

“Ah. Well, then.” The yellowjacket coughed. “Gods send her good health. You’d best not bring this one back to a Penance Day ceremony for a while.”

“I agree, sir.” Beth bowed again. “Mother’ll scratch his hide for this.”

“On your way, then, girl. Don’t need no more of a scene.”

“Of course, sir.”

The constables moved away into the crowd, which was itself coming back to life. Beth slid off the stone wall, rather gracelessly, because No-Teeth and Tam came with her. The former was still held tightly, and the latter refused to let go of her other arm. He hadn’t cried out like No-Teeth, but Locke saw that his eyes brimmed with tears and he was even more pale-looking than before. Locke ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, which had gone dry under the scrutiny of the yellowjackets.

“Come now,” said Beth. “Away from here. We’ve seen all there is to see.”

8

ANOTHER PASSAGE through the forest of coats, legs, and bellies. Locke, feeling excitement rise again, gently clung to the back of Beth’s tunic to avoid losing her, and he was both pleased and disappointed when she didn’t react at all. Beth led them back into the green shadows of the Mara Camorrazza, where quiet solitude reigned not forty yards from a crowd of hundreds, and once they were safely ensconced in a concealed nook she pushed Tam and No-Teeth to the ground.

“What if another bunch from the Hill saw that? Gods!”

“Sorry,” moaned No-Teeth. “But they … but they … they got kill—”

“People die when they get hanged. It’s why they hang them!” Beth wrung the front of her tunic with both hands, then took a deep breath. “Recover yourselves. Now. Each of you must lift a purse, or something, before we go back.”

No-Teeth broke into a new fit of sobs, rolled over on his side, and chewed his knuckles. Tam, sounding more weary than Locke would have imagined possible, said, “I can’t, Beth. I’m sorry. I’ll get caught. I just can’t.”

“You’ll go without supper tonight.”

“Fine,” said Tam. “Take me back, please.”

“Damn it.” Beth rubbed her eyes. “I need to bring you back with something to show for it or I’ll be in just as much trouble as you, understand?”

“You’re in Windows,” muttered Tam. “You got no worries.”

“If only,” said Beth. “You two need to pull yourselves together—”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!”

Locke sensed a glorious opportunity. Beth had saved them from trouble on the embankment, and here was an ideal moment for him to do the same. Smiling at the thought of her reaction, he stood as tall as he could manage and cleared his throat.

“Tam, don’t be a louse,” said Beth, completely ignoring Locke. “You will clutch something, or work a tease so someone else can clutch. I’ll not give you another choice—”

“Excuse me,” said Locke, hesitantly.

“What do you want?”

“They can each have one of mine,” said Locke.

“What?” Beth turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

From under his tunic, Locke produced two leather purses and a fine silk handkerchief, only mildly stained.

“Three pieces,” he said. “Three of us. Just say we all clutched one and we can go home now.”

“Where in all the hells did you—”

“In the crowd,” said Locke. “You had No-Teeth … you were paying so much attention to him, you must not have seen.”

“I didn’t tell you to lift anything yet!”

“Well, you didn’t tell me not to.”

“But that’s—”

“I can’t put them back,” said Locke, far more petulantly than he’d intended.

“Don’t snap at me! Oh, for the gods’ sake, don’t sulk,” said Beth. She knelt and put her hands on Locke’s shoulders, and at her touch and close regard he found himself suddenly trembling uncontrollably. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Locke. “Nothing.”

“Gods, what a strange little boy you are.” She glanced again at Tam and No-Teeth. “A pack of disasters, the three of you. Two that won’t work. One that works without orders. I suppose we’ve got no choice.”

Beth took the purses and the handkerchief from Locke. Her fingers brushed his, and he trembled. Beth’s eyes narrowed.

“Hit your head earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Who pushed you?”

“I just fell.”

“Of course you did.”

“Honest!”

“Seems to be troubling you. Or maybe you’re ill. You’re shaking.”

“I’m … I’m fine.”

“Have it your way.” Beth closed her eyes and massaged them with her fingertips. “I guess you’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble. Do you want me to … look, is there someone bothering you that you want to stop?”

Locke was startled. An older child, this older child, of all people, and a member of Windows, was offering him protection? Could she do that? Could she put Veslin and Gregor in their place?

No. Locke forced his eyes away from Beth’s utterly fascinating face to bring himself back down to earth. There would always be other Veslins, other Gregors. And what if they resented him all the more for her interference? She was Windows; he was Streets. Their days and nights were reversed. He’d never seen her before today; what sort of protection could he possibly get from her? He would keep playing dead. Avoid calling attention to himself. Rule one, and rule two. As always.

“I just fell,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Well,” she replied, a little coldly. “As you wish.”

Locke opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying desperately to imagine something he might say to charm this alien creature. Too late. She turned away and heaved Tam and No-Teeth to their feet.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, “but you two idiots owe your supper to the arsonist of the Narrows here. Do you understand just how much hell we’ll all catch if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone?”

“I do,” said Tam.

“I’d be very put out to catch any at all,” Beth continued. “Any at all! You hear me, No-Teeth?”

The poor wretch nodded, then sucked his knuckles again.

“Back to the Hill, then.” Beth tugged at her kerchief and adjusted her cap. “I’ll keep the things and pass them to the master myself. Not a word about this. To anyone.”

She kept her now-customary grip on No-Teeth all the way back to the graveyard. Tam dogged her heels, looking exhausted but relieved. Locke followed at the rear, scheming to the fullest extent of his totally inadequate experience. What had he said or done wrong? What had he misjudged? Why wasn’t she delighted with him for saving her so much trouble?

She said nothing to him for the rest of the trip home. Then, before he could find an excuse to speak to her again once there, she was gone, vanished into the tunnels that led to the private domain of the Windows crew, where he could not follow.

He sulked that night, eating little of the supper his nimble fingers had earned, fuming not at Beth but at himself for somehow driving her away.

9

DAYS PASSED, longer days than any Locke had ever known, now that he had something to preoccupy him beyond the brief excitement of daily crimes and the constant chores of survival.

Beth would not leave his thoughts. He dreamed of her, and how the hair spilling out from beneath her cap had caught the light filtering down through the interlaced greenery of the Mara Camorrazza. Strangely, in his dreams, that hair was purely red from edge to root, untouched by dye or disguise. The price for these visions was that he would wake to cold, hard disappointment and lie there in the dark, wrestling with mysterious emotions that had never troubled him before.

He would have to see her again. Somehow.

At first he nurtured a hope that his relegation to a crew of troublemakers might be permanent, that Beth might be their minder on an ongoing basis. Unfortunately, the Thiefmaker seemed to have no such plans. Locke slowly realized that if he was ever going to get another chance to impress her, he’d have to stick his neck out.

It was hard to break the routines he’d established for himself, to say nothing of those expected of someone in his lowly position. Yet he began to wander more often throughout the vaults and tunnels of his home, anxious for a glimpse of Beth, exposing himself to abuse and ridicule from bored older children. He played dead. He didn’t react. Rule one and rule two. It almost felt good, earning bruises for a genuine purpose.

The lesser orphans of Streets (that is, nearly all of them) slept en masse on the floor of crèche-like side vaults, several dozen to a room. When his dreams woke him at night Locke would now try to stay awake, to strain his ears to hear past the murmuring and rustling of those around him, to detect the coming and going of the Windows crew on their secretive errands.

Before he’d always slept securely in the heart of his snoring fellows, or against a nice comforting wall. Now he risked positions at the outer edge of the huddled mass, where he could catch glimpses of people in the tunnels. Every shadow that passed and every step he heard might be hers, after all.

His successes were few. He saw her at evening meals several times, but she never spoke to him. Indeed, if she noticed him at all, she did a superb job of not showing it. And for Locke to try and speak to her on his own initiative, with her surrounded by her Windows friends, and they by the older bullies from Streets … no presumption could have been more fatal. So he did his feeble best to skulk and spy on her, relishing the fluttering of his stomach whenever he caught so much as a half-second glimpse. Those glimpses and those sensations paid for many days of frustrated longing.

More days, more weeks passed in the hazy forever now of childhood time. Those bright brief moments he’d spent in Beth’s presence, actually speaking to her and being spoken to, were polished and re-polished in Locke’s memory until his very life might have begun on that day.

At some point that spring, Tam died. Locke heard the mutterings. The boy was caught trying to lift a purse, and his would-be victim smashed his skull with a walking stick. This sort of thing wasn’t uncommon. If the man had witnesses to the attempted theft he’d probably lose a finger on his weaker hand. If nobody backed his story, he’d hang. Camorr was civilized, after all; there were acceptable and unacceptable times for killing children.

No-Teeth went soon after that, crushed under a wagon wheel in broad daylight. Locke wondered if it wasn’t all for the best. He and Tam had been miserable in the Hill, and maybe the gods could find something better to do with them. It wasn’t Locke’s concern anyway. He had his own obsession to pursue.

A few days after No-Teeth got it, Locke came home from a long, wet afternoon of work in the North Corner district, casing and robbing vendor stalls at the well-to-do markets there. He shook the rain from his makeshift cloak, which was the same awful-smelling scrap of leather that served him as a blanket each night. Then he went to meet the crowd of oldsters, led by Veslin and Gregor, who shook down the smaller children each day as they came in with their takings.

Usually they spent most of their energy taunting and threatening Locke’s fellows, but today they were talking excitedly about something else. Locke caught snatches of the conversation as he waited his turn to be abused.

“… right unhappy he is about it … one of the big earners.”

“I know she was, and didn’t she put on airs about it, too.”

“But that’s all Windows for you, eh? Ain’t they all like that? Well, here’s something they won’t like. Proves they’s as mortal as we is. They fuck up just the same.”

“Been a right messy month. That poor sod what got the busted head … that little shit we used to kick the chompers out of … now her.”

Locke felt a cold tautness in his guts.

“Who?” he said.

Veslin paused in mid-sentence and stared at Locke, as though startled that the little creatures of Streets had the power of speech.

“Who what, you little ass-tickler?”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know.”

“WHO?”

Locke’s hands had formed themselves into fists of their own accord, and his heart pounded as he yelled again at the top of his lungs, “WHO?”

Veslin only had to kick him once to knock him down. Locke saw it coming, saw the bully’s foot rising toward his face, growing impossibly in size, and still he couldn’t avoid it. Floor and ceiling reversed themselves, and when Locke could see again, he was on his back with Veslin’s heel on his chest. Warm coppery blood was trickling down the back of his throat.

“Where does he get off, talking to us like that?” said Veslin mildly.

“Dunno. Fuckin’ sad, it is,” said Gregor.

“Please,” said Locke. “Tell me—”

“Tell you what? What right you got to know anything?” Veslin knelt on Locke’s chest, rifled through his clothes, and came up with the things he’d managed to clutch that day. Two purses, a silver necklace, a handkerchief, and some wooden tubes of Jereshti cosmetics. “Know what, Gregor? I don’t think I remember Lamora here coming home with anything tonight.”

“Nor me, Ves.”

“Yeah. How’s that for sad, you little piss-pants? You want dinner, you can eat your own shit.”

Locke was too used to the sort of laughter that now rose in the tunnel to pay any attention to it. He tried to get up and was kicked in the throat for his trouble.

“I just want to know,” he gasped, “what happened—”

“Why do you care?”

“Please … please …”

“Well, if you’re gonna be civil about it.” Veslin dropped Locke’s takings into a dirty cloth sack. “Windows had themselves a bad night.”

“Cocked up proper, they did,” said Gregor.

“Got pinched hitting a big house. Not all of ’em got clear. Lost one in a canal.”

“Who?”

“Beth. Drowned, she did.”

“You’re lying,” whispered Locke. “YOU’RE LYING!”

Veslin kicked him in the side of his stomach and Locke writhed. “Who says … who says she’s—”

“I fuckin’ say.”

“Who told you?”

“I got a letter from the duke, you fuckin’ half-wit. The master, that’s who! Beth drowned last night. She ain’t coming back to the Hill. You sweet on her or something? That’s a laugh.”

“Go to hell,” whispered Locke. “You go to—”

Veslin cut him off with another hard kick to the exact same spot.

“Gregor,” he said, “we got a real problem here. This one ain’t right in the head. Forgot what he can and can’t say to the likes of us.”

“I got just the thing for it, Ves.” Gregor kicked Locke between the legs. Locke’s mouth opened, but nothing came out except a dry hiss of agony.

“Give it to the little shit-smear.” Veslin grinned as he and Gregor began to work Locke over with hard kicks, carefully aimed. “You like that, Lamora? You like what you get, you put on airs with us?”

Only the Thiefmaker’s proscription of outright murder among his orphans saved Locke’s life. No doubt the boys would have pulped him if their own necks wouldn’t have been the price of their amusement, and as it was they nearly went too far.

It was two days before Locke could move well enough to work again, and in that interval, lacking friends to tend him, he was tormented by hunger and thirst. But he took no satisfaction in his recovery, and no joy in his return to work.

He was back to playing dead, back to hiding in corners, back to rule one and rule two. He was all alone in the Hill once again.

I

HER SHADOW

I CANNOT tell you now;

When the wind’s drive and whirl

Blow me along no longer,

And the wind’s a whisper at last—

Maybe I’ll tell you then—

some other time.

—Carl Sandburg

from “The Great Hunt”

CHAPTER ONE

THINGS GET WORSE

1

WEAK SUNLIGHT AGAINST his eyelids drew him out of sleep. The brightness intruded, grew, made him blink groggily. A window was open, letting in mild afternoon air and a freshwater smell. Not Camorr. Sound of waves lapping against a sand beach. Not Camorr at all.

He was tangled in his sheets again, light-headed. The roof of his mouth felt like sun-dried leather. Chapped lips peeled apart as he croaked, “What are you …”

“Shhhh. I didn’t mean to wake you. The room needed some air.” A dark blur on the left, more or less Jean’s height. The floor creaked as the shape moved about. Soft rustle of fabric, snap of a coin purse, clink of metal. Locke pushed himself up on his elbows, prepared for the dizziness. It came on punctually.

“I was dreaming about her,” he muttered. “The times that we … when we first met.”

“Her?”

“Her. You know.”

“Ah. The canonical her.” Jean knelt beside the bed and held out a cup of water, which Locke took in his shaking left hand and sipped at gratefully. The world was slowly coming into focus.

“So vivid,” said Locke. “Thought I could touch her. Tell her … how sorry I am.”

“That’s the best you can manage? Dreaming of a woman like that, and all you can think to do with your time is apologize?”

“Hardly under my control—”

“They’re your dreams. Take the reins.”

“I was just a little boy, for the gods’ sakes.”

“If she pops up again move it forward ten or fifteen years. I want to see some blushing and stammering next time you wake up.”

“Going somewhere?”

“Out for a bit. Making my rounds.”

“Jean, there’s no point. Quit torturing yourself.”

“Finished?” Jean took the empty cup from him.

“Not nearly. I—”

“Won’t be gone long.” Jean set the cup on the table and gave the lapels of his coat a perfunctory brushing as he moved to the door. “Get some more rest.”

“You don’t bloody listen to reason, do you?”

“You know what they say about imitation and flattery.”

The door slid shut and Jean was gone, out into the streets of Lashain.

2

LASHAIN WAS famous as a city where anything could be bought and anything could be left behind. By the grace of the regio, the city’s highest and thinnest order of nobility (where a title that could be traced back more than two generations qualified one for the old guard), just about anyone with cash in hand and enough of a pulse to maintain semiconsciousness could have their blood transmuted to a reasonable facsimile of blue.

From every corner of the Therin world they came—merchants and criminals, mercenary captains and pirates, gamblers and adventurers and exiles. As commoners they entered the chrysalis of a countinghouse, shed vast quantities of precious metal, and as newborn peers of Lashain they emerged into daylight. The regio minted demibarons, barons, viscounts, counts, and even the occasional marquis, with styles largely of their own invention. Honors were taken from a list and cost extra; “Defender of the Twelvefold Faith” was quite popular. There were also half a dozen meaningless orders of knighthood that looked marvelous on a coat lapel.

Because of the novelty of this purchased respectability to those who brokered it for themselves, Lashain was the most violently manners-conscious city Jean Tannen had ever visited. Lacking centuries of aristocratic descent to assure them of their worth, the neophytes of Lashain overcompensated with ceremony. Their rules of precedence were like alchemical formulae, and dinner parties killed more of them each year than fevers and accidents combined. It seemed that little could be more thrilling for those who’d just bought their family names than to risk them (not to mention their mortal flesh) over minor insults.

The record, as far as Jean had heard, was three days from countinghouse to dueling green to funeral cart. The regio, of course, offered no refunds to relations of the deceased.

As a result of this nonsense, it was difficult for those without titles, regardless of the color of their coin, to gain ready access to the city’s best physikers. They were made such status symbols by their noble clients that they rarely had to scamper after gold from other sources.

The taste of autumn was in the cool wind blowing off the Amathel, the Lake of Jewels—the freshwater sea that rolled to the horizon north of Lashain. Jean was conservatively dressed by local standards, in a brown velvet frock coat and silks worth no more than, say, three months’ wages for an average tradesman. This marked him instantly as someone’s man and suited his current task. No gentleman of consequence did his own waiting at a physiker’s garden gate.

Scholar Erkemar Zodesti was regarded as the finest physiker in Lashain, a prodigy with the bone saw and the alchemist’s crucible. He’d also shown complete disinterest, for three days straight, in Jean’s requests for a consultation.

Today Jean once again approached the iron-barred gate at the rear of Zodesti’s garden, from behind which an elderly servant peered at him with reptilian insolence. In Jean’s outstretched hand was a parchment envelope and a square of white card, just like the three days previous. Jean was getting testy.

The servant reached between the bars without a word and took everything Jean offered. The envelope, containing the customary gratuity of (far too many) silver coins, vanished into the servant’s coat. The old man read or pretended to read the white card, raised his eyebrows at Jean, and walked away.

The card said exactly what it always did—Contempla va cora frata eminenza. “Consider the request of an eminent friend,” in the Throne Therin that was the polite affectation for this sort of gesture. Rather than giving an aristocrat’s name, this message meant that someone powerful wished to pay anonymously to have someone else examined. This was a common means of bringing wealth to bear on the problem of, say, a pregnant mistress, without directly compromising the identity of anyone important.

Jean passed the long minutes of his wait by examining the physiker’s house. It was a good solid place, about the size of a smaller Alcegrante mansion back in Camorr. Newer, though, and done up in a mock Tal Verrar style that labored to proclaim the importance of its inhabitants. The roof was tiled with slats of volcanic glass, and the windows bordered with decorative carvings that would have better suited a temple.

From the heart of the garden itself, closed off from view by a ten-foot stone wall, Jean could hear the sounds of a lively party. Clinking glasses, shrieks of laughter, and behind it all the hum of a nine-stringed viol and a few other instruments.

“I regret to inform your master that the scholar is presently unable to accommodate his request for a consultation.” The servant reappeared behind the iron gate with empty hands. The envelope, a token of earnestness, was of course gone. Whether into the hands of Zodesti or this servant, Jean couldn’t say.

“Perhaps you might tell me when it would be more convenient for the scholar to receive my master’s petition,” said Jean, “the middle of the afternoon for half a week now being obviously unsuitable.”

“I couldn’t say.” The servant yawned. “The scholar is consumed with work.”

“With work.” Jean fumed as the sound of applause drifted from the garden party. “Indeed. My master has a case which requires the greatest possible skill and discretion—”

“Your master could rely upon the scholar’s discretion at all times,” said the servant. “Unfortunately, his skill is urgently required elsewhere at the moment.”

“Gods damn you, man!” Jean’s self-control evaporated. “This is important!”

“I will not be spoken to in a vulgar fashion. Good day.”

Jean considered reaching through the iron bars and seizing the old man by the throat, but that would have been counterproductive. He wore no fighting leathers under his finery, and his decorative shoes would be worse than bare feet in a scuffle. Despite the pair of hatchets tucked away under his coat, he wasn’t equipped to storm even a garden party by choice.

“The scholar risks giving offense to a citizen of considerable importance,” growled Jean.

“The scholar is giving offense, you simple fellow.” The old man chuckled. “I tell you plainly, he has little interest in the sort of business arranged in this fashion. I don’t believe a single citizen of quality is so unfamiliar with the scholar that they need fear to be received by the front door.”

“I’ll call again tomorrow,” said Jean, straining to keep his composure. “Perhaps I might name a sum that will penetrate even your master’s indifference.”

“You are to be commended for your persistence, if not for your perception. Tomorrow you must do as your master bids. For now, I have already said good day.”

“Good day,” growled Jean. “May the gods cherish the house wherein such kindness dwells.” He bowed stiffly and left.

There was nothing else to be done at the moment, in this gods-damned city where even throwing envelopes of coins was no guarantee of attracting attention to a problem.

As he stomped back to his hired carriage, Jean cursed Maxilan Stragos for the thousandth time. The bastard had lied about so much. Why, in the end, had the damned poison been the one thing he’d chosen to tell the truth about?

3

HOME FOR the time being was a rented suite in the Villa Suvela, an unadorned but scrupulously clean rooming house favored by travelers who came to Lashain to take the waters of the Amathel. Those waters were said to cure rheumatism, though Jean had yet to see a bather emerge leaping and dancing. The rooming house overlooked a black sand beach on the city’s northeast shore, and the other lodgers kept to themselves.

“The bastard,” said Jean as he threw open the door to the suite’s inner apartment. “The motherless Lashani reptile. The greedy son of a piss-bucket and a bad fart.”

“My keen grasp of subtle nuance tells me you might be frustrated,” said Locke. He was sitting up, and he looked fully awake.

“We’ve been snobbed off again,” said Jean, frowning. Despite the fresh air from the window the inner apartment still smelled of old sweat and fresh blood. “Zodesti won’t come. Not today, at least.”

“To hell with him, then, Jean.”

“He’s the only physiker of repute I haven’t got to yet. Some of the others were difficult, but he’s being impossible.”

“I’ve been pinched and bled by every gods-damned lunatic in this city who ever shoved a bolus down a throat,” said Locke. “One more hardly signifies.”

“He’s the best.” Jean flung his coat over a chair, set his hatchets down, and removed a bottle of blue wine from a cabinet. “An alchemical expert. A real smirking rat-fucker, too.”

“It’s all for the good, then,” said Locke. “What would the neighbors say if I consulted a man who screws rodents?”

“We need his opinion.”

“I’m tired of being a medical curiosity,” said Locke. “If he won’t come, he won’t come.”

“I’ll call again tomorrow.” Jean poured two half-glasses of wine and watered them until they were a pleasant afternoon-sky color. “I’ll have the self-important prick here one way or another.”

“What would you do, break his fingers if he won’t consult? Might make things ticklish for me. Especially if he wants to cut something off.”

“He might find a solution.”

“Oh, for the gods’ sake.” Locke’s frustrated sigh turned into a cough. “There is no solution.”

“Trust me. Tomorrow is going to be one of my unusually persuasive days.”

“As I see it, it’s cost us only a few pieces of gold to discover how unfashionable we are. Most social failures incur far greater expense, I should think.”

“Somewhere out there,” said Jean, “must be an illness that makes its sufferers meek, mild, and agreeable. I’ll find it someday, and see that you get the worst possible case.”

“I’m sure I was born immune. Speaking of agreeable, will that wine be arriving in my hands anytime this year?”

Locke had seemed alert enough, but his voice was slurring, and weaker than it had been even the day before. Jean approached the bed uneasily, wineglasses held out like a peace offering to some unfamiliar and potentially dangerous creature.

Locke had been in this condition before, too thin and too pale, with weeks of beard on his cheeks. Only this time there was no obvious wound to tend, no cuts to bandage. Just Maxilan Stragos’ insidious legacy doing its silent work. Locke’s sheets were spotted with blood and with the dark stains of fever-sweat. His eyes gleamed in bruised sockets.

Jean pored over a pile of medical texts each night, and still he didn’t have adequate words for what was happening to Locke. He was being unknit from the inside; his veins and sinews were coming apart. Blood seeped out of him as though by some demonic whim. One hour he might cough it up, the next it would come from his eyes or nose.

“Gods damn it,” Jean whispered as Locke reached for the wineglass. Locke’s left hand was red with blood, as though his fingers had been dipped in it. “What’s this?”

“Nothing unusual.” Locke chuckled. “It started up while you were gone … from under my nails. Here, I can hold the glass with my other one—”

“Were you trying to hide it from me? Who else changes your gods-damned sheets?”

Jean set the glasses down and moved to the table beneath the window, which held stacks of linen towels, a water jug, and a washing bowl. The bowl’s water was rusty with old blood.

“It doesn’t hurt, Jean,” muttered Locke.

Ignoring him, Jean picked up the bowl. The window overlooked the villa’s interior courtyard, which was fortunately deserted. Jean heaved the old bloody water out the window, refilled the bowl from the jug, and dipped a linen cloth into it.

“Hand,” said Jean. Locke sulkily complied, and Jean molded the wet cloth around his fingers. It turned pink. “Keep it elevated for a while.”

“I know it looks bad, but it’s really not that much blood.”

“You’ve little left to lose!”

“I’m also in want of wine.”

Jean fetched their glasses again and carefully placed one in Locke’s right hand. Locke’s shakes didn’t seem too bad for the moment, which was pleasing. He’d had difficulty holding things lately.

“A toast,” said Locke. “To alchemists. May they all be stricken with the screaming fire-shits.” He sipped his wine. “Or strangled in bed. Whatever’s most convenient. I’m not picky.”

At his next sip, he coughed, and a ruby-colored droplet spiraled down into his wine, leaving a purplish tail as it dissolved.

“Gods,” said Jean. He gulped the rest of his own wine and set the glass aside. “I’m going out to fetch Malcor.”

“Jean, I don’t need another damned dog-leech at the moment. He’s been here six or seven times already. Why—”

“Something might have changed. Something might be different.” Jean grabbed his coat. “Maybe he can help the bleeding. Maybe he’ll finally find some clue—”

“There is no clue, Jean. There’s no antidote that’s going to spring from Malcor or Kepira or Zodesti or any boil-lancing fraud in this whole tedious shitsack of a city.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Dammit, Jean, save the money!” Locke coughed again, and nearly dropped his wine. “It’s only common sense, you brick-skulled tub! You obstinate—”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“… obstinate, uh, something … something … biting and witty and thoroughly convincing! Hey, if you leave now, you’ll miss me being thoroughly convincing! Damn it.”

Whatever Locke might have said next, Jean closed the door on it. The sky outside was now banded in twilight colors, orange at the horizons giving way to silver and then purple in the deep bowl of the heavens. Purple like the color of blood dissolving in blue wine.

A low gray wall sliding in to the north, from out of the Amathel, seemed to promise an oncoming storm. That suited Jean just fine.

4

SIX WEEKS had passed since they’d left the little port of Vel Virazzo in a forty-foot yacht, fresh from a series of more or less total disasters that had left them with a fraction of the vast sum they’d hoped to recoup for two years invested in a complex scheme.

As he walked out into the streets of Lashain, Jean ran his fingers over a lock of curly dark hair, tightly bound with leather cords. This he always kept in a coat pocket or tucked into his belt. Of all the things he’d lost recently, the money was the least of his concerns.

Locke and Jean had discussed sailing east, back toward Tamalek and Espara … back toward Camorr. But most of the world they’d known there was swept away, and most of their old friends were dead. Instead they’d gone west. North and west.

Following the coast, straining their lubberly skills to the utmost, they had skirted Tal Verrar, swept past the blackened remains of once-luxurious Salon Corbeau, and discussed making far north for Balinel, in the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. Both of them spoke Vadran well enough to do just about anything while they sought some new criminal opportunity.

They left the sea and headed inland, up the wide River Cavendria, which was Eldren-tamed and fit for oceangoing vessels. The Cavendria flowed west from the Amathel, Lake of Jewels, the inland sea that separated the ancient sister-cities of Karthain and Lashain. Locke and Jean had once hoped to buy their way into the ranks of Lashain’s nobility. Their revised plan had merely been to weigh their boat down with stores for the voyage up to Balinel.

Locke’s symptoms revealed themselves the day they entered the Cavendria estuary.

At first it had been nothing more than bouts of dizziness and blurred vision, but as the days passed and they slowly tacked against the current, he began bleeding from his nose and mouth. By the time they reached Lashain, he could no longer laugh away or hide his increasing weakness. Instead of taking on stores, they’d rented rooms, and against Locke’s protests Jean began to spend nearly every coin they had in pursuit of comforts and cures.

From Lashain’s underworld, which was tolerably colorful if nowhere near the size of Camorr’s, he’d consulted every poisoner and black alchemist he could bribe. All had shaken their heads and expressed professional admiration for what had been done to Locke; the substance in question was beyond their power to counteract. Locke had been made to drink a hundred different purgatives, teas, and elixirs, each seemingly more vile and expensive than the last, each ultimately useless.

After that, Jean had dressed well and started calling on accredited physikers. Locke was explained away as a “confidential servant” of someone wealthy, which could have meant anything from secret lover to private assassin. The physikers too had expressed regret and fascination in equal measure. Most had refused to attempt cures, instead offering palliatives to ease Locke’s pain. Jean fully grasped the meaning of this, but paid no heed to their pessimism. He simply showed each to the door, paid their exorbitant fees, and went after the next physiker on his list.

The money hadn’t lasted. After a few days, Jean had sold their boat (along with the resident cat, essential for good luck at sea), and was happy to get half of what they’d paid for it.

Now even those funds were running thin, and Erkemar Zodesti was just about the only physiker in Lashain who had yet to tell Jean that Locke’s condition was hopeless.

5

“NO NEW symptoms,” said Malcor, a round old man with a gray beard that curled out from his chin like an oncoming thunderhead. Malcor was a dog-leech, a street physiker with no formal training or license, but of all his kind available in Lashain he was the most frequently sober. “Merely a new expression of familiar symptoms. Take heart.”

“Not likely,” said Locke. “But thanks for the hand job.”

Malcor had poulticed the tips of Locke’s fingers with a mixture of corn meal and honey, then tied dry linen bandages around the fingers, turning Locke’s left hand into a padded lump of uselessness.

“Heh. Well, the gods love a man who laughs at hardship.”

“Hardship is boring as all hell. Gotta find laughs if you can’t stay drunk,” said Locke.

“So the bleeding is nothing new? Nothing worse than before?” asked Jean.

“A new inconvenience, yes.” Malcor hesitated, then shrugged. “As for the total loss to his body’s sanguine humors … I can’t say. A close examination of his water could, perhaps—”

“You want a bowl full of piss,” said Locke, “you can uncork your private reserve. I’ve given quite enough since I came here.”

“Well, then.” Malcor’s knees creaked like rusty hinges as he stood up. “If I won’t scry your piss, I won’t scry your piss. I can, however, leave you with a pill that should bring you excellent relief for twelve to twenty-four hours, and perhaps encourage your depleted humors to rekindle—”

“Splendid,” said Locke. “Will it be the one composed primarily of chalk, this time? Or the one made of sugar? I’d prefer sugar.”

“Look … I say, look here!” Malcor’s seamy old face grew red. “I might not have Collegium robes, but when I go to the gods they’ll know that I gave an honest damn about lending ease to my patients!”

“Peace, old man.” Locke coughed and rubbed his eyes with his un-bandaged hand. “I know you mean the best. But spare me your placebo.”

“Have your friend remove your bandages in a few hours,” said Malcor testily, shrugging back into a worn frock coat that was spattered with dark stains. “If you drink, drink sparingly. Water your wine.”

“Rest assured, my friend here waters my wine like a virgin princess’ nervous chaperone.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jean, as he showed Malcor outside. “He’s difficult when he’s ill.”

“He’s got two or three days,” said the old man.

“You can’t be—”

“Yes, I can. The bleeding is worse. His enervation is more pronounced. His humors are terminally imbalanced, and I’m certain an examination of his water would show blood. I tried to hearten him, but your friend is obviously undeceived.”

“But—”

“As should you be.”

“There must be someone who can do something!”

“The gods.”

“If I could convince Zodesti—”

“Zodesti?” Malcor laughed. “What a waste of a gift in that one. Zodesti treats only two ailments, wealth and prominence. He’ll never condescend to do so much as take your friend’s pulse.”

“So you’ve no other clues? No other suggestions?”

“Summon priests. While he’s still lucid.” Jean scowled, and the aged dog-leech took him gently by the shoulders. “I can’t name the poison that’s killing your friend. But the one that’s killing you is called hope.”

“Thank you for your time,” growled Jean. He shook several silver coins out of his purse. “If I should have further need of these marvelous insights—”

“A single duvesta will be quite adequate,” said Malcor. “And despite your mood now, know that I’ll come whenever you require. Your friend’s discomfort is more likely to wax than wane before the end.”

The sun was gone, and the roofs and towers of the city were coming alive with specks of fire against the deepening night. As he watched Malcor vanish down the street, Jean wanted more than anything to have someone to hit.

6

“FAIR DAY to you,” said Jean, approaching the garden gate again. It was the second hour of the afternoon, the next day, and the sky overhead was a boiling mess of gray. The rain had yet to fall, but it was coming, certain and soon. “I’m here for my usual petition.”

“How completely unexpected,” said the old man behind the iron bars.

“Is it a convenient time?” From inside the garden, Jean could hear laughter again, along with a series of echoing smacks, as though something were being thrown against a stone wall. “Or is the scholar consumed—”

“By work. Stranger, has the conversation we had yesterday fled your memory?”

“I must beg you, sir.” Jean put as much passionate sincerity as he could into his voice. “A good man lies dying, in desperate need of aid. Did your master not take oath as a physiker of the Collegium?”

“His oaths are no business of yours. And many good men lie dying, in desperate want of aid, in Lashain and Karthain and every other place in the world. Do you see the scholar saddling his horse to seek them out?”

“Please.” Jean shook a fresh envelope, jingling the coins within. “At least carry the message, for the love of all the gods.”

Wearing half a scowl and half a smirk, the servant reached through the bars. Jean dropped the envelope, seized the man by the collar, and slammed him hard against the gate. An instant later Jean flourished a knife in his free hand.

It was a push-dagger, the sort wielded with a thrusting fist rather than a fencer’s grip. The blade seated against Jean’s knuckles was half a foot long and curved like an animal’s claw.

“There’s only one use for a knife like this,” whispered Jean. “You see it? You try to call out or pull away, and you’ll be wearing your belly-fat for an apron. Open the gate.”

“You’ll die for this,” hissed the servant. “They’ll skin you and boil you in salt water.”

“And what a consolation that will be for you, eh?” Jean prodded him in the stomach with his knife. “Open the gate or I’ll take the keys from your corpse.”

With a shaking hand, the old man opened the gate. Jean threw it aside, grabbed the servant again, and turned him around. The knife was now at the small of the man’s back.

“Take me to your master. Stay composed. Tell him that an important case has come up and that he will want to hear my offer.”

“The scholar is in the garden. But you’re mad.… He has friends in the highest places … urk!”

Jean poked him again with the blade, urging him forward.

“Of course,” said Jean. “But do you have any friends closer than my knife?”

At the heart of the garden, a short, solid man of about thirty-five was sharing a hearty laugh with a woman who had yet to see twenty. Both of them wore light breeches, silk shirts, and padded leather gloves. That explained the rhythmic noise from before. They’d been using a cleared section of stone wall for pursava, the “partner chase,” an aristocratic cousin of handball.

“Sir, madam, a thousand pardons,” said the servant at another poke from Jean. Jean stood half a pace behind the man, where neither Zodesti nor his guest could see the true means of his entry into the garden. “A very urgent matter, sir.”

“Urgent?” Zodesti had a mop of black curls, now slick with sweat, and the remains of an upper-class Verrari accent. “Who does this fellow come to speak for?”

“An eminent friend,” said Jean. “In the usual fashion. It would not be appropriate to discuss these matters in front of your young—”

“By the gods, I’ll say what’s appropriate or not in my own garden! This fellow has some cheek, Loran. You know my preferences. This had better be in earnest.”

“Dire earnest, sir.”

“Let him leave his particulars. If I find them suitable he may call again after dinner.”

“Now would be better,” said Jean, “for everyone.”

“Who in all the hells do you think you are? Shit on your dire earnest! Loran, throw this—”

“Refusal noted and cordially declined.” Jean shoved Loran to the turf. Half a second later he was upon Zodesti, with a meaty forearm wrapped around the physiker’s throat and his blade held up so the young woman could see it. “Cry out for help and I will use this, madam. I would hate to have an injury to the scholar resting upon your conscience.”

“I … I …” she said.

“Babble all you like, so long as you don’t scream. As for you—” Jean squeezed the man’s windpipe to demonstrate his strength, and the physiker gasped. “I’ve tried to be civil. I would have paid well. But now I’ll teach you a new way of doing business. Do you have a kit you would bring to a case of poisoning? Materials you’d need for a consultation?”

“Yes,” choked Zodesti. “In my study.”

“We’re going to calmly walk into your house, all of us. On your feet, Loran. You have a carriage and driver on the grounds, Scholar?”

“Yes,” said Zodesti.

“Inside, then, as though nothing is amiss. If any of you give me any trouble, by the gods, I’ll start practicing throat surgery.”

7

THE TICKLISH part was getting them all into Zodesti’s study, past the curious eyes of a cook and a kitchen-boy. But none of Jean’s hostages caused a scene, and soon enough the study door was between them and any interference. Jean shot the bolt, smiled, and said, “Loran, would you—”

At that moment, the old man found the courage for a last desperate struggle. Foul as his temper was, Jean didn’t truly have the heart to stab the poor idiot, and he smashed the edge of his knife hand into Loran’s jaw instead. The servant hit the floor senseless. Zodesti darted to a desk in the corner and had a drawer open before Jean collared him and flung him down beside Loran. Jean glanced into the drawer and laughed.

“Going to fight me off with a letter-opener? Take a seat, both of you.” Jean indicated a pair of armchairs against the rear wall. While Zodesti and his companion sat there, wide-eyed as pupils awaiting punishment from a tutor, Jean cut down one of the drapes that hung beside the study’s shuttered window. He slashed it into strips and tossed them to Zodesti.

“I don’t quite understand—”

“Your young friend offers a problem,” said Jean. “Meaning no particular offense to you, madam, but one hostage is difficult enough to handle, let alone two. Particularly when they’re clumsy amateur hostages, unused to their roles and expectations. So we’ll leave you in that fine big closet over there, where you won’t be found too late or too soon.”

“How dare you,” said the young woman. “I’ll have you know that my uncle is—”

“Time is precious and my knife is sharp,” said Jean. “When some servant finally opens that closet, do they find you alive or dead?”

“Alive,” she gulped.

“Gag her, Scholar,” said Jean. “Then tie some good, firm knots. I’ll check them myself when you’re done. After she’s secure, do the same for old Loran.”

As Zodesti worked to tie up his pursava partner (if that was indeed the limit of their partnership), Jean tore down another drape and cut it into more strips. His eyes wandered to the room’s glass-fronted cabinets. They contained a collection of books, glass vessels, herbal samples, alchemical powders, and bizarre surgical instruments. Jean was heartened; if Zodesti’s esoterica reflected his actual ability, he might just have an answer after all.

8

“THIS WILL do,” said Jean.

“Michel,” said Zodesti, leaning out the window on his side of the carriage, “pull up here.”

The carriage rattled to a halt, and the driver hopped down to open the door. Jean, knife half-concealed by the wide cuff of his coat, gestured for Zodesti to step out first. The scholar did, carrying a leather bag and a bundle of clothing.

A light rain had begun to fall, for which Jean was grateful. It would drive bystanders from the streets, and the overcast sky gave the city the look of twilight rather than midafternoon. A kidnapper could ask for no more.

Jean had ordered the halt about two blocks from the Villa Suvela, in front of an alley that would lead there by twists and turns with a dozen other possible destinations branching off along the way.

“The scholar will require several hours,” said Jean, passing a folded slip of parchment to the driver. “Wait at this address until we meet you again.”

The address on the parchment was a coffeehouse in Lashain’s mercantile district, a half-mile distant. The driver frowned.

“Is this well with you, sir? You’ll miss dinner—”

“It’s fine, Michel,” said Zodesti with a hint of exasperation. “Just follow directions.”

“Of course, sir.”

Once the carriage had clattered down the street, Jean pulled Zodesti into the alley and said, “You may live through this yet. Get dressed as we discussed.”

The pile of clothing included a battered hat and a rain-stained cloak, both belonging to Loran, who was a fair match in size for his master. Zodesti threw the cloak on, and Jean pulled a strip of slashed drapery from his pocket.

“What the hell is this, now?” said Zodesti.

“Did you really imagine I’d go to all this trouble and let you see where I’m taking you? I thought you’d prefer blindfolded to unconscious.”

Zodesti stood still as Jean blindfolded him, pulled up the cloak’s hood, and pushed the hat down on top of it. It was a good effect. From more than a few feet away, the blindfold would be concealed by the hat or lost in the shadows of the hood.

From Zodesti’s medical bag, Jean withdrew a bottle of wine. He pulled the cork (Jean had found the bottle in Zodesti’s study, half empty), splashed some on the physiker, poured the rest on the ground, and pressed the empty bottle into Zodesti’s right hand. From the smell that wafted up around them, Jean guessed he’d just wasted a very valuable kameleona.

“Now,” said Jean, “you’re my drunk friend, being escorted to safety. Keep your head down.” Jean pressed Zodesti’s bag into the physiker’s left hand. “I’ve got my arms around you to keep you from stumbling, and my knife closer than you’d like.”

“You’ll boil alive for this, you son of a bitch.”

“Let’s keep my mother out of this. Mind your feet.”

It took about ten minutes for them to stumble to the rooming house together. There were no complications. The few people out in the rain had better things to pay attention to than a pair of drunks, it seemed.

Once safely inside their suite, Jean locked the front doors, shoved Zodesti into a chair, and said, “Now we’re well away from anyone else. If you try to escape, or raise your voice, or call attention to yourself in any way, I’ll hurt you. Badly.”

“Stop threatening me and show me your damned patient.”

“In a moment.” Jean opened the doors to the inner apartment, saw that Locke was awake, and quickly gestured in their private sign language:

Don’t use any names.

“What am I,” muttered Locke, “an idiot? I knew he wasn’t coming back here of his own free will.”

“How—”

“You wore your fighting boots and left your dress shoes by the wardrobe. And all of your weapons are missing.”

“Ah.” Jean tore off Zodesti’s blindfold and disguise. “Make yourself comfortable and get to work.”

The physiker hefted his satchel and, sparing a hateful glance for Jean, moved to Locke’s bedside. He stared at Locke for a few moments, then pulled a wooden chair over and sat down.

“I smell wine,” said Locke. “Kameleona, I think. I don’t suppose you’ve brought any with you?”

“Only what your friend bathed me with,” said Zodesti. He snapped his fingers a few times in front of Locke’s eyes, then took his pulse from both wrists. “My, you are in a sad state. You believe you’ve been poisoned?”

“No,” said Locke with a cough. “I fell down some fucking stairs.

What’s it look like?”

“Can’t you ever be polite to any of your physikers?” said Jean.

“You’re the one who bloody well kidnapped him.”

“Since I appear to have no choice,” said Zodesti, “I’m going to give you a thorough examination. This may cause some discomfort, but don’t complain. I won’t be listening.”

Zodesti’s first examination took a quarter of an hour. Ignoring Locke’s grumbling, he poked and prodded at his joints and limbs, working from the top of his arms to his feet.

“You’re losing sensation in your extremities,” said Zodesti at last.

“How the hell can you tell?”

“I just stuck a lancet into each of your large toes.”

“You poked holes in my feet?”

“I’m adding teardrops to a river, given the blood you’re losing elsewhere.” Zodesti fumbled in his bag, removed a silk case, and from this extracted a pair of optics with oversized lenses. Wearing them, he pulled Locke’s lips back and examined his gums and teeth.

“Ahm naht a fckhng horth,” said Locke.

“Quiet.” Zodesti held the clean portion of one of Locke’s discarded bandages to his gums for several seconds, pulled it away, and frowned at it.

“Your gums are seeping blood. And I see your fingernails are trim,” said Zodesti.

“What of it?”

“Were they trimmed on a Penance Day?”

“How the hell should I remember?”

“Trimming the nails on any day but a Penance Day weakens the blood. Tell me, when you were first taken with your symptoms, did you think to swallow an amethyst?”

“Why would I have had one close at hand?”

“Your pig-ignorance of basic medicine is your own misfortune. You sound like an easterner, though, so I can’t say I’m surprised.”

The rest of the physiker’s work took an hour, with Zodesti performing increasingly esoteric tests and Jean hovering behind him, alert for any sign of treachery. Finally, Zodesti sighed and rose to his feet, wiping his bloody hands on Locke’s sheets.

“You have the unfortunate distinction,” said Zodesti, “of being poisoned by a substance beyond my experience. Given the fact that I have a Master’s Ring in alchemy from the Therin Collegium—”

“Gods damn your jewelry,” said Jean. “Can you do anything?”

“In the early stages of the poisoning, who could have said? But now …” Zodesti shrugged.

“You maggot!” Jean grabbed Zodesti by his lapels, whirled, and slammed him against the wall beside Locke’s bed. “You arrogant little fraud! You’re the best this city has? DO SOMETHING!”

“I can’t,” said Zodesti with a new firmness in his voice. “Think whatever you like, do whatever you like. He is beyond my powers of intervention. I daresay that puts him beyond anyone’s.”

“Let him go,” said Locke.

“There must be something—”

“Let him go!” Locke retched, spat up more blood, and broke into a coughing fit. Jean released Zodesti, and the physiker slid away, glaring.

“Shortly after the poison was administered,” said the physiker, “I could have tried a purgative. Or filled his stomach with milk and parchment pulp. Or bled him to thin out the venom. But this thing has been with him for too long now.

“Even with known poisons,” he continued, returning his instruments to his bag, “there comes a point where the harm to organs or humors cannot be reversed. Antidotes don’t restore dead flesh. And with this, an unknown poison? His blood is pouring out of him. I can’t just put it back.”

“Gods damn it,” whispered Jean.

“The question is no longer if but when,” said Zodesti. “Look, you ugly bastard, despite the way you brought me into this mess, I’ve given him my full and fair attention.”

“I see.” Jean slowly walked over to the linen table, took up a clay cup, and filled it with water from the jug. “Do you have anything with you that can bring about a strong sleep? In case his pain should worsen?”

“Of course.” Zodesti removed a small paper pouch from his bag. “Have him take this in water or wine and he won’t be able to keep his eyes open.”

“Now wait just a damn minute,” said Locke.

“Give it here,” said Jean. He took the packet, poured its contents into the water, and shook the cup several times. “How long will it last?”

“Hours.”

“Good.” Jean passed the cup to Zodesti and gestured at it with a dagger. “Drink up.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you running off to the first constable you can find as soon as I dump you on the street.”

“Don’t think I would be so foolish as to try and run from you—”

“Don’t think I give a damn. Drink the whole thing or I’ll break your arms.”

Zodesti quickly gulped the contents of the cup. “How I’m going to laugh when they catch you, you son of a bitch.” He tossed the cup down carelessly on Locke’s bed and sat with his back against the wall. “All the justices of Lashain are my patients. Your friend’s too sick to run. If he’s still alive when they catch you, they’ll draw and quarter him just to give you something to watch while you wait for your own exe … execution.…”

A few seconds later his head rolled forward and he began snoring.

“Think he’s pretending?” said Locke.

Jean shoved the tip of his dagger into the calf of Zodesti’s outstretched right leg. The physiker didn’t stir.

“I hate to say that I told you so,” said Locke, settling back against his cushions and folding his hands in front of him. “Wait, no I don’t. I could use a bottle of wine, and don’t add any water this—”

“I’ll get Malcor,” said Jean. “I’ll have him stay the night. Constant attention.”

“Damn it, Jean, wake up.” Locke coughed and pounded on his chest. “What a reversal this is, eh? I wanted to die in Vel Virazzo and you pulled me back to my senses. Now I really am dying and you’re bereft of yours.”

“There’s—”

“No more physikers, Jean. No more alchemists, no more dog-leeches. No more rocks to pry up looking for miracles.”

“How can you just lie there like a fish washed up on shore, with no fight at all?”

“I suppose I could flop around a bit, if you thought it would help.”

“The Gray King sliced you like a veal cutlet and you came back from that, twice as aggravating as ever.”

“Sword cuts. If they don’t turn green, you can expect to heal. It’s the nature of things. With black alchemy, who the hell knows?”

“I’ll give you wine, but I want you to take it with two parts water, like Malcor said. And I want you to eat tonight, everything you can. Keep your strength up—”

“I’ll eat, but only to give the wine some ballast. There’s no other point to it, Jean. There’s no cure forthcoming.”

“If you can’t be cured, you’ll have to endure. Outlast it, until it breaks like a fever.”

“The poison’s more likely to last than I am.” Locke coughed and dabbed at his mouth with one of his sheets. “Jean, you’ve called down some trouble by stealing this little weasel out of his house. Surely you can see that.”

“I was very careful.”

“You know better! He’ll remember your face, and Lashain’s not so very big. Look, take the money that’s left. Take it and get out of town tonight. You can slip into a dozen trades at will, you speak four languages, you’ll be wealthy again in—”

“Incomprehensible babble.” Jean sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed Locke’s sweat-slick hair out of his eyes. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Jean, I know you. You’ll kill half a city block when your blood’s up, but you’ll never slit the throat of a sleeping man who’s done us no real harm. That means constables will kick our doors down sooner or later. Please don’t be here when they do.”

“You brought this upon yourself when you cheated that antidote into my glass. The consequences are yours to—”

“Like hell. You would have robbed me of that choice, too! Gods, all this maneuvering for moral advantage! You’d think we were married.” Locke coughed and arched his back. “The gods must truly have it in for you, to make you my nurse,” he said quietly. “Not once but twice, now.”

“Hell, they made me your nurse when I was ten years old. You can knock down kingdoms on a whim. What you need is someone to make sure you don’t get hit by a carriage when you cross the street.”

“That’s all over now, though. And it might have been kinder for you if I had been hit by a carriage—”

“You see this?” Jean took the tightly bound lock of dark, curly hair out of his coat pocket and held it up. “You see this, you bloody bastard? You know where it came from. I’m done losing. Do you fucking hear me? I am done losing. Spare me your precious self-pity, because this isn’t a stage and I didn’t pay two coppers to cry my eyes out over anyone’s death speech. You don’t fucking get one, understand? I don’t care if you cough up buckets of blood. Buckets I can carry. I don’t care if you howl like a dog for months. You’re going to eat and drink and keep fighting.”

“Well,” said Locke after a few moments had passed in silence. He smiled wryly. “If you are going to be an intractable son of a bitch, why don’t you uncork that wine so we can start with the part about drinking?”

9

JEAN LEFT Zodesti in an alley about three blocks west of the Villa Suvela, taking care to conceal him well and cover his bag with trash. He wouldn’t be at all pleased when he awoke, but at least he’d be alive.

Locke’s condition changed little that night; he slept in fits and starts, sipped wine, grudgingly chewed cold beef and soft bread, and continued bleeding. Jean fell asleep sitting up and managed to spill ale over a useless treatise on poisons. Most of their nights had been like this, recently.

The rain kept up well into the next night, enfolding the city in murk. Just before the unseen sundown Jean went out to fetch fresh supplies. There was a merchants’ inn not ten minutes from the Villa Suvela that was used to dealing in necessities at odd hours.

When Jean came back, the front door was completely unmarked. He had no reason to suspect that anything was amiss, until he glanced down in the entry and saw the great mess of water that had recently been brought across the threshold.

Movement on both sides—too many attackers, too prepared. A basket of food and wine was no weapon at all. Jean went down under a press of bodies. With desperate strength he smashed a nose, kicked a foot, tried to claw out the space he needed to pull and use his hatchets—

“Enough,” said a commanding voice. Jean looked up. The door to the inner apartment was open, and there were men standing over Locke’s bed.

“No!” Jean yelled, ceasing his fight. Four men seized him and dragged him into the inner room, where he counted at least five more visible opponents. One of them grabbed a towel from the linens table and held it up to his bleeding nose.

“I’m sorry,” said Locke, hoarsely. “They came right after you left—”

“Quiet.” The speaker was a rugged man about Locke and Jean’s age, with a brawler’s scarred jaw and a nose that looked like it had been used to break a hard fall. His hair was scraped down to stubble, and he wore quality fighting leathers under a long black coat. Had Jean been thinking straight, he would have realized that the consequences of Zodesti’s abduction might come back to them from directions other than the Lashani constabulary. “How’s your head, Leone?”

“Broge my fuggin node,” said the man holding a towel to his face.

“Builds character.” The man in the black coat picked up a chair, set it down in front of Jean, then kicked him in the stomach, good and fast, barely giving him time to flinch before the pain hit. Jean groaned, and the four men holding him bore down on him with all of their weight, lest he try anything stupid.

“Wait,” coughed Locke. “Please—”

“If I have to say ‘quiet’ again,” said the black-coated man, “I’ll cut your fucking tongue out and pin it to the wall. Now shut up.” He sat down in the chair and smiled. “My name is Cortessa.”

“Whispers,” said Jean. This was much worse than the constabulary. Whispers Cortessa was a top power in the Lashani underworld.

“So they call me. I presume you’re Andolini.”

That was the name Jean had given when renting their rooms, and he nodded.

“If it’s real I’m the king of the Seven Marrows,” said Cortessa. “But nobody cares. Can you tell me why I’m here?”

“You ran out of sheep to fuck and went looking for some action?”

“Gods, I love Camorri. Constitutionally incapable of doing things the easy way.” Cortessa slapped Jean hard enough to make his eyes water. “Try again. Why am I here?”

“You heard,” Jean gasped, “that we’d finally discovered the cure for being born with a face like a stray dog’s ass.”

“No. If that were true you would have used it.” Cortessa’s next blow was no slap, but a backhanded bruise-maker. Jean blinked as the room swam around him.

“Now, I would love to sit here and paint the floor with your blood. Leone would probably love it even more. But I think I can save us all a lot of time.” Cortessa beckoned, and one of the men standing over Locke’s bed lifted a club. “What does your friend lose first? A knee? A few toes? I can be creative.”

“No. Please.” Jean would have bent his head to Cortessa’s feet if he hadn’t been restrained. “I’m the one you want. I won’t waste any more of your time. Please.”

“You’re the one I want, suddenly? Why would I want you?”

“Something about a physiker, I’d guess.”

“There we are. That wasn’t so hard after all.” Cortessa cracked his knuckles. “What did you think might happen when someone like Zodesti came home from the shit you pulled yesterday?”

“Certainly would have been nice if he’d never said anything at all.”

“Don’t be simple. Now, I know you’re a friend of the friends. I hear things. When you first came to Lashain you knew your business. Kept the peace, made your gifts, behaved. You clearly understand how things work in our world. So do you think Zodesti ran up and down the streets, screaming that he’d been stolen away like a child? Or do you think he sent a few private messages to people who know people?”

“Shit,” said Jean.

“Yeah. So, I got the job and I thought to myself … wasn’t there a big man looking for alchemists and dog-leeches just last week? What might they have to say about him? Oh? A bad poisoning? A man bleeding to death in bed at the Villa Suvela?” Cortessa spread his arms and smiled beatifically. “Some problems just solve themselves.”

“How can I make amends?” said Jean.

“You can’t.” Cortessa stood up, laughing.

“Please don’t do anything to my friend. He had nothing to do with the physiker. Do whatever you like with me. I’ll cooperate. Just—”

“My, you’ve gone from hard to soft, big man. You’ll cooperate? Of course you’ll fucking cooperate, you’ve got four of my men sitting on you.”

“There’s money,” said Jean. “Money, or I could work for you—”

“You’ve got nothing I want,” said Cortessa. “And that’s your problem. But I have a serious problem of my own.”

“Oh?”

“Ordinarily, this is the part where we’d make soup out of your balls and watch you drink it. Ordinarily. But we have what you might call a conflict of interest. On the one hand, you’re an outlander and you touched a Lashani with all the right friends. That says we fucking kill you.

“On the other hand, it’s plain you are or were some sort of connected man in Camorr. Big Barsavi might not be with us anymore, gods rest his crooked soul, but nobody in their right mind wants to fuck with the capas. You could be somebody’s cousin. Who knows? A year or two from now, maybe someone comes looking for you. Asks around town. Whoops! Someone tells them to look on the bottom of the lake. And who gets sent back to Camorr in a box to pay the debt? Yours truly. That says we don’t fucking kill you.”

“Like I said, I have some money,” said Jean. “If that can help.”

“It’s not your money anymore. But what does help is that your friend here is already dying … and from the looks of it, he’ll be pretty damn glad to go.”

“Look, if you’ll just let him stay, he needs rest—”

“I know. That’s why I’m kicking your asses out of Lashain.” Cortessa waved his hands at his people. “Strip the place. All the food, all the wine. Blankets, bandages, money. Take the wood out of the fireplace. Throw the water out of the jug. Pass word to the innkeeper that these two fucks are under the interdict.”

“Please,” said Jean. “Please—”

“Shut up. You can keep your clothes and your weapons. I won’t send you out completely naked. But I want you gone. By sunrise, you’re out of the city or Zodesti gets to cut your ears off himself. Your friend can find somewhere else to die.” Cortessa gave Locke a pat on the leg. “Think fondly of me in hell, you poor bastard.”

“You might not be long in getting there yourself,” said Locke. “I’ll have a big hug waiting for you.”

Cortessa’s people ransacked the suite. They carefully piled Jean’s weapons on the floor; everything else was taken or smashed. Locke was left on the empty bed in his bloodstained breeches and tunic. Jean’s private purse and the one that had contained their general funds were both emptied. A few moments later, one of Cortessa’s men stuffed the empty purses into his pockets as well.

“Oh,” said Cortessa to Jean as the tumult was winding down, “one thing more. Leone gets a minute alone with you in the corner. For his nose.”

“Bleth you, bothss,” muttered Leone, gingerly poking at the swollen bruises that had spread to his lips.

“And you get to take it, outlander. Lift so much as a finger and I’ll have your friend gutted.” Cortessa patted Jean on the cheek and turned to leave. “Sunrise. Get the fuck out of Lashain. Or our next conversation takes place in Scholar Zodesti’s cellar.”

10

“JEAN,” WHISPERED Locke as soon as the last of Cortessa’s bruisers had left. “Jean! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Jean was huddled where the linens table had been before Cortessa’s men removed it. Leone had been straightforward but enthusiastic, and Jean felt as though he’d been thrown down a rocky hillside. “I’m just … enjoying the floor. It was kind enough to catch me when I fell.”

“Jean, listen. I took some of the money when we got here on the boat.… I hid it. Loosened a floorboard under the bed.”

“I know you did. I unloosened it. Took it back.”

“You eel! I wanted you to have something to get away with when you—”

“I knew you’d try it, Locke. There weren’t many hiding places available within stumbling distance of the bed.”

“Argh!”

“Argh, yourself.” Jean heaved himself over on his back and stared at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. Nothing felt broken, but his ribs and everything attached to them were lined up to file complaints. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll go out and find some blankets for you. I can get a cart. Maybe a boat. Get you out of here somehow, before the dawn. We’ve got a lot of darkness to use.”

“Jean, you’ll be watched until you leave. They’re not going to let you”—Locke coughed several times—“steal anything big. And I’m not going to let you carry me.”

“Not let me carry you? What are you going to fend me off with, sarcasm?”

“You should have had a few thousand solari to work with, Jean. Could have gone anywhere … done anything with it.”

“I did exactly what I wanted to do with it. Now, you go with me. Or I stay here to die with you.”

“There’s no reasoning with you.”

“You’re such a paragon of compromise yourself. Pig-brained gods-damned egotist.”

“This isn’t a fair contest. You have more energy for big words than I do.” Locke laughed. “Gods, look at us. Can you believe they even took our firewood?”

“Very little surprises me these days.” Jean slowly stood up, wincing all the way. “So, inventory. No money. Clothes on our backs. Mostly my back. Some weapons. No firewood. Since I doubt we’ll be allowed to lift anything in the city, looks like I’ll have to do some highway work.”

“How do you plan on halting carriages?”

“I’ll throw you in the road and hope they stop.”

“Criminal genius. Will they be stopping out of heartfelt sympathy?”

“Revulsion, more likely.”

There was a knock at the front door.

Locke and Jean glanced at one another uneasily, and Jean picked up a dagger from the small pile of weapons that had been left to him.

“Maybe they’re back for the bed,” said Locke.

“Why would they bother knocking?”

Jean kept most of his body behind the door as he opened it, and he tucked the dagger just out of sight behind his back.

It wasn’t Cortessa, or a dog-leech, or even the master of the Villa Suvela, as Jean had expected. It was a woman, dressed in a richly embroidered oilcloak streaming with water. She held an alchemical globe in her hands, and by its pale light Jean could see that she was not young.

Jean scanned the curb behind her. No carriage, no litter, no escort of any sort—just misty darkness and the patter of the rain. A local? A fellow guest of the Villa Suvela?

“I, uh … can I be of assistance, madam?”

“I believe we can be of assistance to one another. If I might come in?” She had a soft and lovely voice, with something very close to a Lashani accent. Close, but not exact.

“We are … that is, I’m sorry, but we have some difficulty at the moment. My friend is ill.”

“I know they took your furniture.”

“You do?”

“And I know that you and your friend didn’t have much else to begin with.”

“Madam, you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

“And you seem to have me out in the rain.”

“Um.” Jean shuffled the dagger and made it vanish up his tunic sleeve. “Well, my friend, as I said, is gravely ill. You should be aware—”

“I don’t mind.” She entered the instant Jean’s resolution wavered, and gracefully got out of the way as he closed the door behind her. “After all, poison is only contagious at dinner parties.”

“How the hell … are you a physiker?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you with Cortessa?”

The woman only laughed at that, and threw back the hood of her oilcloak. She was about fifty, the well-tended sort of fifty that only wealth could make possible, and her hair was the color of dry autumn wheat with currents of silver at the temples. She had a squarish face, with disconcertingly wide, dark eyes.

“Here, take this.” She tossed the alchemical globe to Jean, who caught it by reflex. “I know they took your lights, too.”

“Um, thank you, but—”

“My, my.” The woman unclasped her cloak and spun it off her shoulders as she strolled into the inner apartment. Her coat and skirts were richly brocaded with silver threads, and puffs of silver lace from beneath her cuffs half-covered her hands. She glanced at Locke. “Ill would seem to be an understatement.”

“Forgive me for not getting up,” said Locke. “And for not offering you a seat. And not being dressed. And for not … giving a damn.”

“Down to the last dregs of your charm, I see.”

“Down to the last dregs of my everything. Who are you, then?”

The woman shook out her oilcloak, then threw it over Locke like a blanket.

“Th-thank you.”

“It’s difficult to have a serious conversation with someone whose dignity is compromised, Locke.”

The next sound in the room was that of Jean slamming home the bolt on the front door. In an instant he returned to the inner apartment, knife in hand. He tossed the light-globe onto the bed, where Locke prevented it from bouncing onto the floor.

“In faith,” said Jean, “my patience for mysterious shit went out that door with the money and the furniture. So you explain how you know that name, and I won’t have to feel guilty for—”

“I doubt you’d survive what would happen if you acted on that impulse, Jean Tannen. I know your pride wouldn’t. Put your blade away.”

“Like hell!”

“Poor Gentlemen Bastards,” said the woman softly. “So far from home. But always in our sight.”

“No,” said Jean in a disbelieving whisper.

“Oh, gods,” said Locke. He coughed and closed his eyes. “It’s you. I suspected you’d kick our door down sooner or later.”

“You sound disappointed.” The woman frowned. “As though you’d just failed to avoid an awkward social call. Would you really find death preferable to a little conversation, Locke?”

“Little conversations with Bondsmagi never end well.”

“You’re the reason we’re here,” growled Jean. “You and your games in Tal Verrar. Your damned letters!”

“Not entirely,” said the woman.

“You didn’t scare us in the Night Market.” Jean’s grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, and the pain of his recent beating was entirely forgotten. “You don’t fucking scare us now!”

“Then you don’t know us at all.”

“I think I do. And I don’t give a damn about your gods-damned rules!”

He was already in motion, and her back was to him. She had no chance to speak or gesture with her hands; his left arm went around her neck and he slammed the dagger home as hard as he could, directly between her shoulder blades.

11

THE WOMAN’S flesh was warm and solid beneath Jean’s arm one moment, and in the next his blade bit empty air.

Jean had faced many fast opponents in his life, but never one that dissolved instantly at his touch. That wasn’t human speed; it was sorcery.

His chance was gone.

He inhaled sharply, and a cold shudder ran down his back, the old familiar sensation of a misstep made and a blow about to fall. His pulse beat like a drum inside his skull, and he waited for the pain of whatever reprisal was coming—

“Oh yes,” said their visitor mildly from somewhere behind him. “That would have been very clever of me, Jean Tannen. Leaving myself at the mercy of a strong man and his grudges.”

Jean turned slowly, and saw that the woman was now standing about six feet to his left, by the window where the linens table had once been.

“I hold your true name like a caged bird,” she said. “Your hands and eyes will deceive you if you try to harm me.”

“Gods,” said Jean, suddenly overcome by a vast sense of weary frustration. “Must you play with your food?” He sat down on the edge of Locke’s bed and threw his knife at the floor, where it stuck quivering in the wood. “Just kill me like a fucking normal person. I won’t be your toy.”

“What will you be?”

“I’ll stand still and be boring. Get it over with.”

“Why do you keep assuming I’m here to kill you?”

“If not kill, then something worse.”

“I have no intention of murdering either of you. Ever.” The woman folded her hands in front of her chest. “What more proof do you need than the fact that you’re still alive? Could you have stopped me?”

“You’re not gods,” said Locke, weakly. “You might have us at your mercy, but we’ve had one of you at ours before.”

“Is that meant to be some poor cousin to a threat? A reminder that you just happened to be present when the Falconer’s terrible judgment finally got the best of him?”

“How is dear Falconer these days?” asked Locke.

“Well kept. In Karthain.” The woman sighed. “As he was when agents of Camorr brought him home. Witless and comatose.”

“He didn’t seem to react well to pain,” said Jean.

“And you imagine it was your torture that drove him mad?”

“Can’t have been our conversation,” said Locke.

“His real problem is self-inflicted. You see, we can deaden our minds to any suffering of the flesh. But that art requires caution. It’s extremely dangerous to use it in haste.”

“I’m delighted to hear that,” said Locke. “You’re saying that when he tried to escape the pain—”

“His mind jailed itself, in a haze of his own making,” said the woman. “And so we’ve been unable to correct his condition.”

“Marvelous,” said Locke. “I don’t really care how or why it happened, I’m still glad that it did. In fact I encourage the rest of you to use that power in haste.”

“You do many of us an injustice,” said the woman.

“Bitch, if I had the power I’d pull your heart out of your chest and use it for a handball,” said Locke, coughing. “I’d do it to all of you. You people kill anyone you like and fuck with the lives of those that treat you fairly for it.”

“Despising us must be rather like staring into a mirror, then.”

“I despise you,” said Locke, straining to heave himself up, “for Calo and Galdo, and for Bug, and for Nazca and Ezri, and for all the time we … wasted in … Tal Verrar.” Red-faced and shuddering, he fell back to the empty bed.

“You’re murderers and thieves,” said the woman. “You leave a trail of confusion and outrage wherever you go. You’ve brought down at least one government, and prevented the destruction of another for sentimental reasons. Can you really keep a straight face when you damn us for doing as we please?”

“We can,” said Jean. “And I can take the matter of Ezri very personally.”

“Would you even have met the woman if we hadn’t intervened in your affairs? Would you have gone to sea?”

“That’s not for any of us to say—”

“So we own your misfortunes entirely, yet receive no credit for happier accidents.”

“I—”

“We’ve interfered here and there, Jean, but you’re flattering yourself if you imagine that we’ve drawn such an intricate design around you. The woman died in battle, and we had nothing to do with that. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Are you capable of feeling sorry for anything?”

The woman came toward Jean, reaching out with her left hand, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to fling himself away. He rose to his feet and stared fiercely down at her as she set warm fingers gently against his cheek.

“Time is precious,” she said. “I lift my ban upon you, Jean Tannen. This is my real flesh against yours. I might be able to stop you if you try to harm me, but now the matter is much less certain. So what will you do? Must we fight now, or can we talk?”

Jean shook; the urge to take her at her word, to smash her down, was rising hot and red within him. He would have to strike as fast as he ever had in his life, as hard as muscle and sinew could allow. Break her skull, throttle her, bear her down beneath his full weight, and pray to the gods he did enough damage to postpone whatever word or gesture she would utter in return.

They stood there for a long, tense moment, perfectly still, with her dark eyes meeting his unblinkingly. Then his right hand darted up and closed around her left wrist, savagely tight. He could feel thin bones under thin skin, and he knew that one good sharp twist—

The woman flinched. Real fear shone out from the depths of those eyes, the briefest flash before her vast self-possession rolled in again like resurging waters to drown her human weakness. But it had been there, genuine as the flesh beneath his fingers. Jean loosened his grip, closed his eyes, and exhaled slowly.

“I’ll be damned,” he said. “I don’t think you’re lying.”

“This is very important,” she whispered.

Jean kept his right hand where it was, and reached up with his left to push back the silver lace that sprouted from her jacket cuff. Black rings were tattooed around her wrist, precise lines on pale skin.

“Five rings,” said Locke. “All I ever heard was that more is better. Just how many can one of you people have, anyway?”

“This many,” said the woman with a hint of a smirk.

Jean released her arm and took a step back. She held her left hand up beside her head and stroked the tattoos gently with the fingers of her other hand. The blackness became silver, rippling silver, as though she wore bracelets of liquid moonlight.

As he stared at the eerie glow, Jean felt a cold itch behind his eyes, and a hard pressure against the fingertips of his right hand. Reeling, he saw images flash in his mind—fold upon fold of pale silk, needles punching in and out of delicate lace, the rough edge of a cloth unraveling into threads—the pressure on his fingers was an actual needle, moving up and down, in an endless steady dance across the cloth.…

“Oh,” he muttered, putting a hand to his forehead as the sensations receded. “What the hell was that?”

“Me,” said the woman. “In a manner of speaking. Have you ever recalled someone by the scent of their tobacco, or a perfume, or the feel of their skin? Deep memories without words?”

“Yeah,” said Locke, massaging his temples. Jean guessed that he’d somehow shared the brief vision.

“In my society, we speak mind to mind. We … announce ourselves using such impressions. We construct images of certain memories or passions. We call them sigils.” She hitched her laced sleeve back up over her wrist, where the black rings had entirely lost their ghostly gleam, and smiled. “Now that I’ve shared mine with you, you’re less likely to jump out of your skin if I ever need to speak mind to mind, rather than voice to ear.”

“What the hell are you?” said Jean.

“There are four of us,” said the woman. “In an ideal world, the wisest and most powerful of the fifth-circles. If nothing else, we do get to live in the biggest houses.”

“You rule the Bondsmagi,” said Locke, incredulously.

“Rule is too strong a term. We do occasionally manage to avert total chaos.”

“You have a name?”

“Patience.”

“What, you have some rule against telling us now?”

“No, it’s what I’m called. Patience.”

“No shit? Your peers must think pretty highly of you.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, any more than a girl named Violet needs to be purple. It’s a title. Archedama Patience. So, have we decided that nobody’s going to be murdering anyone here?”

“I suppose that depends on what you want to talk about,” said Jean.

“The pair of you,” said Patience. “I’ve been minding your business for some time now. Starting with the fragments I could pull out of the Falconer’s memories. Our agents retrieved his possessions from Camorr after he was … crippled. Among them a knife formerly belonging to one of the Anatolius sisters.”

“A knife with my blood on it,” said Jean.

“From that we had your trail easily enough.”

“And from that you fucked up our lives.”

“I need you to understand,” said Patience, “just how little you understand. I saved your lives in Tal Verrar.”

“Funny, I don’t recall seeing you there,” said Jean.

“The Falconer has friends,” said Patience. “Cohorts, followers, tools. For all of his flaws he was very popular. You saw their parlor tricks in the Night Market, but that was all I permitted. Without my intervention, they would have killed you.”

“You can call that mess ‘parlor tricks,’ ” said Jean. “That interference in Tal Verrar still made a hell of a problem for us.”

“Better than death, surely,” said Patience. “And kinder by far than I might have been, given the circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

“The Falconer was arrogant, vicious, misguided. He was acting in obedience to a contract, which we consider a sacred obligation, but I won’t deny that he amplified the brutality of the affair beyond what was called for.”

“He was going to help turn hundreds of people into empty shells. Into gods-damned furniture. That wasn’t brutal enough?” said Jean.

“They were part of the contract. You and your friends were not.”

“Well, if this is some sort of apology, go to hell,” said Locke, coughing. “I don’t care what a humane old witch you think you are, and I don’t care how or why the Falconer went wrong in the head. If I’d had more time I would have used every second of it to bleed him. All he got was the thinnest shred of what he really deserved.”

“That’s more true than you know, Locke. Oh, so much truer than you know.” Patience folded her hands together and sighed. “And no one comprehends it quite as well as I do. After all, the Falconer is my son.”

INTERLUDE

THE UNDROWNED GIRL

1

THE WORLD BROADENED for Locke Lamora in the summer of the seventy-seventh Year of Sendovani, the summer after Beth vanished, the summer he was sold out of the Thiefmaker’s care and into that of Father Chains, the famous Eyeless Priest at the Temple of Perelandro. Suddenly his old worries and pains were gone, though they were replaced by a fresh set of bafflements on a daily basis.

“And what if a priest or priestess of another order should walk by?” asked Chains, adjusting the hooded white robe the Sanza twins had just thrown over Locke’s head.

“I make the sign of our, um, joined service.” Locke enfolded his left hand within his right and bowed his head until it nearly touched his thumbs. “And I don’t speak unless spoken to.”

“Good. And if you cross paths with an initiate of another order?”

“I give the blessing for troubles to stay behind them.” Locke held out his right hand, palm up, and swept it up as though he was pushing something over his left shoulder.

“And?”

“Um, I greet if greeted … and say nothing otherwise?”

“What if you meet an initiate of Perelandro?”

“Always greet?”

“You missed something.”

“Um. Oh yeah. Sign of joined service. Always greet. Speak, ah, cordially with initiates and shut my mouth for anyone, um, higher.”

“What about the alternate signals for when it’s raining on a Penance Day?” said one of the Sanza twins.

“Um …” Locke coughed nervously into his hands. “I don’t … I’m not sure …”

“There is no alternate signal for when it’s raining on a Penance Day. Or any other day,” muttered Chains. “Well, now you look the part. And I think we can trust you with exterior ritual. Not bad for four days of learning. Most initiates get a few months before they’re trusted to count above ten without taking their shoes off.”

Chains stood and adjusted his own white robe. He and his boys were in the sanctuary of the Temple of Perelandro, a dank cave of a room that proclaimed not only the humility of Perelandro’s followers but their apparent indifference to the smell of mildew.

“Now then,” said Chains, “twit dexter and twit sinister—fetch my namesakes.”

Calo and Galdo scrambled to the wall where their master’s purely ceremonial fetters lay, joined to a huge iron bolt in the stone. They raced one another to drag the chains across the floor and snap the manacles on the big man.

“Aha,” said the first to finish, “you’re slower than an underwater fart!”

“Funny,” said the second. “Hey, what’s that on your chin?”

“Huh?”

“Looks like a fist!”

In an instant the space in front of Locke was filled with a mad whirl of Sanza limbs, and for the hundredth time in his few days as Chains’ ward, Locke lost track of which brother was which. The twins giggled madly as they wrestled with one another, then howled in unison as Chains reached out with calm precision and caught them each by an ear.

“You two savants,” he said, “can go put your own robes on, and carry the kettle out after Locke and I take our places.”

“You said we weren’t going to sit the steps today!” said one of the brothers.

“You’re not. I’m just not in the mood to carry the kettle. After you bring it out, you can go downstairs and mind your chores.”

“Chores?”

“Remember those customs papers I said I was forging up last night? They weren’t customs papers, they were arithmetic problems. A couple pages for each of you. There’s charcoal, ink, and parchment in the kitchen. Show your work.”

“Awwww​wwwww​wwwwwww.” The sound of simultaneously disappointed Sanza brothers was curiously tuneful. Locke had already heard the twins practicing their singing voices, which were quite good, and by accident or design they often harmonized.

“Now, get the door, Locke.” Chains tied on the last and most important part of his costume: the blindfold precisely adjusted to suggest his total helplessness while still allowing him to avoid tripping over the hem of his robe. “The sun is up, and all that money out there won’t steal itself.”

Locke worked the mechanism concealed behind one of the room’s moldering tapestries, and there was a faint rumble within the temple walls. A vertical line of burning gold appeared on the eastern wall as the doors creaked apart, and the sanctuary was quickly flooded with warm morning light. Chains held out a hand, and Locke ran over to take it.

“Ready?”

“If you say I am,” whispered Locke.

Hand in hand, the imaginary Eyeless Priest and his newest imaginary initiate walked out of their imaginary stone prison, into a morning heat so fierce that Locke could smell it baking up from the city’s stones and taste it on his tongue.

For the first of a thousand times, they went out together to rob passersby, as surely as if they were muggers, armed with nothing more than a few words and an empty copper kettle.

2

IN HIS first few months with Father Chains, Locke began to unlearn the city of Camorr he’d once known and discover something entirely different in its place. As a Shades’ Hill boy, he’d known daylight in flashes, exploring the upper world and then running back to the graveyard’s familiar darkness like a diver surfacing before his breath ran out. The Hill was full of dangers, but they were known dangers, while the city above was full of infinite mysteries.

Now the sun, which had once seemed to him like a great eye burning down in judgment, did nothing but make his head warm as he sat the temple steps in his little white robe. A happier boy might have been bored by the long hours of begging, but Locke had learned patience in the surest way possible—by hiding for his own survival. Spending half a night hugging the same shadow was nothing extraordinary to him, and he luxuriated in the idea of lazing around while people actually brought money to him.

He studied the rhythms of daily life in the Temple District. When nobody was near enough to eavesdrop, Chains would quietly answer Locke’s questions, and slowly the great mass of Camorri revealed themselves to him. What had once been a sea of mystifying details resolved bit by bit until Locke could identify the priests of the twelve orders, sort the very rich from the merely wealthy, and make a dozen other useful distinctions.

It still made his heart jump to see a patrol of yellowjackets walking past the temple steps, but their polite indifference was a pure delight. Some of them even saluted. It amazed Locke that the thin cotton robe he wore could provide him with such armor against a power that had previously seemed so arbitrary and absolute.

Constables. Saluting him! Gods above.

Inside the temple, down in the secret burrow that lay beneath its façade of poverty, further transmutations were under way. Locke ate well for the first time ever, sampling all the cuisines of Camorr under Chains’ enthusiastic direction. Although he started as an inept hindrance to the more experienced Sanzas, he quickly learned how to shake weevils out of flour, how to slice meats, and how to tell a filleting knife from an eel-fork.

“Bless us all,” said Chains one night, patting Locke on the belly. “You’re not the ragged little corpse that came to us all those weeks ago. Food and sunlight have worked an act of necromancy. You’re still small, but now you look like you could stand up to a moderate breeze.”

“Excellent,” said one of the Sanzas. “Soon he’ll be fat, and we can butcher him like all the others for a Penance Day roast.”

“What my brother means to say,” said the other twin, “is that all the others died of purely natural causes, and you have nothing to fear from us. Now have some more bread.”

Life in the care of Father Chains offered Locke more comfort than Shades’ Hill ever had. He had plenty to eat, new clothes, and a cot of his own to sleep on. Nothing more dangerous than the attempted pranks of the Sanza twins menaced him each night. Yet strangely enough Locke would never have called this new life easier than the one he’d left.

Within days of his arrival he’d been trained as an “initiate of Perelandro,” and the lessons only grew more intense from there. Chains was nothing like the Thiefmaker—he didn’t allow Calo and Galdo to actually terrorize Locke, and he didn’t punish failure by pulling out a butcher’s cleaver. But Chains could be disappointed. Oh, yes. On the steps of the temple he could marshal his mysterious powers to sway passersby, to plead logically or sermonize furiously until they parted with hard-earned coins, and in his tutelage he focused those same powers on Locke until it seemed that Chains’ disappointment was a rebuke worse than a beating.

It was a strange new set of affairs, to be sure. Locke feared what Chains might do if provoked (the leather pouch Locke was forced to wear around his neck, with the shark’s tooth inside, was an inescapable reminder), but he didn’t actually fear Chains himself. The big bearded man seemed so genuinely pleased when Locke got his lessons right, seemed to give off waves of approval that warmed like sunlight. With his two extremes of mood, sharp disappointment and bright satisfaction, Chains drove all of his boys on through their constant tests.

There were the obvious matters of Locke’s daily training—he learned to cook, to dress, to keep himself reasonably clean. He learned more about the order of Perelandro and his fictional place within it. He learned about the meanings of flags on carriages and coats of arms on guards’ tabards, about the history of the Temple District, about its landmarks.

Most difficult of all, at first, he learned to read and write. Two hours a day were spent at this, before and after sitting the steps. He began with fragmentary knowledge of the thirty letters of the Therin alphabet, and he could do simple sums when he had counters in front of him, like coins. But Chains had him reciting and scribing his letters until they danced in his dreams, and from there he moved to puzzling out small words, then bigger ones, then full sentences.

Chains began leaving written instructions for him each morning, and Locke wasn’t allowed to break his fast until he’d deciphered them. Around the time short paragraphs ceased to be his match in a battle of wits, Locke found himself up against arithmetic with slates and chalk. Arriving at the answers in his head was no longer sufficient.

“Twenty-six less twelve,” said Chains one night in early autumn. It was an unusually pleasant time in Camorr, with warm days and mild nights that neither drenched nor scalded the city. Chains was absorbed in a game of Catch-the-Duke against Galdo, alternately moving his pieces and giving mathematical problems to Locke. The three of them sat at the kitchen table, beneath the golden light of Chains’ fabulous alchemical chandelier, while Calo sat on a nearby counter plucking at a sad little instrument called a road-man’s harp.

“Um …” Locke scribbled on his slate, being careful to show his work properly. “Fourteen.”

“Well done,” said Chains. “Add twenty-one and thirteen.”

“Now go forth,” said Galdo, pushing one of his pieces along the squares of the game board. “Go forth and die for King Galdo.”

“Sooner rather than later,” said Chains, countering the move immediately.

“Since you two are at war,” said Calo, “how do you like this?”

He began to pluck a tune on his simplified harp, and in a soft, high voice he sang:

“From fair old Camorr to far Godsgate Hill,

Three thousand bold men marched to war.

A full hundred score are lying there still,

In red soil they claimed for Camorr.”

Galdo cleared his throat as he fiddled with his pieces on the board, and when his twin continued he joined in. Barely a heartbeat passed before the Sanzas found their eerie, note-perfect harmony:

“From fair old Camorr to far Godsgate Hill,

Went a duke who would not be a slave.

His Grace in his grave is lying there still,

In red soil he claimed for the brave.

“From fair old Camorr to far Godsgate Hill,

Is a hundred hard leagues overland.

But our host slain of old is lying there still,

In soil made red by their stand!”

“Commendable playing,” muttered Chains, “wasted on a nothing of a song shat out by soft-handed fops to justify an old man’s folly.”

“Everyone sings it in the taverns,” said Calo.

“They’re supposed to. It’s artless doggerel meant to dress up the stink of a pointless slaughter. But I was briefly a part of those three thousand men, and nearly everyone I knew in those days is lying there still. Kindly sing something more cheerful.”

Calo bit the inside of his cheek, retuned his harp, and then began again:

“Said the reeve to the maid who was fresh to the farm

‘Let me show you the beasts of the yard!’

Here’s a cow that gives milk, and a pig that’s for ham

Here’s a cur and a goat and a lamb;

Here’s a horse tall and proud, and a well-trained old hawk,

But the thing you should see is this excellent cock!”

“Where could you possibly have learned that?” shouted Chains. Calo broke up in a fit of giggles, but Galdo picked up the song with a deadpan expression on his face:

“Oh, some cocks rise early and some cocks stand tall,

But the cock now in question works hardest of all!

And they say hard’s a virtue, in a cock’s line of work

So what say you, lovely, will you give it a—”

There was the unmistakable echoing slam of the burrow’s secret entrance, in the Elderglass-lined tunnel beside the kitchen, being thrown shut by someone who didn’t care that they were overheard. Chains rolled to his feet. Calo and Galdo ran behind him, putting themselves in easy reach of the kitchen’s knives. Locke stood up on his chair, arithmetic slate held up like a shield.

The instant he saw who it was coming around the corner, the slate slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor.

“My dear,” cried Chains, “you’ve come back to us early!”

She was, if anything, taller even than Locke remembered, and her hair was well-dyed a uniform shade of light brown. But it was her. It was undeniably Beth.

3

“YOU CAN’T be here,” said Locke. “You’re dead!”

“I certainly can be here. I live here.” Beth dropped the brown leather bag she was carrying and unbound her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders. “Who might you be?”

“I … um … you don’t know?”

“Should I?”

Locke’s astonishment merged with a sour disappointment. While the gears of his mind turned furiously to conjure a reply, she studied him. Her eyes widened.

“Oh, gods. The Lamora boy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Chains.

“Bought him as well, have you?”

“I’ve paid more for some of my lunches, but yes, I’ve taken him from your old master.” Chains ruffled Beth’s hair with fatherly affection, and she kissed the back of his hand.

“But you were dead,” insisted Locke. “They said you’d drowned!”

“Yeah,” she said, mildly.

“But why?”

“Our Sabetha has a complicated past,” said Chains. “When I took her out of Shades’ Hill, I arranged a bit of theater to cover the trail.”

Beth. Sabetha. They’d mentioned Sabetha at least a dozen times since he’d come to live here. Locke suddenly felt like an idiot for not connecting the two names before … but then, he’d thought she was dead, hadn’t he? Beneath his astonishment, his embarrassment, his frustration, a warmth was rising in the pit of his stomach. Beth was alive … and she lived here!

“Well, where have … where did you go?” Locke asked.

“For training,” said Sabetha.

“And how was it?” asked Chains.

“Mistress Sibella said that I wasn’t as vulgar and clumsy as most of the Camorri she teaches.”

“So you … are, um—” said Locke.

“High praise, coming from that gilded prune,” said Chains, ignoring Locke. “Let’s see if she was on the mark. Galdo, take Sabetha’s side for a four-step. Complar entant.”

“Must I?”

“Good question. Must I continue feeding you?”

Galdo hurried out from behind Chains and gave Sabetha a bow so exaggerated his nose nearly brushed the floor. “Enchanted, demoiselle. May I beg the pleasure of a dance? My patron won’t feed me anymore if I don’t pretend to enjoy this crap.”

“What a bold little monkey you are,” said the girl. The two of them moved into the widest clear area of the room, between the table and the counters.

“Calo,” said Chains, “if you would.”

“Yes, yes, I have it.” Calo fiddled with his harp for a moment before he began to pluck out a fast, rhythmic tune, more complex than the ditties he’d been playing before.

Galdo and Sabetha moved in unison, slowly at first but gaining confidence and speed as the tune went on. Locke watched, baffled but fascinated, as they danced in a manner that was more controlled than anything he’d ever seen in a tavern or a back alley. The key to the dance seemed to be that they would strike the ground with their heels forcefully, four taps between each major movement of the arms. They joined hands, twirled, unjoined, switched places, and all the while kept up a near-perfect rhythm with their feet.

“It’s popular with the swells,” said Chains, and Locke realized he was speaking for his benefit. “All the dancers form a circle, and the dancing master calls out partners. The chosen couple dances in the main, in the center of everything, and if they screw it up, well … penalties. Teasing. Romantic frustration, I would imagine.”

Locke was only half-listening, his eyes and thoughts lost in the dance. In Galdo he recognized the nervous quickness of a fellow orphan, the grace born of need that separated the living in Shades’ Hill from the likes of No-Teeth. Yet Sabetha had that and something more; not just speed but fluidity. Her knees and elbows seemed to vanish as she danced, and to Locke’s eyes she became all curves, whirls, effortless circles. Her cheeks turned red with exertion, and the golden glow of the chandelier lightened her brown hair until Locke, hypnotized, could almost imagine it red as well.…

Chains clapped three times, ending the dance if not Locke’s spell. If Sabetha knew she was being stared at, she was either too polite or too disdainful to stare back.

“I can see that’s a fountain of gold I didn’t shit out in vain,” said Chains. “Well done, girl. Even having Galdo for a partner didn’t seem to hold you back.”

“Does it ever?” Sabetha smiled, still acting as though Locke wasn’t in the room, and drifted back toward the table where Galdo and Chains had been playing their game. She glanced over the board for a few seconds, then said, “You’re doomed, Sanza.”

“In a donkey’s dick I am!”

“Actually, I’ve got him in three moves,” said Chains, settling back down into his chair with a smile. “But I was going to spin it out for a while longer.”

While Galdo fretted over his position on the board, he and Calo and Sabetha fell into an animated conversation with Chains on subjects of which Locke was ignorant—dances, noble customs, people he’d never heard of, cities that were only names to him. Chains grew more and more boisterous until, after a few minutes, he gestured to Calo.

“Fetch us down something sweet,” he said. “We’ll have a toast to Sabetha’s return.”

“Lashani Black Sherry? I’ve always wanted to try it.” Calo opened a cabinet and carefully withdrew a greenish glass bottle that was full of something ink-dark. “Gods, it looks so disgusting!”

“Spoken like the midwife who delivered the pair of you,” said Chains. “Bring glasses for all of us, and for the toasting.”

The four children gathered around the table while Chains arranged the glasses and opened the bottle. Locke strategically placed the Sanzas between himself and Sabetha, giving him a better angle to continue staring at her. Chains then filled a glass to the brim with the sherry, which rippled black and gold in the chandelier light.

“This glass for the patron and protector, the Crooked Warden, our Father of Necessary Pretexts.” Chains carefully pushed the glass aside from the others. “Tonight he gives us the return of our friend, his servant Sabetha.” Chains raised his left hand to his lips and blew into his palm. “My words. My breath. These things bind my promise. A hundred gold pieces, duly stolen from honest men and women, to be cast into the sea in the dark of the Orphan’s Moon. We are grateful for Sabetha’s safety.”

The Orphan’s Moon, Locke knew, came once a year, in late winter, when the world’s largest two moons were in their dark phases together. At the Midsummer-mark, commoners who knew their dates of birth legally turned a year older. The Orphan’s Moon meant the same thing for those, like him, whose precise ages were mysteries.

Now Chains filled glasses and passed them out. Locke was surprised to see that while the other children received quarter-glasses of the alarmingly dark sherry, his own was mostly full. Chains grinned at him and raised his glass.

“Deep pockets poorly guarded,” he said.

“Watchmen asleep at their posts,” said Sabetha.

“The city to nurture us and the night to hide us,” said Calo.

“Friends to help spend the loot!” As soon as Galdo finished the toast Locke had already heard many times since coming to the Gentlemen Bastards, five glasses went up to five sets of lips. Locke kept both hands on his for fear of spilling it.

The black sherry hit Locke’s throat with a blast of sweet flavors—cream, honey, raspberries, and many others he had no hope of naming. Warm prickly vapors seemed to slide up into his nose and waft behind his eyes, until it felt like he was being tickled from inside his own skull by dozens of feathers at once. Knowing how ill-mannered it would be to make a mess of a solemn toast, he bent every ounce of his will to gulping the full glass down.

“Waugh,” he said as soon as he was finished. It was a cross between a polite cough and the last gasp of a dying bird. He pounded on his chest. “Waugh, waugh, waugggggh!”

“Concur,” said Galdo in a harsh whisper. “Love it.”

“All the outward virtues of liquid shit,” said Chains, musing on his empty glass, “and a taste like pure joy pissed out by happy angels. Mind you, it doesn’t signify in the world at large. Don’t drink anything else that looks like this unless you want a swift release from mortal concerns.”

“I wonder,” said Locke, “don’t they ever make wine-colored wine in other cities?” He stared down into his own glass, which, like the fingers holding it, was beginning to blur around the edges.

“Some things are much more interesting when alchemists get their hands on them,” said Chains. “Your head, for example. Black sherry is renowned for kicking like a mule.”

“Yesh, renowned,” said Locke, grinning stupidly. His belly was warm, his head seemed not to weigh an ounce, and his intentions were disconnected from his actual movements by a heartbeat interval. He was aware that, if not already drunk, he was headed for it like a dart thrown at a wall.

“Now, Locke,” said Chains, his voice seeming to come from a distance, “I’ve a few things to discuss with these three. Perhaps you’d like to get to bed early tonight.”

A sharp pang pierced the bubble of warm contentment that had all but swallowed him. Go to bed early? Leave the company of Sabetha, whose blurry loveliness he was fixating on, barely managing to grudge himself the time required to blink every now and then?

“Um,” he said. “Wha?”

“It wasn’t a request, Locke,” said Chains gently. “You’ve a busy evening tomorrow, I can assure you, and you need all the sleep you can get.”

“Tomorrow?”

“You’ll see.” Chains rose, moved around the table, and carefully took Locke’s empty glass from his hand. Locke looked down in surprise, having forgotten that he’d been holding it. “Off you go.”

A tiny part of Locke’s mind, the cold wariness that had been his sentry in Shades’ Hill, realized Chains had long planned to send him, happily befuddled, to an early rest. Even through his wine-induced haze, that stung. He’d been feeling more and more at home, but no sooner had Sabetha walked through the door than it was Streets and Windows all over again, and he was packed off to some dark corner without the privileges enjoyed by the older children.

“I,” he muttered, taking his eyes off Sabetha for the first time in several minutes, but directing his voice at her. “I will. But … I’m g-glad you’re here.” He felt the urge to say something else, something weighty and witty that would turn that beautiful head of hers and fix her attention to him, a mirror of his own. But even drunk he knew he was more likely to pull rubies out of his ass than he was to speak as older people spoke, with words that were somehow careful and powerful and right. “Sabetha,” he half mumbled.

“Thanks,” she said, looking at the table.

“I mean, I knew … you knew I meant you, Sabetha … sorry. I just … I’m glad you’re not drowned, you know.”

More than anything, at that moment, he just wanted to hear her say his name, call him anything but “him” or “the Lamora Boy.” Acknowledge his existence … their partnership in Chains’ gang … gods, he would exile himself to bed early every night if he could just hear his name come out from between those thin lips of hers.

“Good night,” she said.

4

LOCKE WOKE the next day feeling as though the contents of his skull had been popped out and replaced upside-down.

“Here,” said one of the Sanzas, who happened to be sitting next to Locke’s cot with a book on his lap. The Sanza (Locke, muddled as he was, could not quite identify which one) passed over a wooden cup of water. It was lukewarm but clean, and Locke gulped it down without delicacy, marveling at how parched he felt.

“What time is it?” he croaked when he was finished.

“Must be past noon.”

“Noon? But … my chores …”

“No real work today.” The Sanza stretched and yawned. “No arithmetic. No Catch-the-Duke. No languages. No dancing.”

“No sitting the steps,” yelled the other Sanza from the next room. “No swordplay. No knots and ropes. No coins.”

“No music,” said the Sanza with the book. “No manners. No history. No bloody heraldry.”

“What are we doing, then?”

“Calo and I are to make sure you can stand up straight,” said the Sanza with the book. “Nail you to a plank if we have to.”

“And when that’s done, you’re to do all the dishes.”

“Sabetha …” Locke rubbed his eyes and rolled off his cot. “She’s really one of us?”

“Course she is,” said the Sanza with the book.

“Is she … here right now?”

“Nah. Out with Chains. Looking into things for tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“Dunno. All’s we know is the afternoon; and the afternoon, far as you’re concerned, is dishes.”

5

THOUGH ENERGETIC enough when set a task, Calo and Galdo were virtuosos of laziness when left to their own devices. Between subtle interference and overt clowning, they managed to stretch the half hour Locke would ordinarily have needed to tend the dishes into nearly three hours. By the time the secret door to the temple above banged shut behind the returning Father Chains, Locke’s fingers were wrinkled and bleached from the alchemical polish he’d been using on the silver.

“Ah,” said Chains. “Good, good. You look more or less among the living. Feeling spry?”

“I suppose,” said Locke.

“We’ve a job tonight. Housebreaking. Windows work, and most of it on your little shoulders.” Chains patted his broad belly and smirked. “I parted ways with climbing and scampering some time ago.”

“Windows work?” said Locke, the drudgery of his long afternoon in the kitchen instantly forgotten. “I … I’d love to. But I thought you, um, didn’t do that sort of thing.”

“For its own sake, not usually. But I need to find some things out about you, Locke.”

“Oh, good.” Locke felt his excitement cool slightly. “Another test. When do they stop?”

“When you’re buried, my boy.” Chains knelt and gave Locke a friendly squeeze on the back of his neck. “When you’re under the dirt and colder than a fish’s tits. That’s when it stops. Now listen.

“I’ve got a tip from a friend at Meraggio’s.” Chains bustled about the kitchen, snatching up chalk and one of the slates the children used for their lessons. He sketched on it rapidly. “Seems a certain olive merchant is looking to marry his useless son to a noble wife. To sweeten the deal sufficiently, he’ll need to put his family splendids back into circulation.”

“What’s that mean?” said Locke.

“Means he needs to sell his jewels and things,” said Calo.

“Sharp lad. About an hour ago, the merchant’s man left the countinghouse with a lot of nice old things in a bag. He’s staying at a townhouse in the Razona; just him and two guards. The old man and a bigger retinue are coming in from his estate tomorrow. So tonight we have a bit of an opportunity.”

“Why us?” Locke’s excitement was tempered with genuine puzzlement. “If he’s only got two guards, anyone who wanted to could go in there with a gang.”

“Never in life,” said Chains, chuckling. “Barsavi won’t have it. The Razona’s a quiet district where doors don’t get kicked in. That’s the Peace. Anybody breaks it, they’re liable to have their precious bits cut off and stitched to their eyeballs. So instead of sending in brutes through the door, we send a quiet type through the window.”

Chains turned the slate toward Calo, Galdo, and Locke. The top half was taken up by a rough diagram of houses and their surrounding streets and alleys. Beneath that was a sketch of a necklace, with large ovoid shapes dangling from a thick central collar. Chains tapped one of his fingers against this sketch.

“One piece,” he said. “That’s all we’re after. One from twenty or so, and they won’t have time to put up much of a fuss about it. A gold necklace with nine hanging emeralds. Pop out the stones, send them nine different directions, and melt down the gold. Untraceable profit.”

“How do we do it?” asked Locke.

“Well, that’s half the fun.” Chains scratched at his chin. “You said yourself, it’s a test. You’ll be working with Sabetha, since she’s had more experience at this sort of thing. Calo and Galdo will be your top-eyes; that is, watching the area to cover your ass. I’ll be on the ground nearby, but I won’t be directly involved. My crooked little wonders get to sort the rest out for themselves.”

Locke’s heart raced. Test or not, a chance to work together with Sabetha on something exciting? The gods loved him!

“Where is she now?”

“Here.” Chains pointed to a square sketched on the upper portion of the slate. “On the Via Selaine. Four-story house with a rooftop garden. That’s our target. She’ll be nearby until dark; at first moonrise she’ll meet you in this alley.” Chains ran his finger up and down a set of chalk lines, blurring them. “Once the Sanzas are in position to keep an eye on the street, the rest is up to you and Sabetha.”

“That’s it, then?”

“That’s it. And remember, I want one emerald necklace. I don’t need two, or the deed to the townhouse, or the bloody crown jewels of Camorr. Tonight’s definitely a night for you to underachieve.”

6

FULL CAMORRI night at last, after a twilight spent nervously fidgeting in an alley, waiting for Sabetha to make contact. Now Locke was with her, up on the roof of the house next door to their target, crouched among the old wooden frames and empty pots of a long-untended garden. It was just past second moonrise, and the wide-open sky was on fire with stars, ten thousand flickering white eyes staring down at Locke, as though eager to see him get to work.

Three feet away, a low dark shape against the stone parapet, lay Sabetha. Her only words to him at their meeting had been “Shut up, keep close, and stay quiet.” He’d done that, following her up the alley wall of the house they now sat upon, using windowsills and deep decorative carvings to haul himself up with little effort. Since then his urge to speak with her had been overruled by his terror of annoying her, and so he fancied that he’d done a fine imitation of a corpse from the moment they’d arrived. When she finally did speak, her soft voice actually startled him.

“I think they’ve gone to sleep at last.”

“Wh-what? Who?”

“The three old women who live here.” Sabetha set her head against the stones of the rooftop and listened for several moments. “They sleep on the second floor, but it never hurts to be careful.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“Never worked a roof before. Isn’t that the case, boy?” Sabetha moved slightly, and so quietly that Locke couldn’t hear a single ruffle of her dark tunic and trousers. She peeked over the parapet for no more than the span of a few heartbeats, then crouched back down.

“I, um, no. Not like this.”

“Well, think you can confine yourself to stealing just what we’ve been sent for? Or should I have the yellowjackets rouse out bucket-lines in case you burn the Razona down?”

“I—I’ll do whatever you say. I’ll be careful.”

“Whatever I say?” Her face was in silvery-gray shadow, but her eyes caught the starlight as she turned to him, so he could see them clearly. “You mean it?”

“Oh, yes.” Locke nodded several times. “On my heart. Come hell or Eldren-fire.”

“Good. You might not fuck this up, then.” She gestured toward the parapet. “Move slow. Raise up just high enough to get your eyes over the edge. Take a good look.”

Locke peeked out over the southern parapet of the townhouse; their target house with its thick rooftop garden was to his right, and four stories below him was a clean stretch of cobbled road washed with moonlight. The Razona seemed a gentle, quiet place—no drunks sprawled in gutters, no tavern doors banging constantly open and closed, no yellowjackets moving in squads with truncheons drawn and shields out. Dozens of alchemical globes burned at street level, behind windows and above doors, like bunches of fiery fruit. Only the alleys and rooftops seemed wrapped in anything like real darkness.

“You see Calo and Galdo?” asked Sabetha.

“No.”

“Good. That means they’re where they should be. If something goes wrong—if a squad of yellowjackets shows up in the street, let’s say—those two will start hollering ‘The master wants more wine, the master wants more wine.’ ”

“What then?”

“They run, and we do likewise.” Sabetha crawled over beside him, and Locke felt his breath catch in his throat. Her next words were spoken into his ear. “First rule of roof work is, know how you’re getting down. Do you?”

“Um, same way we came?”

“Too slow. Too risky. Climbing down at speed is more dangerous than going up, especially at night.” She pointed to a thin gray line in the middle of the roof, a line that Locke’s eyes followed to a mess of pots and broken trellises. “I anchored that line when I came up. Demisilk, should get us down to five feet off the ground. If we need to run, throw it over the edge, slide down as fast as you can, and leave it behind. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Now, look across here.” She nudged his head up above the parapet again, and pointed at an alley across the street. “That’s the escape route. You’ll have to cross the road, but one of the Sanzas should be in cover there watching for you. Chains is another block or two past that. If it all goes to hell, find a Sanza. Understand?”

“Yeah. But what if we don’t get caught?”

“Same plan, boy. We just do it slower. Ready?”

“Sure. Whenever you say. How do we, um, get across?”

“Fire plank.” Sabetha crawled toward the parapet facing their target house, beckoning for him to follow. She gently tapped a long wooden board that rested snug against the stone wall. “In case the place burns up beneath you, you swing it across to the neighbors and hope they like you.”

Working quietly and slowly, the two children lifted the fifteen-foot plank to the edge of the parapet and swiveled it out over the alley, Sabetha guiding it while Locke put his full weight on the inner edge. He felt uneasily like a catapult stone about to fly if the other end should fall, but after a few chancy moments Sabetha had the far end of the plank settled on the parapet of their target house. She hopped gracefully atop it, then got down on her hands and knees.

“One at a time,” she whispered. “Stay low and don’t hurry.”

Across she went, while Locke’s heart raced with the familiar excitement of a crime about to get under way. The farm-field smell of the Hangman’s Wind filled the air, and a warm breeze caught at Locke’s hair. To the northeast loomed the impossibly tall shadows of the Five Towers, with their crowns of silver and gold lanterns, warm artificial constellations mingling with the cold and real stars.

Now came Locke’s turn. The board would have been unnervingly narrow for an adult, but someone Locke’s size could turn around on it without bothering to stand up. He went over with ease, rolled off the edge of the plank, and crouched amid the wet smells of a living garden. Dark boughs of leaves rustled above him, and he almost jumped when Sabetha reached out of the shadows and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“No noise,” she whispered. “I’ll go in after the necklace. You watch the roof. Make sure the plank stays where we need it.”

“Wh-what if something happens?”

“Pound the floor three times. If something happens that you can see before I do, won’t be anything for us to do but flee anyway. Don’t ever use my name if you call out.”

“I won’t. Good … um, good luck—”

But she was already gone, and a moment later he heard a faint set of clicks. Somewhere in the garden, Sabetha was picking a lock. A moment later she had it, and the hinges of a door creaked ever so faintly.

Locke stood guard at the plank for many long minutes, constantly glancing around, although he admitted to himself that a dozen grown men could have been hiding in the darkness of the vines and leaves around him. Occasionally he popped above the parapet and glanced back across the narrow bridge. The other rooftop remained reassuringly empty.

Locke was just settling back down from his fourth or fifth peek across the way when he heard a commotion beneath his feet. He knelt down and placed one ear against the warm stone; it was a murmur. One person talking, then another. A rising chorus of adult voices. Then the shouting began.

“Oh, shit,” Locke whispered.

There was a series of thumps from the direction Sabetha had gone, then the loud bang of a door being thrown open. She flew out of the shadows at him, grabbed him by the arms, and heaved him onto the plank.

“Go, go, go,” she said, breathlessly. “Fast as you can.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just go, gods damn it! I’ll steady the plank.”

Locke scuttled across the fifteen feet to safety as fast as he’d ever moved in his life, so fast that he tumbled off the parapet on arrival and tucked into an ungainly roll to avoid landing teeth-first. He popped up, head spinning, and whirled back toward Sabetha.

“Come on,” he cried. “Come on!”

“The rope,” she hissed. “Get down the fucking rope!”

“I’ll s-steady the plank for you now.” Locke clamped his hands onto it, gritted his teeth, and braced himself, knowing with some part of his mind just how ridiculous a display of such feeble strength must look. Why was she not coming?

“THE ROPE,” she yelled. “GO!”

Locke looked up just in time to see tall dark shapes burst out of the garden behind her. Adults. Their arms were reaching for her, but she wasn’t trying to escape; she wasn’t even turning toward them. Instead her hands were on the plank, and she was—

“No,” Locke screamed. “NO!”

Sabetha was seized from behind and hoisted into the air, but as she went up she managed to swivel her end of the plank just off the parapet and push it into empty space. Locke felt the terrible sensation of that weight tipping and plummeting into the alley, far too much for him to hold back. His end of the plank leapt up and cracked against his chin, knocking him backward, and as he was landing on his posterior he heard the echoing crash of the plank hitting the ground four stories below.

“GO,” yelled Sabetha one more time. Her shout ended in a muffled cry, and Locke spat blood as he clambered back to his feet.

“The other roof!” A new voice, a man. “Get down to the street!”

Locke wanted to stay, to keep Sabetha in sight, to do something for her, but his feet, ever faster than his wits, were already carrying him away. He snatched at the rope as he stumbled along, threw it over the opposite parapet, and without hesitation flung himself over the edge. The stones flew past, and the pressure of the rope against his palms rapidly grew into a hot, searing pain. He yowled and let go of the rope just as he reached the bottom, all but flinging himself the last five feet to land gracelessly in a heap.

Nothing seemed broken. His chin ached, his palms felt as though they’d been skinned with a dull axe, and his head was still spinning, but at least nothing seemed broken. He stumbled into a run. As his bare feet slapped against the cobbles of the road the door to the target house burst open, revealing two men outlined in golden light. An instant later they were after him with a shout.

Locke sprinted into the darkness of the alley, willing his legs to rise and fall like water-engine pistons. He knew that he would need every inch of the lead he already had if he hoped to escape. Vague black shapes loomed out of the shadows like something from a nightmare, only transforming into normal objects as he ran past—empty barrels, piles of refuse, broken wagons.

Behind him came the slap-slap-slap of booted feet. Locke sucked in his breath in short, sharp gasps and prayed he wouldn’t run across a broken pot or bottle. Bare feet were better for climbing, but in a dead run someone with shoes had every advantage. The men were getting closer—

Something slammed into Locke so forcefully that his first thought was that he’d struck a wall. His breath exploded out of him, and his next impression was a confused sense of movement. Someone grabbed him by his tunic and threw him down; someone else leapt out of the darkness and sprinted in the direction he’d been headed. Someone about his size or a little bigger.…

“Shhhh,” whispered one of the Sanzas, directly into his ear. “Play dead.”

Locke was lying with his cheek against wet stone, staring at a narrow opening into a brick-walled passage. He realized he’d been yanked into a smaller alley branching off the one he’d tried to escape down. The Sanza restraining him pulled something heavy, damp, and fetid down around them, leaving only the thinnest space exposed for them to see out of. A split second later Locke’s two pursuers pounded past, huffing and swearing. They continued after the shape that had taken Locke’s place and didn’t spare a glance for the two boys huddled under cover a few feet away.

“Calo will give ’em a good chase, then get back to us once they’re slipped,” said the Sanza after a few seconds.

“Galdo,” said Locke. “They got her. They got Beth.”

“We know.” Galdo pushed aside their camouflage. It looked like an ancient leather coat, gnawed by animals and covered in every possible foulness an alley could cultivate. “When we heard the shouting we ran for it and got in position to grab you. Quick and quiet now.”

Galdo hoisted Locke to his feet, turned, and padded down the branch alley.

“They got her,” repeated Locke, suddenly aware that his cheeks were hot with tears. “They got her, we have to do something, we have to—”

“I bloody well know.” Galdo seized him by the hand and pulled him along. “Chains will tell us what to do. Come on.”

As Sabetha had promised, Chains wasn’t far. Galdo pulled Locke west, toward the docks, to the rows of cheaper warehouses beside the canal that marked the farthest boundary of the Razona. Chains was waiting there, in plain clothes and a long brown coat, inside an empty warehouse that smelled of rot and camphor. When the two boys stumbled in the door, Chains shook a weak light from an alchemical globe and hurried over to them.

“It went wrong,” said Galdo.

“They got her,” said Locke, not caring that he was bawling. “They got her, I’m sorry, they just, they just got her.” Locke threw himself at Father Chains, and the man, without hesitation, scooped him up and held him, patting his back until his racking sobs quieted down.

“There, boy, there,” said Chains. “You’re with us now. All’s well. Who got her? Can you tell me?”

“I don’t know … men in the house.”

“Not yellowjackets?”

“I don’t … I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I couldn’t … I tried to think of something, but—”

“There was nothing you could have done,” said Chains firmly. He set Locke down and used a coat sleeve to dry his cheeks. “You managed to get away, and that was enough.”

“We didn’t g-get … the necklace—”

“Fuck the necklace.” Chains turned to the Sanza who’d brought Locke in. “Where’s Galdo?”

“I’m Galdo.”

“Where’s—”

“Calo’s ditching a couple of men that chased us.”

“What kind of men? Uniforms? Weapons?”

“I don’t think they were mustard. They might’ve been with the old guy you wanted us to rob.”

“Hell’s flaming shits.” Chains grabbed up his walking stick (an affectation for his disguise, but a fine way to have a weapon close at hand), then produced a dagger in a leather sheath that he tossed to Galdo. “Stay here. Douse the light and hide yourselves. Try not to stab Calo if he returns before I do.”

“Where are you going?” asked Locke.

“To find out who we’re dealing with.”

Chains went out the door with a speed that put the lie to his frequent claims of advancing infirmity. Galdo picked up the tiny alchemical light and tossed it to Locke, who concealed it within his closed hands. Alone in the darkness, the two boys settled down to wait for whatever came next.

7

CHAINS RETURNED a brief fraction of an hour later, with an ashen-faced Calo in tow. Locke uncovered the light as they entered the warehouse and ran toward them.

“Where is she?” he asked.

Chains stared at the three boys and sighed. “I need the smallest,” he said quietly.

“Me?”

“Of course you, Locke.” Chains reached out and grabbed both Sanza brothers. He knelt beside them and whispered instructions that were too brief and quiet for Locke to catch. Calo and Galdo seemed to recoil.

“Gods damn it, boys,” said Chains. “You know we’ve got no choice. Get back home. Stay together.”

They ran out of the warehouse without another word. Chains rose and turned to Locke.

“Come,” he said. “Time is no friend of ours this evening.”

“Where are we going?” Locke scampered to keep up.

“Not far. A house a block north of where you were.”

“Is it … should we really be going back that way?”

“Perfectly safe now that you’re with me.” True to his word, Chains had turned east, on a street rather than an alley, and was walking briskly toward the neighborhood Locke had just fled.

“Who’s got her? The yellowjackets?”

“No. They’d have taken her to a watch station, not a private residence.”

“The, um, men we tried to rob?”

“No. Worse than that.” Locke couldn’t see Chains’ face, but he imagined that he could hear his scowl in every word he spoke. “Agents of the duke. His secret police. Commanded by the man with no name.”

“No name?”

“They call him the Spider. His people get work that’s too delicate for the yellowjackets. They’re spies, assassins, false-facers. Dangerous folk, as dangerous as any of the Right People.”

“Why were they at the house?”

“Bad luck is much too comforting a possibility. I believe my information about the necklace was a poisoned tip.”

“But then … holy shit, but that means we have an informer!”

“It is a vile sin for that word to come lightly off the lips of our kind.” Chains whirled, and Locke stumbled backward in surprise. Chains’ face was grimmer than Locke had ever seen it, and he waved a finger to emphasize his words. “It’s the worst thing one Right Person can say or think of another. Before you accuse, you’d damn well better know. Drop that word carelessly and you’d best be armed, understand?”

“Y-yes. Sorry.”

“My man at Meraggio’s is solid.” Chains turned, and with Locke at his heels hurried down the street again. “My children are beyond reproach, all of you.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know. That means the information itself was bait for a trap. They probably didn’t even know who’d bite. They set a line and waited for a fish.”

“Why would they care?”

“It’s in their interest,” grumbled Chains. “Thieves with contacts at Meraggio’s, thieves willing to work in a nice quiet place like the Razona … that sort of person merits scrutiny. Or stepping on.”

Locke held on to Chains’ sleeve as they threaded their way back into the quality neighborhoods, where the peace and calm seemed utterly surreal to Locke, given the disturbance he and Sabetha had raised so recently. At last Chains guided Locke into the low, well-kept gardens behind a row of three-story homes. He pointed to the next house over, and the two of them crouched behind a crumbling stone wall to observe the scene.

Half-visible past the edge of the house was a carriage without livery, guarded by at least two men. The lights in the house were on, but all the windows, save one, were covered by curtains behind thick mosaic glass. The lone exception was on the rear wall, where an orange glow was coming from under a second-story window that had been cracked open.

“Is she in there?” whispered Locke.

“She is. That open window.”

“How do we get her out?”

“We don’t.”

“But … we’re here … you brought me here—”

“Locke.” Chains set a hand on Locke’s right shoulder. “She’s tied down in that room up there. They have four men inside and two out front with the carriage. Duke’s men, above every law. You and I can’t fight them.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

Chains reached inside his tunic, snapped the cord that held a small object around his neck, and held the object out to Locke. It was a glass vial, about the size of Locke’s smallest finger.

“Take this,” Chains said. “You’re small enough to climb the vines on that back wall, reach the window, and then—”

“No.” The realization of what that vial meant made Locke want to throw up. “No, no, no!”

“Listen, boy, listen! Time is wasting. We can’t get her out. They’ll start asking her questions soon. You know how they do that? Hot irons. Knives. When they’re finished they’ll know everything about you, me, Calo, Galdo. What we do and where we work. We’ll never be safe in Camorr again, and our own kind will be as hot for our blood as the duke’s people.”

“No, she’s clever, she’ll—”

“We’re not made of iron, boy.” Chains grabbed Locke’s right hand, squeezed it firmly, and placed the warm glass vial against his palm. “We’re flesh and blood, and if they hurt us long enough we’ll say anything they want us to say.”

Chains gently bent Locke’s fingers in over the vial, then lifted his own hands away slowly.

“She’ll know what to do,” he said.

“I can’t,” said Locke, fresh tears starting down his cheeks. “I can’t. Please.”

“Then they’ll torture her,” said Chains quietly. “You know she’ll fight them as long as she can. So they’ll do it for hours. Maybe days. They’ll break her bones. They’ll peel her skin. And you’re the only one who can get up to that window. You … trip over your tongue around her. You like her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Locke, staring into the darkness, trying desperately to think of anything bolder, cleverer, braver than climbing to that window and handing a beautiful girl a vial with which she would kill herself.

He had nothing.

“Not fair,” he sobbed. “Not fair, not fair.”

“We can’t get her out, Locke.” The gentleness and sorrow in Chains’ voice caught Locke’s attention in a way that scolding or commanding could not have. “What happens now is up to you. If you can’t get to her, she’ll live. For a while. And she’ll be in hell. But if you can get to that window … if you can just pass the vial to her …”

Locke nodded, and hated himself for nodding.

“Brave lad,” whispered Chains. “Don’t wait. Go. Fast and quiet as a breeze.”

It was no great feat to steal across thirty feet of dark garden, to find hand- and footholds in the lush vines at the rear of the house, to scuttle upward. But the moments it took felt like hours, and by the time Locke was poised beside the second-story window he was shaking so badly that he was sure anyone in the house could hear it.

By the grace of the Crooked Warden there were no shouts of alarm, no windows slamming open, no armed men charging into the garden. Ever so carefully, he set his eyes level with the two-inch gap at the bottom of the open window, and moved his head to the right just far enough to peek into the room.

Locke swallowed a sob when he saw Sabetha, seated in a heavy, high-backed chair, facing away from him. Beside her, some sort of cabinet— No. It was a man in a long black coat, a huge man. Locke ducked back out of sight. Gods, Chains was right about at least one thing. They couldn’t fight a brute like that, with or without a house full of other men to aid him.

“I’m not an enemy, you know.” The man had a deep, precise voice with the barest hint of a strange accent. “We want so little from you. You must realize that your friends can’t save you. Not from us.”

There was a long silence. The man sighed.

“You might think that we couldn’t do the things I suggested earlier. Not to a pretty little girl. But you’re as good as hung now. Makes it easy on the conscience. Sooner or later, you’ll talk. Even if you have to talk through your screams.

“I’ll, ah, leave you alone for a bit. Let you think. But think hard, girl. We’re only patient as long as we have orders to be.”

There was a slamming sound, a heavy door being shut, and then a slight metallic clank; the man had turned a key behind him.

Now it was time. Time to slip into the room, pass the vial over, and escape as quickly as possible. And then Sabetha would kill herself, and Locke would … would …

“Fuck this,” he whispered to himself.

Locke pushed at the window, widening the opening at its bottom. Windows that slid up and down were a relatively new and expensive development in Camorr, so rare that even Locke knew they were special. Whatever mechanism raised and lowered this one was well-oiled, and it rose with little resistance. Sabetha turned her head toward the noise as Locke slid over the windowsill and flopped inside. Her eyes were wide with surprise.

“Hi,” whispered Locke, less dramatically than he might have hoped. He stood up from the inch-deep carpet and examined Sabetha’s chair. His heart sank. It was glossy hardwood, taller than the window, and likely weighed more than he did. Furthermore, while Sabetha’s arms were free, she was shackled at the ankles.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Getting you out,” Locke whispered. He glanced around the room, pondering anxiously. They were in a library, but the shelves and scroll-cases were bare. Not a single book in sight. No sharp objects, no levers, no tools. He examined the door, hoping for some sort of interior lock or bar he could throw, and was disappointed there as well.

“I can’t get out of this chair,” said Sabetha, her voice low and urgent. “They could be back any moment. What’s that you’re holding?”

Locke suddenly remembered the vial he was clutching tightly in his right hand. Before he could think of anything else to do he moved it behind his back like a fool.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“I know why Chains sent you up here.” Sabetha closed her eyes as she spoke. “It’s okay. He and I talked about it before. It’s—”

“No. I’ll think of something. Help me.”

“It’s going to be all right. Give it to me.”

“I can’t.” Locke held up his hands, pleading. “Help me get you out of that chair.”

“Locke,” said Sabetha, and the sound of her speaking his name at last was like a hammer-blow to his heart. “You swore to do what I said. Come hell or Eldren-fire. Did you mean it?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “But you’ll die.”

“There’s no other way.” She held out one of her hands.

“No.” He rubbed at his eyes, feeling tears starting again.

“Then what are you loyal to, Locke?”

A coldness gnawed at the pit of Locke’s stomach. Every failure he’d experienced in his few short years, every time he’d been caught or foiled, every time he’d ever made a mistake, been punished, gone hungry—all those moments churned up and relived at once couldn’t have equaled the bitter weight of the defeat that settled in his gut now.

He placed the glass vial in her hand, and for a moment their fingers met, warmth against warmth. She gave his hand a little squeeze, and Locke gasped, letting the vial out of his grip. Her fingers curled around it, and now there was no taking it back.

“Go,” she whispered.

He stared at her, unable to believe he’d actually done it, and then finally turned away. It was just three steps to the window, but his feet felt distant and numb. He braced one hand on the windowsill, more to steady himself than to escape.

A loud click echoed in the room, and the door began to swing open.

Locke heaved himself over the sill, scrambled to plant his feet in the vines that clung to the house’s brick exterior, and prayed to drop down fast enough to escape notice, or at least get a head start—

“Locke, wait!” came a deep and familiar voice.

Locke clung precariously to the windowsill and strained to lift his head enough to glance back into the room. The door was wide open, and standing there was Father Chains.

“No,” whispered Locke, suddenly realizing what the whole point of the night’s exercise really was. But that meant— That meant Sabetha wouldn’t have to—

He was so startled he lost his grip, and with a sharp cry he fell backward into the air above the darkened garden.

8

“TOLD YOU he wasn’t dead.” It was one of the Sanzas, his voice coming out of the darkness. “Like a physiker, I am. Ought to charge you a fee for my opinion.”

“Sure.” The other Sanza now, speaking close to Locke’s right ear. “Hope you like getting paid in kicks to the head.”

Locke opened his eyes and found himself on a table in a well-lit room, a room that had the same strange lack of opulence as the library Sabetha had been chained up in. There were the table and a few chairs, but no tapestries, no decorations, no sense that anyone actually lived here. Locke winced, took a deep breath, and sat bolt upright. His back and his head ached dully.

“Easy, boy.” Chains was at his side in an instant. “You took quite a tumble. If only you weren’t so damnably quick on your feet, I might have convinced—”

Chains reached out to gently push him back down, and Locke swatted his hands away.

“You lied,” he growled.

“Forgive me,” said Chains, very softly. “There was still one thing we needed to know about you, Locke.”

“You lied!” The depth of Locke’s rage came as a shock; he couldn’t remember feeling anything like it even for tormentors like Gregor and Veslin—and he’d killed them, hadn’t he? “None of it was real!”

“Be reasonable,” said Chains. “It’s a bit risky to stage a kidnapping using actual agents of the duke.”

“No,” said Locke. “It was wrong. It was wrong! It wasn’t like they really would have done! I might have gotten her out!”

“You can’t fight grown men,” said Chains. “You did the very best you could in a bad situation.”

“IT WAS WRONG!” Locke forced himself to concentrate, to articulate what his gut was telling him. “They would … real guards might have done it differently. Not chained her down. This was all made for me. All made so I had no choice!”

“Yes,” said Chains. “It was a game you couldn’t win. A situation that finds us all, sooner or later.”

“No,” said Locke, feeling his anger warm him from his head to his toes. “It was all wrong!”

“He did it to us too, once,” said Calo, grabbing his right arm. “Gods, we wanted to die, it was so bad.”

“He did it to all of us,” said Sabetha, and Locke whirled at the sound of her voice. She was standing in a corner, arms folded, studying him with a combination of interest and unease. “He’s right. We had to know if you could do it.”

“And you did superbly,” said Chains. “You did better than we could have—”

“It wasn’t fair,” shouted Locke. “It wasn’t a fair test! There was no way to win!”

“That’s life,” said Chains. “That’s your one sure inheritance as flesh and blood. Nobody wins all the time, Locke.”

Locke shook himself free from Calo’s grasp and stood on the table, so that he actually had to look down to meet Chains eye to eye.

Gods, he’d thought Sabetha was gone once, and he’d rejoiced to find her alive. Then he’d been sent to kill her. That was the rage, he realized, burning like a coal behind his heart. For a few terrible minutes Chains had made him believe that he would have to lose her all over again. Narrowed his world to one awful choice and made him feel helpless.

“I will never lose again.” He nodded slowly to himself, as though his words were the long-sought solution to some mathematical puzzle. Then he shouted at the top of his lungs, not caring if he was heard across the length and breadth of the Razona.

“Do you hear me? I WILL NEVER LOSE AGAIN!”

CHAPTER TWO

THE BUSINESS

1

“MERCIFUL GODS,” SAID Locke. To Jean’s eyes, he seemed genuinely taken aback. “Your actual flesh-and-blood son? By, ah, traditional means?”

“I certainly didn’t brew him in a cauldron.”

“Well, come now,” said Locke, “as though we’d know one way or the other—”

“There are no means but traditional means for such an undertaking.”

“Damn,” said Locke. “And I thought this was an awkward conversation before.”

“The Falconer’s heart is still beating. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”

“You expect us to believe that?” said Jean. His defensive instincts, sharpened over years of alternating triumphs and disasters, came hotly to life. Even if Patience chose to pose no immediate threat, surely wheels were turning somewhere inside her mind. “His friends would have killed us, but you can just wave the whole mess off with a sad smile?”

“You two didn’t get along,” said Locke.

“Very mildly put,” said Patience. She looked down at her feet, a gesture that struck Jean as totally outside her usual character. “Even before he earned his first ring … the Falconer was my antagonist in all philosophies, magical or otherwise. If our positions were reversed he certainly wouldn’t feel bound to vengeance on my account.”

Now Patience slowly raised her head until her dark eyes met Jean’s, and he was able to really study them for the first time. Certain people had what Jean privately thought of as archer’s eyes—a steady coolness, a detached precision. People with eyes like that could sort the world around them into targets, pick their first shot before those nearby even knew the time for talk had passed. Eyes like that had killers behind them, and Patience for-fucking-sure had a pair.

“He and I live with the consequences of the decisions we made before he took the contract in Camorr,” she said, her voice firm. “Whether or not I choose to explain those decisions is my business.”

“Fair enough,” said Jean, taking an instinctive half-step back and raising his hands.

“Indeed. Take it easy.” Locke stifled a cough. “Well, you could murder us, yet supposedly you don’t want to. Your son pickled his own mind, but you say you don’t really give a shit. So what’s the story, Patience? Why are you in Lashain, lending me your cloak?”

“I’ve come to offer the two of you a job.”

“A job?” Locke laughed, then broke into more painful-sounding coughs. “A job? I hope you need someone to line a casket for you, you poor Karthani witch, because that’s the only job I’m presently qualified for.”

“Until you finally lose the strength for sarcasm, Locke, I wouldn’t hire any mourners.”

“I’m on my way.” Locke pounded on his chest a few times. “Believe me, I’ve ducked out of paying this bill before, but this time I’m pretty sure the house is going to make me settle. You should have tried, I don’t know, not fucking revealing my plans to the gods-damned Archon of Tal Verrar so he could fucking well poison me! Maybe then my schedule for the immediate future would be a tad more … open.”

“I can remove the poison from your body.”

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Jean was dumbstruck, Locke merely scowled, and Patience let the words hang in the empty air without further adornment. The timbers of the roof creaked faintly at the touch of the wind.

“Bullshit,” Locke muttered at last.

“You keep presuming that my powers are infinite where they concern your discomfort. Why not credit me with an equivalent capacity to render aid?” Patience folded her arms. “Surely some of the black alchemists you consulted must have passed on hints …”

“I’m not talking about your damned sorcery. I mean, I see the game now. It’s bullshit. Act one, those Lashani bastards trash the place. Act two, a mysterious savior appears out of the night, and we buy whatever you’re selling. You arranged this whole mess.”

“I had nothing to do with Cortessa. Jean brought the Lashani down on your heads when he mishandled the physiker yesterday.”

“What an eminently reasonable excuse! Good gods, woman, who the hell do you think you’re talking to here?” Locke erupted into a coughing fit, and just as quickly brought it under control by evident force of will. “I ought to know a setup when it lands right on top of my head!”

“Locke, calm down.” Jean felt his heartbeat all the way to the base of his throat. “Think about this for a moment.” It had to be a trick, a plan, a scheme of some sort, but by all the gods, what was that against the total certainty of death? Jean sent a silent plea to the Crooked Warden to give Locke just a few moments of lucid reason.

“I have no money,” said Locke. “No resources. No treasure. And I’m too sick now to even stand up. That leaves me just one single thing you can still take.”

“We need to consider—”

“You want my name, don’t you?” Locke’s voice was hoarse and teasing. He sounded triumphant at having something to fuel a real argument; evidently the god of thieves had no common sense available for lending at the moment. “You knock everything out from under me, then show up at the last minute, waving a reprieve. And all you’d need is my real name, right? Oh, you want leverage, that’s for sure. You haven’t forgiven anyone for what happened to the Falconer.”

“You’re dying,” said Patience. “Do you really think I’d take these pains just to turn the screws on you? Gods be gracious, how much more pressure could I possibly apply?”

“I believe you’d do anything, if you wanted your hooks in me bad enough.” Locke wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and Jean could see that his spit was blood-tinged. “I know a thing or two about revenge, and you have powers I can only dream of. So I must believe you’d do anything.”

“Why bother when I could have your real name anytime I wanted it?”

“Now that’s so much arrogant bull—”

“It would simply be a question,” Patience continued, “of how long you could watch Jean Tannen suffer before you would beg for the privilege of telling me.”

“You’re no different than the Falconer,” said Locke. “Same fucking—”

“Locke,” said Jean, very loudly. “—attitude toward … yeah?”

“Kindly shut the hell up,” said Jean, enunciating every word as though teaching the phrase to a small child for the first time. Locke’s slack-jawed stare was gratifying.

“She’s right,” continued Jean, unable to keep a growing excitement out of his voice. “If your true name was all she wanted, why not torture me? I’m compromised, I’m bloody helpless. It would be quick and simple. So why aren’t I screaming right now?”

“Because if these people were any good at ‘quick and simple’ the Falconer would have killed us back in Camorr.”

“No, dammit. Think harder.”

“Because you have such a sweet and innocent face?”

“Because if she doesn’t want your real name the easy way—”

“Then she has some other motive. Sweet dancing donkey shit, Jean!” Locke rolled back toward Patience, but closed his eyes and rubbed at them. “She wants me to stick my own head in the noose, of my own free will. Get it? She wants me to step off the cliff. Cut my own wrists so she can gloat … humiliate—” Locke broke into another severe coughing fit, and Jean sat down on the bed and pounded gently on his back. The rhythmic movement did nothing good for Jean’s collection of fresh aches and bruises, but it calmed Locke rapidly.

“What we’re discussing,” said Patience, “is employment, not compulsion. Credit me with enough wit to recall the fate of Luciano Anatolius and Maxilan Stragos. Coercing you two never seems to work. We’re willing to trade service for service.”

“Patience,” said Jean, “can you really get rid of this poison? Can you do it without using his real name?”

“If we hurry, yes.”

“If you’re lying,” said Jean, “if you’re leaving anything out, I’ll try to kill you again. Understand? I’ll give it everything I have, even if it forces you to slay me on the spot.”

Patience nodded.

“Then let’s talk business.”

“Let’s not,” snarled Locke. “Let’s show this bitch to the door and refuse to be puppets.”

“Shut up.” Jean pushed firmly down on Locke’s shoulders, foiling his attempt to roll out of bed. “Tell us about this job.”

Locke drew in a rasping breath to spew some more damn fool craziness. Jean, with the reflexes that kept him alive when blades were drawn, clamped a hand over Locke’s mouth before he could speak and pushed his head back down against his pillow. “I can’t agree to anything on Locke’s behalf, but I want us to hear your proposal. Tell us what the job is.”

“It’s political,” said Patience.

“Mmmmph mmph,” said Locke, struggling in vain against Jean’s arm. “Mmmph fckhnnng fmmmph!”

“He wants to hear more,” said Jean. “He says he’s very excited to hear the whole thing.”

2

“I NEED an election adjusted.”

“How adjusted?”

“As a cautious estimate?” Patience turned to the window and stared out into the rain. “I need it rigged from top to bottom.”

“Government affairs are a bit beyond our experience,” said Jean.

“Nonsense. You’ll feel right at home. What is government but theft by consent? You’ll be moving in a society of kindred spirits.”

“What sort of election are we supposed to be mucking about with here?”

“Every five years,” said Patience, “the citizens of Karthain elect an assembly, the Konseil. Nineteen representatives for nineteen city districts. This dignified mess runs the city, and I need a majority of their seats to go to the faction of my preference.”

“This is what you want us for?” Locke finally slipped Jean’s hand aside and managed to speak. “My dead ass! With your powers, you’d have to be out of your gods-damned minds to settle for anything Jean and I could pull off! You could wiggle your fingers and make them elect cats and dogs, for fuck’s sake.”

“No,” said Patience. “In public, the magi stand completely aloof from the government of the city. In private, we are forbidden to use any of our arts. Not on the poorest citizen of Karthain, not for a single vote.”

“You won’t use your sorcery on the people of Karthain?” said Jean. “Not at all?”

“Oh, Karthain is our city, through and through. We’ve adjusted everything to suit our needs, and that includes the inhabitants. It’s this contest we can’t touch. The election itself.”

“Seems awkward as all hell. Why the limitation?”

“You’ve seen some of our arts. You opposed the Falconer. You survived Tal Verrar.”

“In a manner of speaking,” muttered Locke.

“Imagine a society of men and women where those powers are universal,” said Patience. “Imagine … sitting down to dinner with four hundred people, each of whom has a loaded crossbow set beside their wineglass. Some very strict rules will have to be enforced if anyone wants to live long enough to see the last course.”

“I think I get it,” said Jean. “You have some sort of rule about not shitting where you eat?”

“Magi must never work magic against one another,” said Patience. “We’re as human as you are, as complicated, as insecure, as driven to argument. The only difference is that any one of us, out of the mildest irritation, could make someone evaporate into smoke with a gesture.

“We don’t duel,” she continued. “We don’t so much as tease one another with our arts. We forcefully separate ourselves from any situation where our crossed purposes might tempt us to do so.”

“Situations like this election,” said Jean.

“Yes. We do need to control the Konseil, one way or another. Once the election is over, the new government becomes a general tool. We adjust its members by consensual design. But during the contest itself, when our blood is up, we need to keep our arts entirely out of the situation. We need to be pure spectators.”

Patience raised both of her hands, palms up, as though presenting two invisible objects for weighing.

“There are two major factions among my people. Two major parties in Karthani politics. We battle by proxy. Each side is allowed to choose agents. Enterprising individuals, never magi. We set them loose to fight on our behalf. In the past we’ve favored orators, political organizers, demagogues. This time, I’ve convinced my people to hire someone with a more unusual portfolio of achievement.”

“Why?” said Jean.

“Some people play handball,” said Patience, smiling. “Some people play Catch-the-Duke. This is our sport. The election diverts much of the frustration our factions come to feel for one another, and brings prestige to the side that backs the winner. It’s become a highly anticipated tradition.”

“I’ve imagined you people must run the show in Karthain,” said Locke. “I just never would have suspected this. What a joke on all the poor saps lining up to vote every five years.”

“They get an orderly city regardless of the winner,” said Patience. “In Karthain, nobody empties the treasury and vanishes. Nobody holds grand masques every night while the streets fill with night soil and dead animals. We see to that.”

“Would a city of puppets really give a damn if you didn’t?” said Locke, wheezing. He cleared his throat. “You want us to work fraud in the service of order and public sanitation. What a thought!”

“Isn’t theft theft? Aren’t lies lies? Isn’t this exactly the sort of opportunity you’d spend years chasing if it was your own idea? Besides, the job serves you as much as anyone. Accepting it will save your life.”

“How long would you need us?” said Locke.

“The election is in six weeks.”

“What about resources? Clothes, money, lodging—”

“We have complete identities prepared for you, all possible comforts, and a large pool of funds to dispose of on business.”

“Only business?” said Locke.

“You’ll be treated luxuriously for six weeks. What more could you want?”

“Perelandro’s balls, a little incentive to win would be nice.”

“Incentive? Life itself isn’t sufficient? You’ll be well-dressed, you’ll recover your health, and you’ll be in a greatly improved position from which to resume your … career. If you win, our gratitude might easily extend so far as comfortable transportation to the city of your choice.”

“And if we lose?”

“You can’t expect us to reward failure. You’ll still be free to leave, but you’ll do it on foot.”

“I can only speak for myself,” said Locke, and Jean’s heart sank. “I meant what I said. I have no idea what your full powers are. I don’t trust you. I don’t trust this situation, and I have no reasonable chance to catch you if you’re lying. If you’re not sincere, this is a trap, and if you are sincere it’s some kind of bizarre pity-fuck.”

“And all the years you might have had coming? All the things you have yet to do?”

“Spare me. You’re not my mother. If Jean will take the job, you won’t find a better man anywhere. He can do anything I could, and he’s better at keeping himself in one piece. Thanks for coming all this way to entertain me, but leave me alone.”

“Hold on—” Jean began.

“I’m disappointed,” said Patience. “I would have thought you had at least one more thing to live for. Can you honestly say you’ve never hoped for any chance of a reunion with Sabetha, somewhere out there in the—”

“You go fuck yourself,” snarled Locke. “I don’t care what you think you know. That’s one subject you don’t get to presume anything about.”

“As you like.” Patience flexed her right hand and Jean noticed the gleam of silver thread woven between the fingers. “It seems I’ve wasted our time. Shall I expect you in Karthain when your friend is dead, Jean?”

“Hold!” said Jean. “Patience, please, give us time to talk. In private.”

Patience nodded curtly and moved the knuckles of her right hand. Light shifted on the silvery gleam of her cat’s cradle. Jean blinked, and in that instant thread and woman alike vanished into thin air.

“Great,” said Jean. “Fucking magnificent. I think you’ve finally managed to really piss her off.”

“Nice to know I still have the knack,” said Locke.

“Are you really, truly out of your gods-damned mind? She could save your life.”

“She could do a lot of things.”

“Take the chance, Locke.”

“She’s up to something.”

“What a revelation! What an amazing deduction! I’m sorry, remind me again what your other options are?”

“She wants something from me, damn it, more than she’s letting on! But she’s already got everything she can take from you, right? You said it yourself. If she’s out to get you, she’ll get you. But if she does right by you, then you’ll be in a strong position to move on.”

“It works that way for both of us.”

“I won’t be that witch’s toy,” said Locke. “Not for all the money in Karthain. She’s not human. None of them are.”

Jean glared coldly at Locke. He lay under Patience’s cloak, his wild aspect incongruous next to the fine oilcloth. A cornered animal, preparing to die, huddled under delicate material worth several years of a skilled laborer’s life. The whites of his eyes were turning pink.

“Patience was right,” Jean said quietly. “She has wasted our time. You’ll die choking on your own blood. Today, tomorrow. Doesn’t matter. And you’ll be so happy with yourself. Because somehow dying has become an achievement.”

“Jean, wait—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” The resentments and frustrations of the past few weeks seemed to boil up as Jean spoke. The old familiar temper, snapping like a rope frayed down to a single strand, the rage like a hot pressure under his skin, pulsing from his skull to his fingertips. Only it was worse than usual, because there was nothing he could hit. Zodesti, Cortessa—Jean would have snapped their bones like badly fired pottery. Patience, even—he would have gone for her throat, dared her sorcery. But with Locke he was limited to words, so he weighted them with scorn and let fly. “What the hell have I done but wait? Wait on the boat to see if you got sick. Wait here, week after week, watching you get worse. Day and night, chasing any hope this fucking city could offer, while you—”

“Jean, I am telling you, every instinct I have says this is a setup.”

“No shit. And since we know they mean to use us, why can’t we use them as well, for everything we can get out of the deal?”

“Give me up, Jean. Let me go and their fun vanishes. Then they’ll have that much less reason to play you false.”

“Oh, marvelous. Fucking masterful. You’ll be dead and they’ll be inconvenienced. Maybe even mildly disappointed. What a worthy trade! Like slashing your throat just before your opponent can take a piece in Catch-the-Duke.”

“But—”

“Shut it. Just shut it. You know, when you’re healthy, you’ll laugh the gods right in their faces. But when you’re convalescing, sweet hell, you are a miserable bastard.”

“I’ve always admitted—”

“No. You’ve never admitted this. You don’t stand still, Locke. I played along in Tal Verrar when we talked about retiring on our money, but that was bullshit and we both knew it. You don’t retire. You don’t even take holidays. You move from scheme to scheme, jumping around like a spider on a hot skillet. And when you’re forced to stand still, when you don’t have a thousand things going on to keep you distracted from your own thoughts, you actually want to die. I see that now. I’m so gods-damned slow and stupid I see it for the first time!”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You and I, in the boat, after we torched the glass burrow. After we killed Bug’s murderer. Do you remember what we talked about? What you were like? And Vel Virazzo. You tried to finish the Gray King’s work by drowning yourself in wine. Now this. You’re not just cranky when you’re ill, Locke, you have the … look, it’s called Endliktgelaben. It’s a High Vadran word. I learned about it when I was studying as an initiate of Aza Guilla. It means, ah, death-love, death-desire. It’s hard to translate. It means you have moods where you absolutely want to destroy yourself. Not as some self-pitying idle notion, either. As a certainty!”

“For Perelandro’s sake, Jean, I wouldn’t want this if I had a fucking choice!”

“You don’t want it up here,” said Jean, pointing to his own head. “You want it somewhere deeper, so deep you can’t recognize it. You think you’ve got some logical, noble excuse for showing Patience the door. But it’s really that darkness inside, trying to fuck you over once and for all. Something has you so scared you’re seeing everything backwards.”

“What is it, then? If you’re so smart, what is it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Patience can read thoughts like a book, but I sure as hell can’t. However, I can tell you what the hell I’m scared of—being alone. Being the very last one of us standing, all because you’re a selfish, stubborn coward.”

“Not fair,” wheezed Locke.

“No, it isn’t. A lot of good people have died to bring you this far. You keep this shit up and you’ll be seeing them soon. What are you going to tell Calo and Galdo and Bug? Chains? Nazca?” Jean leaned over and all but whispered his next words down at Locke. “What are you going to tell the woman I loved? The woman who burned so you could have the slightest chance in hell of even being here in the first place?”

All the faint color left in Locke’s face had drained out; he moved his lips but seemed unable to convince any words to get that far past his throat.

“If I can get up and live with that every gods-damned day, then so can you, you son of a bitch.” Jean stepped away from the bed. “I’ll be outside. Make your choice.”

“Jean … call her back.”

“Are you just humoring me?”

“No. Please. Call Patience back.”

“Are you ashamed?”

“Yes! Yes, how couldn’t I be, you ass?”

“And you’ll do it? Whatever it takes, whatever Patience requires to keep you alive?”

“Get her back in the room. Get her back! By the gods, I need her to fix me so I can punch your guts into soup.”

“That’s the spirit. Patience!” Jean yelled, turning toward the apartment’s door. “Patience! Are you—”

“Of course.”

Jean whirled. She was already in the room, standing behind him. “I didn’t say I was going far,” she said, cutting off his question before it was spoken. “You’ll both do it?”

“Yes, we’ll—”

“There are going to be some conditions,” interrupted Locke.

“Dammit, Locke,” said Jean.

“Trust me.” Locke coughed and shifted his gaze from Jean to Patience. “First, I want it clear that our obligation to you begins and ends with this election. That’s our side of the bargain in full. No hidden surprises. No snake-bite double-dealing Bondsmage bullshit.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Patience.

“You heard me.” Locke’s voice was still hoarse, but to Jean it seemed infused with genuine strength. Or anger, which was as good for the time being. “I don’t want one of you people popping out of my ass five years from now and implying that I’m still on the hook for having my life spared. I want to hear it from you, right to our faces. Once this is done, we don’t owe you shit.”

“What a high art you’ve made of insolence,” said Patience. “If that’s the game you feel you have to play, so be it. Service for service and a clean severance, just as I said.”

“Good. I want another privilege, too.”

“Our side of the bargain is already exceptionally generous.”

“Who do you think you’re haggling with, a fucking pie vendor? If you’d rather lose your election—”

“State your request.”

“Answers. I want the answer to any question I ask, when I ask, to the best of your ability. I don’t want you to wave your hands and give me any bullshit about how great and terrible and incomprehensible everything is.”

“What questions?”

“Anything. Magic, Karthain, yourself, Falconer. Anything that comes to mind. I’m tired of the gods-damned shadow dance you people call conversation. If I’m going to work for you, I want you to explain some things.”

Patience considered this for some time.

“I have a private life and a professional life,” she said at last. “I may be prepared to discuss the latter. If you fail to respect the former, you will earn … consequences.”

“Good enough.” Locke wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve, adding new blood to old stains. “Okay, Jean, do you still want the job?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” said Locke. “I do too. You’ve hired us, Patience. Now do your thing. Get this shit out of me.”

“I can’t work here,” said Patience. “We’ll need to move, and quickly. A ship is waiting at the docks to take us across the Amathel; everything I need is on board.”

“All right,” said Jean. “I’ll go out and call a—”

Patience snapped her fingers, and the outer door fell open. A carriage was waiting on the street outside, its yellow lamps glowing softly in the drizzle, its quartet of horses standing in silent readiness.

“Aren’t you theatrical as hell,” said Locke.

“We’ve lost enough time taming your pride, Locke. We need every moment we can steal back if you’re going to survive what comes next.”

“Hold it,” said Jean. “What do you mean, ‘survive what comes next’?”

“It’s partly my fault. I waited to approach you. I should have done it before you had a chance to start kidnapping physikers. Now Locke’s condition is worse than precarious, and this would be hard enough for someone in perfect health.”

“But you—”

“Stand down, Jean, it’s the same hard sell we use,” said Locke. “Astonishing promises first, important disclaimers second. Just get on with it, Patience. Do your worst. I’m pissed off enough to take any sorcery you can throw at me.”

“Jean must have said something very interesting to shame you into finding your courage again.” Patience clapped her hands, and two tall men strode in through the front door. They wore broad-brimmed hats and long black leather coats, and carried a folding litter between them. “Keep that shame burning if you want to live.”

Patience touched Locke briefly on the forehead, and then she beckoned her coachmen over to roll him onto the litter. Jean watched warily but let them handle the work alone, as they seemed steady and careful enough.

“The only thing I can promise with absolute certainty,” said Patience as she watched this delicate process, “is that what I need to do when we reach the ship will be one of the worst things that’s ever happened to you.”

INTERLUDE

THE BOY WHO CHASED RED DRESSES

1

“YOU’RE STILL ANGRY with me,” said Chains.

It wasn’t a question. Locke’s attitude would have been plain to someone with the empathy of a shithouse brick.

A day had passed since the affair of Sabetha’s “capture,” and while Locke had rapidly shrugged off the effects of his fall into the garden, he’d been snappish and sullen since returning to the Temple of Perelandro. He’d flat-out refused to help prepare dinner or eat it, and after a brief, awkward attempt at a meal Chains had finally dragged him up to the temple roof.

They sat there now, under the dying aura of Falselight, the hour when every visible inch of Elderglass in Camorr threw off enough supernatural radiance to bring on a second sunset. Every bridge and avenue and tower was limned in eerie light, and beneath the steel-blue sky the city was a dark tapestry knit with ten thousand glowing stitches.

The parapets of the temple’s untended rooftop garden shielded Locke and Chains from prying eyes. They sat a few paces apart amidst the shards of broken pottery, staring at one another. Chains was taking unusually frequent drags on his sheaf of rolled tobacco, the red embers flaring with each indrawn breath.

“Look at me,” he muttered. “You’ve got me smoking the Anacasti Black. My holiday blend. Of course you’re still angry with me. You’re about seven years old and your view of the world is this wide.” Chains held up the thumb and the forefinger of his left hand, and the distance between them was not generous. This, at last, drew Locke out of his silence.

“What happened wasn’t fair!”

“Fair? You mean to claim with a straight face that you buy into that heresy, my boy?” Chains took a last long puff on his dying cigar and flicked the remnants into the darkness. “Everyone in Catchfire dropped dead except for you and your fellow wolf cubs. In Shades’ Hill, you avoided death for at least two grandiose mistakes that would have gotten a grown man’s balls peeled like grapes, and you still want to talk about—”

“No,” said Locke, his look of self-righteous annoyance instantly changing to one of startled embarrassment, as though he’d been accused of wetting his breeches. “No, no, I didn’t say those things were fair. I know life’s not fair. But I thought … I thought … you were.”

“Ah,” said Chains, “well, now. I’ve always thought of myself as fair to a fault. Look, what are you more upset about, the fact that I lied about what had to happen to Sabetha or the fact that the contest I rigged wasn’t, ah, as open to improvisation as you might have wished?”

“I don’t know. Both! All of it!”

“Locke, you may be too young for formal rhetoric, but you’ve got to at least try to pick your problems apart and explain them piece by piece. Now, here’s another important question. Are you comfortable at this temple?”

“Yes!”

“You eat well and sleep soundly. Your clothes are clean, you have many diversions, and you even get to bathe every week.”

“Yes. Yes, I like it a lot, it’s all worth having to bathe, even!”

“Hmmm,” said Chains. “You live long enough for your stones to drop, then tell me if bathing is really such a hardship when the young women around you have bosoms that are more than theoretical.”

“What? When my what?”

“Never mind. That subject will be sufficiently confusing in its own good time. So, you like it here. You’re comfortable, you’re protected. Have I behaved badly? Treated you as you were treated in Shades’ Hill?”

“Well, no … no, not like that at all.”

“Yet none of that buys me any consideration in the matter of last night? Not one speck of trust? One tiny instant of the benefit of the doubt?”

“I, uh, well, it’s not … uh, crap.” Locke made a desperate grab for eloquence and came up with empty hands as usual. “I don’t mean … it’s not that I don’t appreciate—”

“Easy, Locke, easy. Just because you’ve been uncouth doesn’t mean you might not have a point. But hear me now—this is a small home we live in. The temple might seem marvelous compared to living and sleeping in heaps of dozens, but believe me—walls squeeze the people who live inside them, sooner or later.”

“They don’t bother me,” said Locke quickly.

“It’s not so much the walls, though, Locke, it’s the people. This will be your home for many years to come, gods willing, and you and Sabetha and the Sanzas are going to be as close as family. You’ll strike sparks off one another. I can’t have you shoving your thumb up your ass and doing your best impression of a brick wall every time you get annoyed. Crooked Warden help us, we’ve got to be ready and willing to talk, or we’re all going to wake up with cut throats sooner or later.”

“I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Don’t hang your head like a kicked puppy. Just keep it in mind. If you’re going to live here, staying civil is as much a duty as sitting the steps or washing dishes. Now, while I bask in the glow of another moral sermon delivered with the precision of a master fencer, hold your applause and let’s get back to last night. You’re upset because the situation was contrived to give you only one real means of resolving it, short of curling up into a little ball and crying yourself into a stupor.”

“Yes! It wasn’t like it would have been, if they’d been real guards. If they weren’t, you know, watching for me.”

“You’re right. If those men had been real agents of the duke, some of them might have been incompetent, or open to bribery, and they might not have taken their duty to guard a little girl very seriously. Correct?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Of course, if they’d been real agents of the duke, they might also have taken her somewhere truly impregnable, like the Palace of Patience. And instead of six there might have been twelve, or twenty, or the entire Nightglass company, prowling the streets looking to have an urgent personal conversation with you.” Chains leaned forward and poked Locke’s forehead. “That’s how luck works, lad. You can bitch all you like about how things could have been more favorable for you, but rest assured things can always be worse. Always. Understood?”

“I think so,” said Locke, with the neutral tone of a student gingerly accepting a master’s assurances on something far beyond personal verification, like the number of angels that could play handball on the edge of a rose petal.

“Well, if I can even get you thinking about it, that’s a victory of sorts, at your age. No offense.” Chains cracked his knuckles before continuing. “You, after all, have publicly vowed to never lose again, which is about as likely as me learning to crap gold bars on command.”

“But—”

“Let it be. I know your temperament, lad, and I’m too wise to try and give it more than a few sharp nudges at a time. So, the other thing. You’re upset that I lied about what needed to be done with Sabetha.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You feel something for her.”

“I … I don’t, um …”

“Quit it. This is important. You do feel something for her. There’s more to this than a little wounded pride. Can you tell me about it?”

Slowly, grudgingly, feeling as though he might be about to get up and run away, Locke somehow found the will to give Chains the barest sketch of his first encounter with Sabetha, and of her later disappearance.

“Hells,” said Chains quietly when the tale was finished. The sky and the city beneath it had darkened while Locke had stumbled through his explanation. “I can see why you snapped, having that rug pulled out from under you twice. Forgive me, Locke, I honestly didn’t know you’d grown feelings for her in Shades’ Hill.”

“It’s okay,” mumbled Locke.

“You have a crush, I think.”

“Do I?” Locke had a vague idea of what that word meant, and somehow it didn’t seem right. It didn’t seem enough.

“It’s not meant to belittle your feelings, lad. A crush can come on hot and sharp like an illness. I know exactly what it’s like. Years to go before your body will even be ready for, ah, what comes between men and women, but a crush doesn’t care. It’s got a power all its own. That’s the bad news.”

“What’s the good news?”

“Crushes fade. Sure as you and I are sitting here now. They’re like sparks thrown from a fire—hot and bright for a moment, then gone.”

Locke frowned, not at all sure he wanted to be released from his feelings for Sabetha. They were a bundle of mysteries, and every attempt to unravel them in his own mind seemed to send a pleasant warm shiver to every nerve in his body.

“Heh. You don’t believe me, or you don’t want to. Fair enough. But you’re going to be living with Sabetha day in and day out anytime one of you isn’t away for training. My guess is, she’ll be like a sister to you in a few years. Familiarity has a way of filing the sharp edges off our feelings for other people. You’ll see.”

2

TIME PASSED, days and months chaining together into years, and Jean Tannen joined the Gentlemen Bastards. In the summer of the seventy-seventh Year of Perelandro, two years after Jean’s arrival, a rare dry spell came over the city-state of Camorr, and the Angevine ran ten feet below its usual height. The canals went gray and turgid, thickening like blood in the veins of a ripening corpse.

Canal trees, those glorious affectations that usually roamed and twirled on the city’s currents with their long float-threaded roots drinking the filth around them, now bobbed in sullen masses, confined to the river and the Floating Market. Their silk-bright leaves dulled and their branches drooped; their roots hung slack in the water like the tentacles of dead sea-monsters. Day after day the Temple District was shrouded in layers of smoke, as every denomination burned anything that came to mind in sacrifices pleading for a hard, cleansing rain that wouldn’t come.

In the Cauldron and the Dregs, where the lowest of the low slept ten to a room in windowless houses, the usual steady flow of murders became a torrent. The duke’s corpse-hunters, paid as they were by the head, whistled while they fished putrefying former citizens out of barrels and cesspits. The city’s professional criminals, more conscientious than its impulsive killers, did their part for Camorr’s air by throwing the remains of their victims into the harbor by night, where the predators of the Iron Sea quietly made the offerings vanish.

In this atmosphere, in the hot summer evening heavy with smoke and the stink of a hundred distinct putrefactions, the temple roof was out of the question for meetings, so Father Chains let his five young wards gather in the dank coolness of the glass burrow’s kitchen. Their recent meals, by Chains’ orders, had been lukewarm affairs, with anything cooked brought in from stalls near the Floating Market.

They had come together that week, as a complete set, for the first time in half a year. Chains’ interwoven programs of training had taken on the complexity of an acrobat’s plate-spinning act as his young wards were shuffled back and forth between apprenticeships in assorted temples and trades, learning their habits, jargon, rituals, and trivia. These excursions were arranged by the Eyeless Priest via a remarkable network of contacts, extending well beyond Camorr and the criminal fraternity, and they were largely paid for out of the small fortune that the citizens of Camorr had charitably donated over the years.

Time had begun to work its more obvious changes on the young Gentlemen Bastards. Calo and Galdo were dealing with a growth spurt that had given their usual grace a humbling dose of awkwardness, and their voices were starting to veer wildly. Jean Tannen was still on the cherubic side, but his shoulders were broadening, and from scuffles like the Half-Crown War he had acquired the confident air of someone well versed in the art of introducing faces to cobblestones.

Given these evident signs of physical progress around him, Locke was secretly displeased with his own condition. His voice had yet to drop, and while he was larger than he’d ever been, all this did was maintain him in the same ratio as before, a medium child surrounded on all sides by the taller and the wider. And while he knew the other boys depended upon him to be the heart and brains of their combined operations, it was a cold comfort whenever Sabetha came home.

Sabetha (who, if she objected to being the only Gentle-lady Bastard, had never said so out loud) was freshly returned from weeks of immersive training as a court scrivener’s apprentice, and bore new signs of physical progress herself. She was still taller than Locke, and the natural color of her tightly plaited hair remained hidden by a brown alchemical wash. But her slender figure seemed to be pressing outward, ever so slightly, against the front of her thin chemise, and her movements around the glass burrow had revealed the hints of other emerging curves to Locke’s vigilant eyes.

Her natural poise had grown in direct proportion to her years, and while Locke held firm sway over the three other boys, she was a separate power, neither belittling his status in the gang nor overtly acknowledging it. There was a seriousness to her that Locke found deeply compelling, possibly because it was unique among the five of them. She had embarked upon a sort of miniature adulthood and skipped the wild facetiousness that defined, for example, the Sanzas. It seemed to Locke that she was more eager than the rest of them to get to wherever their training was taking them.

“Young lady,” said Father Chains as he entered the kitchen, “and young gentlemen, such as you are. Thank you for your prompt attention to my summons, a courtesy which I shall now repay by setting you on a path to frustration and acrimony. I have decided that you five do not fight amongst yourselves nearly enough.”

“Begging your pardon,” said Sabetha, “but if you’ll look more closely at Calo and Galdo you’ll see that’s not the case.”

“Ah, that’s merely communication,” said Chains. “Just as you and I speak by forming words, the natural, private discourse of the Sanza twins appears to consist entirely of farts and savage beatings. What I want is all five of you facing off against one another.”

“You want us to start … hitting each other?” said Locke.

“Oh, I volunteer to hit Sabetha,” said Calo, “and I volunteer to be hit by Locke!”

“I would also volunteer to be hit by Locke,” said Galdo.

“Quiet, you turnip-brained alley apes,” said Chains. “I don’t want you boxing with one another. Not necessarily. No, I’ve given you all a great many tasks that have pitted you against the world, as individuals and as a group, and for the most part you’ve trounced my expectations. I think the time has come to pry you out of your comfortable little union and see how you fare in competition against one another.”

“What sort of competition?” said Jean.

“Highly amusing competition,” said Chains, raising his eyebrows. “From the perspective of the old man who gets to sit back and watch. It’s been three or four years of steady training for most of you, and I want to see what happens when each of you tries to pit your zest for criminal enterprise against an opponent with a similar education.”

“So, uh, just to be clear,” said Calo, “none of us are going to be fighting Jean?”

“Not unless you’re inconceivably stupid.”

“Right,” said Calo. “What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to keep you all here for the rest of the summer,” said Chains. “A break from your apprenticeships. We can enjoy the marvelous weather together, and you can chase each other across the city. Starting with—” He lifted a finger and pointed it at Locke. “You. Aaaaaaand …” He slowly shifted his finger until it was pointed at Sabetha. “You!”

“Um, meaning what, exactly?” said Locke. Butterflies instantly came to life in his stomach, and the little bastards were heavily armed.

“A bit of elementary stalking and evasion, on Coin-Kisser’s Row. Tomorrow at noon.”

“Surrounded by hundreds of people,” said Sabetha coolly.

“Quite right, my dear. It’s easy enough to follow someone when you’ve got the whole night to hide in. I think you’re ready for something less forgiving. You’ll begin at the very southern end of Coin-Kisser’s Row, carrying a handbag with an open top. Inside the bag will be four small rolls of silk, each a different color. Easily visible from ten or twenty feet away. You’ll take a leisurely stroll up the full length of the district.

“Somewhere in your wake will be Locke, wearing a jacket with a certain number of brass buttons, also easily counted from a fairly narrow distance. The game is simple. Locke wins if he can tell me the colors of the silk. Sabetha wins if she crosses the Goldenreach Bridge from Coin-Kisser’s Row to Twosilver Green without revealing the colors. She can also win if Locke is clumsy enough for her to count the number of buttons on his coat. Each of you wishing to report to me will have only one chance to be accurate, so you can’t simply keep guessing until you get it right.”

“Hold on,” said Locke. “I get one way to win and she gets two?”

“Perhaps you can try burning down the Goldenreach Bridge,” Sabetha said sweetly.

“Yes, she gets two,” said Chains, “and fortunately for Camorr, the bridge is made of stone. Sabetha has a package to guard, and must, as I have said, move at a leisurely pace, with dignity. No running or climbing. Locke, you’ll be expected to cause no scenes, but your freedom of movement will be less restricted.”

“Ah.”

“You’re not to physically touch one another. You may not simply cover up the silk or the buttons. You may not have your opponent harmed or restrained in any fashion. And neither of you may call upon any of the other Gentlemen Bastards for help.”

“Where do we get to be, then?” said Galdo.

“Safely at home,” said Chains, “sitting the steps in my place.”

“Oh, balls to that, we want to see what happens!”

“One thing the contest does not need,” said Chains, “is a chorus of gawkers stumbling along for the duration. I’ll be nearby, watching everything, and I promise to give you a very lively account upon my return. Now—” He produced two small leather bags and tossed them to Locke and Sabetha. “Your operating funds.”

Locke opened his bag and counted ten silver solons.

“You’ve got all night to think about what you’re doing,” said Chains. “You may come and go as you please. Don’t feel compelled to buy anything, but if you do, the coins I’ve given you are your absolute limit.”

“What’s this all for?” said Locke.

“To put you on the spot, and thereby—”

“I think,” said Sabetha, “he meant to ask, what’s in it for the winner?”

“Ah,” said Chains. “Of course. Well, other than acquiring a vast sense of personal satisfaction, the winner will hand their dinner chores over to the loser for three nights. How’s that?”

Locke watched Sabetha, and when she nodded once, he did the same. The girl already seemed to be lost in thought, and Locke felt a touch of apprehension beneath his rising excitement. He had every confidence in his own skills, as they had fetched him everything from coin purses to corpses without much difficulty, but the full extent of Sabetha’s abilities was unknown to him. Her absences from the temple had been lengthier than those of any of the boys, and out there in the wider world she could have learned an infinite variety of nasty surprises.

3

SABETHA EXCUSED herself a few minutes later and vanished into the night, off to make whatever arrangements she thought were necessary. Locke followed in haste, throwing on the white robes of an initiate of Perelandro, but by the time he reached the hot, smoky air of the Temple District’s central plaza, she had long since vanished into the shadows. Might she be waiting out there, watching, hoping to follow him and learn what he was up to? The thought gave him a brief pause, but the unhappy fact was that he had no concrete plans at all, so it really didn’t matter whether or not she dogged his heels all night.

Lacking any better ideas, he decided to tour Coin-Kisser’s Row and refresh his memory of the district’s landmarks.

He hurried along with a brisk step, fingers interlaced within the sleeves of his robe, pondering. He trusted his clerical guise to shield him from inconvenience and harm (for he was keeping to better neighborhoods), and so he remained caught up in the whirl of his own thoughts as his feet carried him down the full length of Coin-Kisser’s Row, then back up again.

The great countinghouses were shuttered for the night, the bars and coffee shops all but empty, and the reeking canal had little of its usual drunken pleasure traffic. Locke stared at the monuments, the bridges, and the long-deserted plazas, but no fresh inspiration fell out of the sky. When he returned home, somewhat discouraged, Sabetha had not yet returned.

He fell asleep still waiting to hear her come back down the glass tunnel from the temple above.

4

COIN-KISSER’S ROW at noon lay sweltering beneath the molten bronze sun, but the upper classes of Camorr had fortunes and appearances to maintain. The empty plazas of the previous night had become a lively pageant of overdressed crowds, which Locke and Sabetha now prepared to join.

“I give you the field,” said Chains, “upon which you two shall fight your mighty battle, wherein one shall stand tall, and the other shall end up with the dishes.” Chains was ascending the unforgiving heights of fashion in a black velvet coat and pearl-studded doublet, with three silver-buckled belts taut against his belly. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat over a curly brown wig, and he had enough sweat running down his face to refill at least one of the city’s canals.

Locke was dressed far more comfortably, in a simple white doublet, black breeches, and respectable shoes. Chains was holding Locke’s jacket, with its telltale number of buttons, until Sabetha was sent on her way. For her part, Sabetha wore a linen dress and a simple jacket, both of a darkish red that was nearly the color of cinnamon. Her hair and face were concealed beneath a four-cornered hat with hanging gray veils—a fashion that had come rapidly back into vogue in the heat and foulness of recent weeks. Chains had carefully studied and approved these clothes. Locke and Sabetha could pass for servants dressed moderately, or rich children dressed lazily, and would be able to pursue their game without suspicion or interference so long as they behaved.

“Well, daylight’s burning,” said Chains, kneeling and pulling the two children toward him. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” said Sabetha. Locke merely nodded.

“Young lady first,” said Chains. “Twenty-second head start, then uncover your satchel as we discussed. I’ll be moving along in the crowd beside you, looming over your performance like a merciless god. Cheating will be dealt with in a thoroughly memorable fashion. Go, go, go.”

Chains held fast to Locke’s upper right arm as Sabetha moved off into the crowd. After a few moments, Chains spun Locke around, lifted his arms, and slipped the coat onto him. Locke ran his fingers up and down the right lapel, counting six buttons.

“I stretch forth my arm and cast you into the air.” Chains gave Locke a little shove. “Now hunt, and let’s see whether you’re a hawk or a parakeet.”

Locke allowed the push to carry him into the flow of the crowd. His initial position seemed good. Sabetha was about thirty yards away, headed north, and her cinnamon dress was hard to miss. Furthermore, Locke couldn’t help but notice that the patrons of Coin-Kisser’s Row formed an ideal crowd for this sort of work, tending to move together in small, self-aware clusters rather than as a more sprawling chaos. He would be chasing Sabetha down narrow avenues that would temporarily open and close around her, and even if she made good time she wasn’t likely to be able to hide in the blink of an eye.

Still, Locke was as uneasy as he was excited, feeling much more parakeet than hawk. He had no plan beyond trusting to skill and circumstance, while Sabetha could have arranged anything.… Or had she merely snuck off into the night for a few empty hours to make him think that she could have arranged anything? “Gah,” he muttered in disgust, at least wise enough to recognize the danger of second-guessing himself into a panic before she even made her move.

The first few minutes of the chase were uneventful, though tense. Locke managed to close the distance by a few strides, no mean feat considering Sabetha’s longer legs. As he moved, the peculiar chatter of the Row enfolded him on all sides. Men and women blathered about trade syndicates, ships departing or expected back, interest rates, scandals, weather. It wasn’t all that different from the conversation of one of the lower districts, in fact, save for more references to things like compound interest rates. There was no shortage of talk about handball and who was fucking whom.

Locke hurried on through the din. If Sabetha noticed him creeping up on her, she didn’t speed up. Perhaps she couldn’t, not while staying “dignified,” though she did sidestep here and there, gradually moving herself farther and farther away from the canal side of the district and closer to the steps of the countinghouses, on Locke’s left.

Locke could see her satchel from time to time, hanging casually from her right shoulder, and it seemed that with perfectly innocent little gestures she was managing to keep it mostly forward of her right hip, conveniently out of sight. Was that the game, then? Without using his arms or hands to directly conceal his row of brass buttons, Locke began making sure that his various twists and turns in the crowd were always made with his left shoulder turned forward.

If Chains (occasionally visible as a large lurking shape somewhere to Locke’s right) had any objection to this sort of mild rules-bending, he wasn’t yet leaping out of the crowd to end the contest. Squinting, Locke spared a few seconds to glance around for unexpected hazards, then returned his gaze to Sabetha just in time to catch her causing a commotion.

With smooth falseness that was readily apparent to Locke’s practiced eye, Sabetha “tripped” into a huge merchant, rebounding lightly off the massive silk-clad hemispheres of his posterior. As the man whirled around, Sabetha was already turning in profile to Locke—curtsying in apology, concealing her satchel on the far side of her body, and no doubt peering straight at Locke from under her veils. Forewarned, he turned in unison with her, the other way, giving her a fine view of his buttonless left side as he pretended to scan to his right for something terribly important. Perfect stalemate.

Locke was just too far away to hear what Sabetha said to the fat merchant, but her words brought rapid satisfaction, and she was hurrying off to the north again before he’d even finished turning back to his own business. Locke followed instantly, flush with much more than the day’s stifling heat. He realized they’d covered nearly half the southern district of Coin-Kisser’s Row; a quarter of the field was already used up. Even worse, he realized that Sabetha was indulging him if she even bothered trying to count his buttons. All she really had to do was keep him stymied until she could dash across the final bridge to Twosilver Green.

She continued veering to the left, closer and closer to a tall countinghouse, a many-gabled structure fronted by square columns carved with dozens of different representations of round-bellied Gandolo, Filler of Vaults, god of commerce. Sabetha moved up the building’s steps and ducked behind one of those pillars.

Another trap to try and eyeball his jacket? Tautly alert, carefully keeping his precious buttons turned away from Sabetha’s last known position, he hurried toward the pillars. Might she be attempting to reach the inside of the countinghouse? No, there she was—

Two of her! Two identical figures in cinnamon-colored dresses and long dark veils, with little bags slung over their right shoulders, stepped back out into the sunlight.

“She couldn’t have,” Locke whispered. Yet clearly she had. During the night, while he’d been fretting up and down the dark streets, she’d arranged help and a set of matching costumes. Sabetha and her double strolled away from the carvings of the fat god, headed north toward the Bridge of the Seven Lanterns, the halfway point of their little contest. For all the opportunities he’d already seized in his short life to dwell upon Sabetha’s every feature, both of the girls looked exactly alike to him.

“Tricky,” said Locke under his breath. There had to be some difference, if he could only spot it. The bags were probably his best chance; surely they would be the hardest elements of the costumes to synchronize.

“Blood for rain!” boomed a deep voice as Locke reentered the crowd. Bearing down on him came a procession of men in black-and-gray robes. Their mantles bore emblems of crossed hammers and trowels, marking them as divines of Morgante, the City Father, the god of order, hierarchies, and harsh consequences. While none of the Therin gods were ever called enemies, Morgante and his followers were undeniably the least hospitable to the semi-heresy of the Nameless Thirteenth. Morgante ruled executioners, constables, and judges, and no thief would willingly set foot in one of his temples.

The black-robed procession, a dozen strong, was pushing along an open-topped wagon holding an iron cage. A slender man was chained upright inside it, his body covered with wet red gouges. Behind the cage stood a priest holding a wooden switch topped with a claw-like blade about the size of a finger.

“Blood for rain!” hollered the leader of the priests once again, and initiates behind him held baskets out to the passing crowd. It was a mobile sacrifice, then. For every coin tossed into a basket, the caged prisoner would receive another painful but carefully measured slash. That man would be a resident of the Palace of Patience, worming his way out of something harsh (judicial amputation, most likely) by offering his body up for this cruel use. Locke had no further thoughts to spare the poor fellow, for the two girls in dark red dresses were vanishing around the far left side of the procession. He ducked wide around the opposite side, just in case another ambush was in the offing.

The girls weren’t troubling themselves; they were headed straight for the Bridge of the Seven Lanterns, and were close enough that Locke dared not close the gap. While the bridge was wide enough for two wagons to pass without grinding wheel-rims, it was narrow indeed compared to the plaza, with nowhere to duck and dodge if the girls tried anything clever. Locke matched their pace and trailed them like a kite, fading back to a distance of about thirty yards. Halfway to the end of the contest, and he hadn’t actually gained a foot!

The Bridge of the Seven Lanterns was plain solid stone, no unnerving toy left over from the long-vanished Eldren. Its parapets were low, and as Locke moved step by step up the gentle arch he was offered a fine view of dozens of boats moving sluggishly on the canal below—a view he ignored, focused as he was on the slender red shapes of his two rivals. There was no wagon traffic at the moment, and while Locke watched, the dress-wearers separated, moving to opposite sides of the bridge. There they paused, each one turning her body as though she were gazing out over the water.

“Hell shit damn,” muttered Locke, trying for the first time in his life to emulate the lengthy chains of profanity woven by the few adult role models he’d ever had. “Pissing shit monkeys.” What was the game now? Stall him indefinitely and let the sun cook them all? Looking for inspiration, he glanced around, and then back the way he’d come.

A third girl in a cinnamon-red dress and gray veil was walking straight toward him, not twenty yards behind, just at the point where the cobbles of the plaza met the bridge embankment. Locke’s stomach performed a flip that would have been the highlight of any court acrobat’s career.

He turned away from the newcomer, trying not to look too startled. Crooked Warden, he’d been stupid not to check the whole area where Sabetha had picked up her first decoy. And now, yes, his eyes weren’t merely playing tricks—the two girls in front of him were slowly, calmly, demurely edging in his direction. He was trapped on a bridge at the center of a collapsing triangle of red dresses. Unless he ran like mad, which would signal to Chains and Sabetha alike that he’d broken character and given up, one of the girls would surely manage to count his buttons.

Sweet gods, Sabetha had outwitted him before he’d even woken up that morning.

“Not done yet,” he muttered, desperately scanning the area for any distraction he could seize. “Not yet, not yet.” His vague frustration had flared up into a sweat-soaked terror of losing—no, not merely losing, but failing by such an astounding degree in his first contest against a girl he would have swallowed hot iron nails to impress. This wouldn’t just embarrass him, it would convince Sabetha that he was a little boy of no account. Forever.

As it happened, it wasn’t fresh and subtle inspiration that saved him—it was his old teaser’s reflexes, the unsociably crude methods he’d used to create street incidents back in his Shades’ Hill days. Barely realizing what he was doing, he flung himself down on his knees against the nearest parapet, with his brass buttons scant inches from the stone. With every ounce of energy he possessed, he pretended to throw up.

“Hooouk,” he coughed, a minor prelude to a disgusting symphony, “hggggk … hoooo-gggghhhhkkk … HNNNNNN-BLAAAAAARGH!” The noises were fine, as convincing as he’d ever conjured, and he pushed hard against the parapet with one shaking arm. That was always a great touch; adults fell hard for it. Those that were repulsed would back off an extra three feet, and those that were sympathetic would all but tremble.

He stole quick glances around while he moaned, shuddered, and retched. Adult passersby were swinging wide around him, in the typical fashion of the rich and busy; there was no profit in attending to someone else’s sick servant or messenger boy. As for his red-dressed nemeses, they had all halted, wavering like veiled apparitions. Approaching him now would be suspicious and dangerous, while standing there like statues would rapidly invite needless attention. Locke wondered what they would do, knowing he had merely succeeded in restoring a stalemate, but that was certainly better than letting their trap snap him up.

“Just keep retching,” he whispered, and did so. As far as plans went, it was perhaps the worst he’d ever conceived, but now it was up to someone else to make the next move.

“What goes?” A woman’s voice, brimming with authority. “Explain yourself, boy.”

That someone else was, as it turned out, wearing the mustard-colored jacket of the city watch.

“Lost your grip on breakfast, eh?” The guardswoman nudged Locke with the tip of a boot. “Look, just move along and be sick at the end of the bridge.”

“Help me,” whispered Locke.

“Can’t stand on your own?” The woman’s leather fighting harness creaked as she crouched beside him, and her belt-slung baton tapped the ground. “Give it a minute—”

“I’m not really sick!” Locke beckoned to her with one hand, concealing the gesture from everyone else with his body. “Bend down, please. I’m in danger.”

“What the hell are you on about?” She looked wary, but did come closer.

“Don’t react. Don’t hold this up.” In an instant, Locke had his little purse of silver coins, thus far unspent, transferred from his right hand to her left. He pushed the woman’s fingers gently closed over the bag. “That’s ten solons. My master is a rich man. Help me, and he’ll know your name.”

“Gods be gracious,” the woman whispered. Locke knew that bag of silver represented several months of her pay. Would she bend for it? “What’s going on?”

“I’m in danger,” Locke muttered. “I’m being followed. A man wants the messages I carry for my master. Back on the plaza south of here, he tried to grab me twice.”

“I’ll take you to my watch station, then.”

“No, there’s no need. Just get me to the north side of this bridge. Pick me up and carry me, like I’m being arrested. If he sees that, he won’t wait around. He’ll go tell his masters the watch has me, and once we’ve gone a little ways, you can just let me go.”

“Let you go?”

“Sure, just set me down, let me off with a warning, talk to me sternly.”

“That’d look damned irregular.”

“You’re the watch. You can do what you like and nobody’s going to say anything!”

“I still don’t know.…”

“Look, you’re not breaking any law. You’re just lending me a hand.” Locke knew he nearly had her. She had already taken his coin; now it was a matter of notching the promised reward up a bit. “Get me off this bridge and my master will double what I’ve given you. Easily.”

The guardswoman seemed to consider this for a few seconds, then rose from her crouch and seized him by the back of his jacket. “You’re not sick,” she yelled. “You’re just making a gods-damned scene!”

“No, please,” cried Locke, praying that he was, in fact, witnessing a purchased performance and not a sudden change of heart. The guardswoman lifted him, tucked him under her left arm, and marched north. Some of the well-dressed onlookers chuckled, but they all moved out of the way as Locke’s improvised transportation carried him away from the scene of his near-humiliation.

He kicked and struggled to keep up his end of the presumed deception. Some of his squirming was only too real, as the woman’s baton handle kept jabbing him in the ribs, spoiling what was an otherwise surprisingly comfortable ride. At least he was being carried with his all-important buttons facing the guardswoman’s side.

Locke scanned his tilted field of vision and saw, to his delight, that the two red dresses in front of him had darted far to the left and were keeping their distance from him and his temporarily tame yellowjacket. Would Sabetha believe he’d really been seized against his will? Probably not, but now she’d have to sort out a new plan of attack with her accomplices, whoever they were.

His own plans were developing speedily as he pretended to fight back against his captor. Once he’d gotten well ahead of the girls, he could cut off their progress to the final choke point, Goldenreach Bridge. And while his ultimate position there would find him once again outnumbered three to one, at least he would have more time to play spot-the-real-Sabetha.

Kicking, snarling, and shaking his fists, Locke was carried at last down the opposite side of the bridge, onto the northern plaza. Here the real powers of Coin-Kisser’s Row were situated, houses like Meraggio’s and Bonaduretta’s, whose webs of coin and credit reached out across the continent.

“Don’t make me knock your teeth in,” his guardswoman growled down at him as a particularly large group of onlookers moved past. Locke could have applauded her theatrical sense; yellowjacket or not, the woman had good instincts. Now, all they had to do was find a decent spot to set him down, and he was as good as—

“Oh, Constable, Constable, please wait!” Locke heard the soft sound of running feet even before he heard Sabetha’s voice, and he squirmed madly, trying to spot her before she arrived. Too late—she was at the guardswoman’s other side, veil flipped back over her four-cornered hat. She was holding out a small dark pouch in her right hand. “You dropped this, Constable!”

“Dropped what?” The woman turned to face Sabetha, swinging Locke into position to look directly at her. Her cheeks were flushed red and, inexplicably, she was letting her open satchel just hang there. Locke stared openmouthed at the four tidy little rolls of silk tucked therein—red, green, black, and blue.

“You must be mistaken, girl.”

“Not at all. I saw it myself. I’m sure this is yours.” Sabetha pressed the little pouch into the constable’s free hand, precisely as Locke had just moments earlier, and in so doing she moved closer and lowered her voice. “That’s four solons. Please, please let my little brother go.”

“What?” The constable sounded thoroughly mystified, but Locke noticed that she slipped the pouch into her coat with smooth reflexes. He was beginning to suspect that this yellowjacket had some prior experience with making offerings disappear.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to cause a scene,” said Sabetha, letting a note of desperate worry break into her voice. “He’s not supposed to be out on his own. He’s not quite right in the head.”

“Hey,” said Locke, suddenly realizing that knowledge of the silk colors wouldn’t mean much if he let the situation spin further out of his control. What the hell was Sabetha doing? “Wait just a minute—”

“He’s a total idiot,” Sabetha whispered, squeezing the constable’s free hand. “It’s just not safe for him to be out without an escort! He makes up stories, you see. Please … let me take him home.”

“I don’t … I just … now, look here—”

One or more wheels were clearly about to fly off the previously smooth-running engine of the guardswoman’s thought processes, and Locke cringed. Suddenly a wide, dark shape insinuated itself between Locke’s constable and the cinnamon-red figure of Sabetha, gently pushing the girl aside.

“Ahhhhhhhhh, Madam Constable, I am so utterly delighted to see that you’ve retrieved the two parcels I misplaced,” said Chains. “You are a jewel of efficiency, excellent woman, a gift from the heavens. I beg leave to shake your hand.”

For the third time in the span of a few minutes, a tiny parcel of coins slipped into the palm of the now utterly dumbstruck watch-woman. This exchange was faster and smoother by far than either of those effected by the children; Locke only saw it because he was being held in just the right position to catch a tiny glimpse of something dark nestled in Chains’ hand.

“Um … well, sir, I …”

Chains leaned over and whispered a few quick sentences in her ear. Even before he finished, the woman gently lowered Locke to the ground. Not knowing what else to do, he moved over to stand beside Sabetha, adopting a much-practiced facial expression meant to radiate absolute harmlessness.

“Ahhh,” said the constable. Chains’ new offering joined the previous two inside her coat.

“Indeed,” said Chains, beaming. “Blessings of the Twelve, and fair rains follow you, dear constable. These two will trouble you no further.”

Chains gave a cheery wave (which was just as cheerfully returned by the guardswoman), then turned and pushed Locke and Sabetha toward the east bank of the plaza, where stairs led down to a wide landing for the hiring of passenger boats.

“What happened to your little accomplices?” whispered Chains.

“Told them to get lost when I went after that yellowjacket,” said Sabetha.

“Good. Now, shut up and behave while I get us a boat. We’d best be anywhere but here.”

All of the nearby gondolas were departing or passing by, save for one bobbing at the quay, about to be boarded by a middle-aged man of business who was fishing in a coin purse. Chains stepped smoothly past him and gave the pole-man a peculiar sort of wave.

“I say,” said Chains, “sorry to be late. We’re in such a desperate hurry to reach a friend of a friend, and I just knew that this would be the right sort of boat.”

“The rightest sort of right, sir.” The pole-man was young and skinny, tanned brown as horse droppings, and he wore a sandy-colored beard down to the middle of his stained blue tunic. Charms of silver and ivory were woven into that beard, so many that the man actually chimed as he moved his head about. “Sir, I’m apologetic as hell, but this is the gentleman I’ve been waiting for.”

“Waiting for?” The man looked up from his coin-counting, startled. “But you only just pulled up!”

“Nonetheless, I got a previous engagement, and this is it. Now, I do beg pardon—”

“No, no, this is my boat!”

“It pains me to correct you,” said Chains, rendering his appropriation of the gondola final by ushering Sabetha into it. “Nonetheless, I must point out that the boat is actually the property of the young man with the pole.”

“Which it is, already and unfortunately, at this time engaged,” said that man.

“Why … you brazen, disrespectful little pack of dockside shits! I was here first! Don’t you dare take that boat, boy!”

Locke had been following Sabetha, and the middle-aged man reached down and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. Equally swiftly, Chains backhanded the man so hard that he immediately let go and stumbled back two paces, nearly falling into the canal.

“Touch either of my children again,” said Chains in a tone of voice unlike anything Locke had ever heard, “and I’ll break you into so many fucking pieces not a whore in the city will ever be able to figure out which wrinkled scrap to suck.”

“Dog,” yelled the man of business, holding a hand up to his bleeding lips. “Fucking scoundrel! I’ll have your name, sir, your name and a place where my man can find you. I’ll have you out for this, just you—”

Chains threw an arm around the man’s neck. Wrenching the unfortunate fellow toward him, Chains whispered harshly into his ear—again, just a few sentences. Chains then shoved him away, and Locke was astonished to see how pale the man’s face had become.

“I … uh, I … understand,” said the man. He seemed to be having difficulty making his voice work properly. “My, uh, apologies, deepest apologies. I’ll just—”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Quite!”

The man took Chains’ advice, with haste, and Chains helped Locke into the boat. Locke sat on a bench at the bow directly beside Sabetha, feeling a warmth in his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun when his leg brushed hers. As Chains settled onto the bench in front of the two children, the pole-man nudged the gondola away from the quay stones and out into the calm, slimy water of the canal.

At that moment, Locke was as much in awe of Chains as he was of his proximity to Sabetha. Charming yellowjackets, commandeering boats, and making wealthy men piss themselves—all of that, bribes notwithstanding, with just a few whispered words here and there. Who and what did Chains know? What was his actual place in Capa Barsavi’s hierarchy?

“Where to?” said the pole-man.

“Temple District, Venaportha’s landing,” said Chains.

“What’s your outfit?”

“Gentlemen Bastards.”

“Right, heard of you. Seem to be doing well for yourselves, mixing with the quality.”

“We do well enough. You one of Gap-Tooth’s lads?”

“Spot on, brother. Call ourselves the Clever Enoughs, out of the west Narrows. Some of us have what you’d call gainful employment, spotting likely marks on the canals. Business ain’t but shit lately.”

“Here’s a picture of the duke for a smooth ride.” Chains slapped a gold tyrin down on the bench behind him.

“I’ll drink your health tonight, friend, no fuckin’ lie.”

Chains let the pole-man get on with his work, and turned back to Locke and Sabetha, leaning close to them. He folded his hands and said quietly, “Now, what the hell did I just see on Coin-Kisser’s Row? Can either of you translate the fuck-wittery into some sort of vaguely logical account?”

“He’s got six buttons,” said Sabetha.

“Redgreenblackblue,” spat Locke.

“Oh no,” said Chains. “Contest’s over. I declare a tie. No slithering to victory on a technicality.”

“Well, I had to try,” said Sabetha.

“That might have been the lesson,” muttered Locke.

“It’s not over until it’s really, really over,” said Sabetha. “Or something. You know.”

“My prize students,” sighed Chains. “Sometimes a contest to chase one another up and down a crowded plaza really is just a contest to chase one another up and down a crowded plaza. Let’s start with you, Locke. What was your plan?”

“Uhhh …”

“You know, believe it or not, ‘the gods will provide’ is not a fucking plan, lad. You’ve got one hell of a talent for improvisation, but when that lets you down it lets you down hard. You’ve got to have a next move in mind, like in Catch-the-Duke. Remember how you managed that affair with the corpse? I know you can do better than you just did.”

“But—”

“Sabetha’s turn. Near as I could tell, you had him. You were the one in the rear, the one that came out after he chased the first two north, right?”

“Yeah,” said Sabetha, warily.

“Where’d you get the decoys?”

“Girls I used to know in Windows. They’re seconds in a couple of the bigger gangs now. We lifted the dresses and went over the plan last night.”

“Ah,” said Chains. “There’s that charming notion I was just discussing, Locke. A stratagem. What did your friends have in their bags?”

“Colored wool,” said Sabetha. “Best we could do.”

“Not bad. Yet all you could manage was a tie with young Master Planless here. You had him in a fine bind, and then … what, exactly?”

“Well, he pretended to be sick. Then that yellowjacket came along and collared him, and I … I thought it was more important than anything else to go after him and get him loose.”

“Get me loose?” Locke sputtered in surprise. “What do you mean, get me loose? I passed that woman ten solons to get her to pick me up and carry me north!”

“I thought she’d grabbed you for real!” Sabetha’s soft brown eyes darkened, and the color rose in her cheeks. “You little ass, I thought I was rescuing you!”

“But … why?”

“There was nothing on the ground when I followed behind you!” Sabetha pulled her hat and veil off, and angrily yanked out the lacquered pins in her hair. “I didn’t see any sick-up on the bridge, so I thought that had tipped the yellowjacket to the fact that you were bullshitting!”

“You thought I got collared for real because I threw up wrong?”

“I know what sort of mess you could make back when you were a street teaser.” Sabetha shook her hair out—alchemically adjusted or not, it was a sight that made Locke’s heart punch the front of his rib cage. “I didn’t see any mess like that, so I assumed you got pinched! I gave that woman all the money I had left!”

“Look, I might have … I might have stuck my finger down my throat when I was little, but … I’m not gonna do that all the time!”

“That’s not the point!” Sabetha folded her arms and looked away. They were moving east now, across the long curving canal north of the Videnza, and in the distance beyond Sabetha Locke could see the dark, blocky shape of the Palace of Patience rising above slate roofs. “You knew you were losing, you had no plan, so you pitched a fit and made a mess of everything! You weren’t even trying to win; you were just sloppy. And I was sloppy to fall for it!”

“I was afraid this might happen, sooner or later,” said Chains in a musing tone of voice. “I’ve been thinking that we need a more elaborate sort of sign language, more than what we flash back and forth with the other Right People. Some sort of private code, so we can keep one another on the same page when we’re running a scheme.”

“No, Sabetha, look,” said Locke, hardly hearing Chains. “You weren’t sloppy, you were brilliant, you deserved to win—”

“That’s right,” she said. “But you didn’t lose, so I didn’t win.”

“Look, I concede. I give it to you. I’ll do all your kitchen chores for three days, just like—”

“I don’t want a damned concession! I won’t take your pity as a coin.”

“It’s not … it’s not pity, honest! I just … you thought you were really rescuing me. I owe you! I want your chores, it would be a pleasure. It would be my, my privilege.”

She didn’t turn back toward him, but she stared at him out of the corner of her eye for a long, silent moment. Chains said nothing; he had gone still as a stone.

“Sloppy idiot,” Sabetha muttered at last. “You’re trying to be charming. Well, I do not choose to be charmed by you, Locke Lamora.”

She shuffled herself on the bench and gripped the gunwale of the gondola with both hands, so that her back was completely toward him.

“Not today, at any rate,” she said softly.

Sabetha’s anger stung Locke like a swallowed wasp, but that pain was subsumed by a warmer, more powerful sensation that seemed to swell his skull until he was sure it was about to crack like an egg.

For all her seeming indifference, for all her impenetrability and frustration, she’d cared enough about him to throw the contest aside the instant she’d thought he was in real danger.

Across the rest of that seemingly endless, miserably hot summer of the seventy-seventh Year of Perelandro, he clung to that realization like a talisman.

INTERSECT (I)

FUEL

IN THE NO-TIME no-space of thought, conspiracy could have no witnesses. The old man’s mind reached out across one hundred and twenty miles of air and water. Child’s play for the wearer of four rings. His counterpart answered immediately.

It’s done, then?

The Camorri have accepted her terms. As I told you they would.

We never doubted. It’s not as though she wants for persuasiveness.

We’re moving now.

Is Lamora that ill?

The archedama put this off too long. A genuine mistake.

And not her first. If Lamora dies?

Your exemplar would crush Tannen alone. He’s formidable, but he already carries a weight of mourning.

Could you not … assist Lamora to an early exit?

I told you I won’t go that far. Not right under her eyes! My life still means something to me.

Of course, brother. It was an unworthy suggestion. Forgive me.

Besides, she didn’t choose Lamora just to boil your blood. There’s something about him you don’t understand yet.

Why are you dropping hints instead of information?

I can’t risk letting this loose. Not this. Be assured, this is deeper than the five-year game, and Patience means for you to know it all soon enough.

Now, THAT worries me.

It shouldn’t. Just play the game. If we manage to save Lamora, your exemplar will have a busy six weeks.

Our reception is already prepared.

Good. Look after yourself, then. We’ll be in Karthain tomorrow, whatever happens.

From start to finish, the conversation spanned three heartbeats.

CHAPTER THREE

BLOOD AND BREATH AND WATER

1

THE SKY ABOVE the harbor of Lashain was capped with writhing clouds the color of coal slime, sealing off any speck of light from stars or moons. Jean remained at Locke’s side as Patience’s attendants carried his cot down from the carriage and through the soft spattering rain, toward the docks and a dozen anchored ships whose yards creaked and swayed in the wind.

While there were Lashani guards and functionaries of various sorts milling about, none of them seemed to want anything to do with the business of the procession around Locke. They carried him to the edge of a stone pier, where a longboat waited with a red lamp hung at its bow.

Patience’s attendants set the cot down across the middle of several rowing benches, then took up oars. Jean sat at Locke’s feet, while Patience settled alone at the bow. Beyond her Jean could see low black waves like shudders in the water. To Jean, who had grown accustomed to the smell of salt water and its residues, there seemed something strangely lacking in the fresher odors of the Amathel.

Their destination was a brig floating a few hundred yards out, at the northern mouth of the harbor. Its stern lanterns cast a silvery light across the name painted above its great cabin windows, Sky-Reacher. From what Jean could see of her she looked like a newer vessel. As they came under her lee Jean saw men and women rigging a crane with a sling at the ship’s waist.

“Ahhh,” said Locke weakly. “The indignity. Patience, can’t you just float me up there or something?”

“I could bend my will to a lot of mundane tricks.” She glanced back without smiling. “I think you’d rather have me rested for what’s going to happen.”

The crane’s harness was a simple loop of reinforced leather, with a few strands of rope hanging loose. Using these, Jean lashed Locke into the harness, then waved to the people above. Hanging like a puppet, Locke rose out of the boat, knocked against the side of the brig once or twice, and was hauled safely into the ship’s waist by several pairs of hands.

Jean pulled himself up the boarding net and arrived on deck as Locke was being untied. Jean nudged Patience’s people aside, pulled Locke out of the harness himself, and held him up while the harness went back down for Patience. Jean took a moment to examine the Sky-Reacher.

His first impressions from the water were reinforced. She was a young ship, sweet-smelling and tautly rigged. But he saw very few people on deck—just four, all working the crane. Also, it was an unnaturally silent vessel. The noises of wind and water and wood were all there, but the human elements, the scuttling and coughing and murmuring and snoring belowdecks, were missing.

“Thank you,” said Patience as the harness brought her up to the deck. She stepped lightly out of the leather loop and patted Locke on the shoulder. “Easy part’s done. We’ll be down to business soon.”

Her attendants came up the side, unpacked the folding cot once more, and helped Jean settle Locke into it.

“Make for open water,” said Patience. “Take our guests to the great cabin.”

“The boat, Archedama?” The speaker was a stout gray-bearded man wearing an oilcloak with the hood down, evidently content to let the rain slide off his bald head. His right eye socket was a disquieting mass of scar tissue and shadowed hollow.

“Leave it,” said Patience. “I’ve cut things rather fine.”

“Far be it from me to remind the archedama that I suggested as much last night, and the night—”

“Yes, Coldmarrow,” said Patience, “far be it from you.”

“Your most voluntary abject, madam.” The man turned, cleared his throat, and bellowed, “Put us out! North-northeast, keep her steady!”

“North-northeast, keep her steady, aye,” said a bored-sounding woman who detached herself from the group breaking down the crane.

“Are we going to take on more crew?” said Jean.

“What ever for?” said Patience.

“Well, it’s just … the wind’s out of the north-northeast. You’re going to be tacking like mad to make headway, and as near as I can see, you’ve only got seven or eight people to work the ship. That’s barely enough to mind her in harbor—”

“Tacking,” said the man called Coldmarrow, “what a quaint notion. Help us get your friend into the stern cabin, Camorri.”

Jean did so. Sky-Reacher’s aft compartment wasn’t flush with the main deck; Locke had to be carried down a narrow passage with treacherous steps. Whatever the ship had been constructed for, it wasn’t the easy movement of invalids.

The cabin was about the same size as the one Locke and Jean had possessed on the Red Messenger, but far less cluttered—no weapons hung on the bulkheads, no charts or clothes were strewn about, no cushions or hammocks. A table formed from planks laid over sea chests was in the center of the room, lit by soft yellow lanterns. The shutters were thrown tight over the stern windows. Most strikingly, the place had a deeply unlived-in smell, an aroma of cinnamon and cedar oils and other things people threw into wardrobes to drive out staleness.

While Jean helped Locke onto the table, Coldmarrow somehow produced a blanket of thin gray wool and handed it over. Jean wiped the rain from Locke’s face, then covered him up.

“Better,” whispered Locke, “moderately, mildly, wretchedly better. And … what the—”

A small dark shape detached itself from the shadows in a corner of the cabin, padded forward, and leapt up onto Locke’s chest.

“Gods, Jean, I’m hallucinating,” said Locke. “I’m actually hallucinating.”

“No, you’re not.” Jean stroked the silky black cat that was supposed to be long gone from their lives. Regal was exactly as Jean remembered, down to the white spot at his throat. “I see the little bastard too.”

“He can’t be here,” muttered Locke. The cat circled his head, purring loudly. “It’s impossible.”

“What a myopic view you have on the splendors of coincidence,” said Patience, coming down the steps. “It was one of my agents that purchased your old yacht. It lay briefly alongside the Sky-Reacher a few weeks ago, and this little miscreant took the opportunity to change residences.”

“I don’t get it,” said Locke, gently tugging at the scruff of Regal’s neck. “I never even liked cats all that much.”

“Surely you realize,” said Patience, “that cats are no great respecters of human opinion.”

“Kin to Bondsmagi, perhaps?” said Jean. “So what do we do now?”

“Now,” said Patience, “we speak plainly. What’s going to happen, Jean, will be hard for you to watch. Possibly too hard. Some … ungifted cannot bear close proximity to our workings. If you wish to go into the middle deck, you’ll find hammocks and other accommodations—”

“I’m staying,” said Jean. “For the whole damn thing. That’s not negotiable.”

“Be resolved, then, but hear me. No matter what happens, or seems to happen, you cannot interfere. You cannot interrupt. It could be fatal, and not just for Locke.”

“I’ll behave,” said Jean. “I’ll bite my damn knuckles off if I have to.”

“Forgive me for reminding you that I know the nature of your temper—”

“Look,” said Jean, “if I get out of hand, just speak my gods-damned name and make me calm down. I know you can do it.”

“It may come to that,” said Patience. “So long as you know what to expect if you cause trouble. Speaking of which, remove our little friend and take him forward.”

“Off you go, kid.” Jean plucked Regal up before the cat realized he’d been targeted for transportation. The smooth bundle of fur yawned and nestled into the crook of Jean’s right elbow.

Jean carried his passenger to the main deck, where he was surprised to find the vessel already moving under topsails, although he’d heard no shouting or struggling from above to get them down. He ran up the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, from which he could see the rain-blurred lights of Lashain already dwindling behind the dark shapes bobbing in her harbor. The boat they’d abandoned was barely visible, a tiny silhouetted slat on the waves.

The woman who’d been at the crane was now at the helm, just abaft the mainmast where it marked the forward boundary of the quarterdeck. Her face was only half-visible within the hood of her cloak, but she seemed lost in thought, and Jean was startled to see that she wasn’t actually touching the wheel. Her left hand was raised and slightly cupped, and from time to time she would spread her fingers and move it forward, as though pushing some unseen object.

Lightning broke overhead, and by the sudden flash Jean could see the other members of the crew scattered across the deck, also cloaked and hooded, standing at silent attention with their hands similarly raised.

As thunder rolled across the Amathel, Jean walked over to stand beside the woman at the wheel.

“Excuse me,” he said, “can you talk? What’s our current heading?”

“North … northeast,” said the woman dreamily, not moving to face him when she spoke. “Straight on for Karthain.”

“But that’s dead into the wind!”

“We’re using … a private wind.”

“Fuck me sideways,” Jean muttered. “I, uh, I need somewhere to stow this cat.”

“Main deck hatch … to the middle hold.”

Jean carried his fuzzy comrade to the ship’s waist and found an access hatch, which he slid open. A narrow ladder led six or seven feet down to a dimly lit space, where Jean could see straw on the floor and pallets of some soft material.

“Perelandro’s balls, little guy,” whispered Jean, “what ever gave me the idea I could get the best of people who make their own fucking weather?”

“Mrrrrwwwww,” said the cat.

“You’re right. I am desperate. And stupid.” Jean let Regal go, and the cat landed lightly on a pallet in the semi-darkness below. “Keep your head down, puss. I think shit’s about to break weird all over the place.”

2

“CLOSE THE door firmly,” said Coldmarrow when Jean returned.

“Bolt it?”

“No. Just keep the weather out where it belongs.”

Patience was pouring pale yellow liquid from a leather skin into a clay cup as Jean came down the steps.

“Well, Jean,” said Locke, “if nothing else, at least I get a drink before I go.”

“What’s that?” said Jean.

“Several somethings for the pain,” said Patience.

“So Locke’s going to sleep through this?”

“Oh no,” said Patience. “No, he won’t be able to sleep an instant, I’m afraid.”

She held the cup to Locke’s lips, and with her assistance he managed to gulp the contents down.

“Agggggh,” he said, shaking his head. “Tastes like a dead fishmonger’s piss, siphoned out of his guts a week after the funeral.”

“It is a rather functional concoction,” allowed Patience. “Now relax. You’ll feel it take hold swiftly.”

“Ohhh,” sighed Locke, “you’re not wrong.”

Coldmarrow set a bucket of water beside the table. He then pulled Locke’s tunic off, exposing the pale skin and old scars of his upper body. It was obvious that vigor had fled from every slack strand of muscle. Coldmarrow dampened a cloth and carefully cleaned Locke’s chest, arms, and face. Patience folded and resettled the gray blanket over his lower half.

“Now,” said Patience, “certain requirements.” She retrieved an ornamented witchwood box from a corner of the cabin. At a wave from her hand, it unlocked itself and slid open, revealing nested trays of small objects, rather like a physiker’s kit.

Patience took a slim silver knife out of the box. With this, she sliced off several lengths of Locke’s damp hair, and placed them in a clay bowl held out by Coldmarrow. As the bearded man moved, his sleeves fell back far enough for Jean to see that he had four rings on his left wrist.

“Just a few deductions,” said Patience. “The outermost flourishes. Surely he could use the trimming.”

Coldmarrow held another bowl under Locke’s right hand as Patience whittled slivers from his nails. Locke murmured, rolled his head back, and sighed.

“Blood, too,” said Patience, “what little he can spare.” She pricked two of Locke’s fingers with the blade, eliciting no response from him. Jean, however, grew more and more anxious as Coldmarrow collected red drops in a third bowl.

“I hope you’re not planning to keep any of that, after this … thing is finished,” said Jean.

“Jean, please,” said Patience. “He’ll be lucky to be alive after this thing is finished.”

“We won’t do anything untoward,” said Coldmarrow. “Your friend is a valuable asset.”

“Is he now?” growled Jean. “An asset? An asset’s something you can put on a shelf or write down on a ledger, you spooky bastard. Don’t talk about him like—”

“Jean,” said Patience sharply. “Command yourself or be commanded.”

“Hey, I’m calm. Placid as pipe-smoke,” said Jean, folding his arms. “Just look at how placid I can be. What’s that you’re doing now?”

“The last thing I need,” said Patience, “is a wisp of breath.” She held a ceramic jar at Locke’s mouth for some time, then capped it and set it aside.

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” said Locke groggily. “Now get this shit out of me.”

“I can’t just will it so,” said Patience. “Life is far more easily destroyed than mended. Magic doesn’t change that. In fact, you shouldn’t think of this as a healing at all.”

“Well, what the hell is it?” said Jean.

“Misdirection,” said Patience. “Imagine the poison as a spark smoldering in wood. If the spark becomes flame, Locke dies. We need to make it expend itself somewhere else, destroy something else. Once that power is drawn from it, the spark goes out.”

Jean watched uneasily for the next quarter of an hour as Patience and Coldmarrow used a strange-smelling black ink to paint an intricate network of lines across Locke’s face and arms and chest. Although Locke muttered from time to time, he didn’t appear to be in any greater discomfort than before.

While the ink dried, Coldmarrow fetched a tall iron candelabrum, which he set between the table and the shuttered stern windows. Patience produced three white candles from her box.

“Wax tapers, made in Camorr,” she said. “Along with an iron candle-stand, also from Camorr. All of it stolen, to establish a more powerful sympathy with your unfortunate friend.”

She rolled one candle back and forth in her hands, and its surface blurred and shimmered. Coldmarrow used Patience’s silver knife to transfer Locke’s blood and hair and nail-trimmings to the surface of the wax. There, rather than running messily down the sides as Jean would have expected, the “certain requirements” vanished smoothly into the candle.

“Effigy, I name you,” said Patience. “Blood-bearer, I create you. Shadow of a soul, deceiving vessel, I give you the flesh of a living man and not his heart-name. You are him, and not him.”

She placed the taper in the candelabrum. Then she and Coldmarrow repeated the process exactly with the two remaining candles.

“Now,” said Patience softly, “you must be still.”

“I’m not exactly fuckin’ dancing,” said Locke.

Coldmarrow picked up a coil of rope. He and Patience used this to bind Locke to the table by a dozen loops of cord between his waist and his ankles.

“One thing,” said Locke as they finished. “Before you begin, I’d like a moment alone with Jean. We’re … adherents of a god you might not want to be associated with.”

“We can respect your mysteries,” said Patience. “But don’t dawdle, and don’t disturb any of the preparations.”

She and Coldmarrow withdrew from the cabin, closing the door behind them, and Jean knelt at Locke’s side.

“That slop Patience gave me made things fuzzy for a moment, but I think I’ve got some wits back,” said Locke. “So—have I ever looked more ridiculous?”

“Have you ever looked not ridiculous?”

“Fuck you,” said Locke, smiling. “That end-likt-ge-whatever—”

“Endliktgelaben.”

“Yeah, that Endliktgelaben shit you brought up … were you just trying to piss me off, or were you serious?”

“Well … I was trying to piss you off.” Jean grimaced. “But did I mean it? I suppose. Am I right about it? I don’t know. I really hope not. But you are one gods-damned miserable brat when you decide to feel guilty about everything. I’d like that read into the record.”

“I have to tell you, Jean … I don’t really want to die. Maybe that makes me some kind of chickenshit. I meant what I said about the magi; I’d sooner piss in their faces than take gold from their hands, but all the same, I don’t want to die … I don’t!”

“Easy there,” said Jean. “Easy. All you have to do to prove it is not die.”

“Give me your left hand.”

The two of them touched hands, palm to palm. Locke cleared his throat.

“Crooked Warden,” he said, “Unnamed Thirteenth, your servant calls. I know I’m a man of so many faults that listing them here would only detain us.” Locke coughed and wiped fresh blood from his mouth. “But I meant what I said … I don’t want to die, not without a real fight, not like this. So if you could just find it in your heart to tip that scale for me one more time— Hell, if not for me, do it for Jean. Maybe his credit’s better than mine.”

“This we pray with hopeful hearts,” said Jean. He rose to his feet again. “Still scared?”

“Shitless.”

“Less chance you’ll make a mess on the table, then.”

“Bastard.” Locke closed his eyes. “Call them back. Let’s get on with this.”

3

JEAN WATCHED, moments later, as Patience and Coldmarrow took up positions on either side of Locke.

“Unlock the dreamsteel,” said Patience.

Coldmarrow reached down the front of his tunic and pulled out a silvery pendant on a chain. At his whisper of command, pendant and chain alike turned to brightly rippling liquid, which ran in a stream down his fingers, coalescing in a ball that quivered in his cupped hand.

“Quicksilver?” said Jean.

“Hardly,” said Patience. “Quicksilver poisons the wits of those who handle it. Dreamsteel is something of ours. It shapes itself to our thoughts, and it’s harmless as water … mostly.”

The magi spread their arms over the table. Slender threads of dreamsteel sprouted from the shimmering mass in Coldmarrow’s hand and slid forward, falling through the gaps between his fingers. They landed on Locke’s chest, not with careless splashing but with uncanny solidity. Though the stuff ran like water, the flow was slow and dreamlike.

The thin silvery streams conformed to the black lines painted across Locke’s upper body. Steadily, sinuously, the threads of liquid metal crept across the design, into every curve and whorl. When at last the delicate work was complete and the final speck of dreamsteel fell from Coldmarrow’s hand, every line on Locke’s skin had been precisely covered with a minuscule layer of rippling silver.

“This will feel rather strange,” said Patience.

She and Coldmarrow clenched their fists, and instantly the complex tracery of dreamsteel leapt up in a thousand places, exploding off Locke’s skin. Locke arched his back, only to be pressed gently back down by the hands of the magi. The dreamsteel settled as a forest of needles.

Like the victim of a mauling by some metallic porcupine, Locke now had countless hair-thin silver shafts embedded bloodlessly in his skin, running along the painted lines.

“Cold,” said Locke. “ ’That’s awfully damn cold!”

“The dreamsteel is where it needs to be,” said Patience. She picked up the jar she had used to catch Locke’s exhaled breath and approached the candelabrum.

“Effigy, I kindle you,” she said, opening the jar and wafting it past the three candles. “Breath-sharer, I give you the wind of a living man but not his heart-name. You are him, and not him.”

She gestured with her right hand, and the wicks of the three candles burst into flickering white flame.

She then resumed her place at Locke’s side. She and Coldmarrow put their right hands together, fingertip to fingertip, over Locke’s chest. The silver thread that Patience had used earlier reappeared, and by deft movements Jean could barely follow the two magi bound their hands together in a cat’s cradle. Jean shuddered, remembering that the Falconer had wielded a silver thread of his own.

Patience and Coldmarrow then placed their free hands on Locke’s arms.

“Whatever happens now, Locke,” said Patience, “remember your shame and anger. Stay angry with me, if you must. Hate me and my son and all the magi of Karthain with everything you’ve got, or you won’t live to get up off this table.”

“Quit trying to scare me,” said Locke. “I’ll see you when this is over.”

“Crooked Warden,” murmured Jean to himself, “you’ve heard Locke’s plea, now hear mine. Gandolo, Wealth-Father, I was born to merchants and beg to be remembered. Venaportha, Lady With Two Faces, surely you’ve had some fun with us before. Give us a smile now. Perelandro, forgiving and merciful, we might not have served you truly, but we put your name on every set of lips in Camorr.

“Aza Guilla,” he whispered, feeling a nervous trickle of sweat slide down his forehead, “Lady Most Kind, I peeked up your skirts a little, but you know my heart was in the right place. Please have urgent business elsewhere tonight.”

There was an itch at the back of Jean’s neck; the same eerie sensation he had felt before in the presence of the Falconer, and when the magi had tormented him and Locke in the Night Market of Tal Verrar. Patience and Coldmarrow were deep in concentration.

“Ah,” gasped Locke. “Ah!”

A metallic taste grew in Jean’s mouth, and he gagged, only to discover that his throat had gone dry. The top of his mouth felt as raspy as paper. What had happened to his spit?

“Hells,” said Locke, arching his back. “Oh, this is … this is worse than cold.…”

The timbers of the cabin bulkheads creaked, as though the ship were being tossed about, though all of Jean’s senses told him the Sky-Reacher was plodding along as slowly and smoothly as ever. Then the rattling began, faintly at first, but soon the yellow alchemical lanterns were shaking and the shadows in the room wobbled.

Locke moaned. Patience and Coldmarrow leaned forward, keeping Locke’s arms pinned, while their joined hands intricately wove and unwove the silver thread. The sight would have been mesmerizing in calm circumstances, but Jean was far from calm. His stomach roiled as though he had eaten rotten oysters and they were clamoring for release.

“Dammit,” Jean whispered, and bit on his knuckles just as he’d promised. The pain helped drive back the rising tide of nausea, but the atmosphere of the room was growing stranger. The lanterns rattled now like kettles on a high boil, and the white flames of the candles flared and danced to an unfelt breeze.

Locke moaned again, louder than before, and the thousand silvery points of light embedded in his upper body made eerie art as he strained at his ropes.

There was a sizzling sound, then a whip-like crack. The alchemical lanterns shattered, spraying glass across the cabin along with puffs of sulfurous-smelling vapor. Jean flinched, and the Bondsmagi reeled as lantern fragments rattled onto the floor around them.

“I’ve been poisoned a lot,” muttered Locke, for no apparent reason.

“Help,” hissed Coldmarrow in a strained voice.

“How? What do you need?” Jean was caught in another shuddering wave of nausea, and he clung to a bulkhead.

“Not … you.”

The cabin door burst open. One of the attendants who had carried Locke on the cot stomped down the stairs, discarding his wet cloak as he came. He put his hands against Coldmarrow’s back and settled his feet as though bracing the old man against a physical force. Shadows reeled wildly around the cabin as the candle flames whirled, and Jean’s nausea grew; he went down to his knees.

There was an uncanny vibration in the air, in the deck, in the bulkheads, in Jean’s bones. It felt as though he were leaning against a massive clockwork machine with all of its gears turning. Behind his eyes, the vibration grew past annoyance to pain. Jean imagined a maddened insect trapped inside his skull, biting and scrabbling and beating its wings against whatever it found in there. That was too much; bludgeoned by awful sensations, he tilted his head forward and threw up on the deck.

A thin dark line appeared beside the vomit as he finished—blood from his nose. He coughed out a string of profanities along with the acidic taste of his last meal, and though he couldn’t find the strength to heave himself to his feet, he did manage to tilt his head back far enough to see what happened next.

“This is your death, effigy. You are him,” cried Patience, her voice cracking, “and not him!”

There was a sound like marrow bones cracking, and the three candle flames surged into conflagrations large enough to swallow Jean’s hands. Then the flames turned black—black as the depths of night, an unnatural hue that caused actual pain to behold. Jean flinched away from the sight, his eyes gushing hot tears. The light of the black fires was pallid gray, and it washed the cabin with the tint of stagnant graveyard water.

Another shudder passed through the timbers of the ship, and the young Bondsmage at Coldmarrow’s back suddenly reeled away from the table, blood pouring from his nose. As he toppled, the woman who’d been on the quarterdeck came through the door, hands up to shield her eyes from the unearthly glare. She stumbled against a bulkhead but kept her feet, and began to chant rapidly in a harsh unknown language.

Who the hell is steering the ship? thought Jean, as the sickly gray light pulsed with a speed to match his own heartbeat and the very air seemed to thicken with a fever heat.

“Take this death. You are him,” gasped Coldmarrow, “and not him! This death is yours!”

There was a sound like nails on slate, and then Locke’s moans turned to screams—the loudest, longest screams Jean had ever heard.

4

PAIN WAS nothing new to Locke, but pain was an inadequate term for what happened when the two Bondsmagi pressed him down and squeezed him between their sorceries.

The room around him became a whirl of confusion—white light, rippling air. His eyes blurred with tears until even the faces of Patience and Coldmarrow bled at the edges like melting wax. Something shattered, and hot needles stung his scalp and forehead. He saw a strange swirl of yellow vapors, then gasped and moaned as the silver needles in his upper body suddenly came alive with heat, driving away all concern for his surroundings. It felt like a thousand coal-red flecks of ash were being driven into his pores.

Stabbed, he thought, clenching his teeth and swallowing a scream. This is nothing. I’ve been stabbed before. Stabbed in the shoulder. In the wrist. In the arm. Cut, smashed, clubbed, kicked … drowned … nearly drowned. Poisoned.

He cast his memory back across the long catalog of injuries, realizing with some deeper and still vaguely sensible part of his mind that counting inflictions of pain to take his mind off the infliction of pain was both very stupid and very funny.

“I’ve been poisoned a lot,” he said to himself, shuddering in a paroxysm born of the struggle between laughter and the hot-needle pain.

There was noise after that, the voices of the Bondsmagi, and Jean—then creaking, moaning, slamming, banging. It all went hazy while Locke fought for self-control. Then, after an unguessable interval, a voice penetrated his misery at last, and was more than a voice. It was a thought, shaped by Patience, whose touch he now instinctively recognized in the word-shapes that thrust themselves to the center of his awareness:

“You are him … and not him!”

Beneath the hornet-stings of the dreamsteel needles, something moved inside Locke, some pressure in his guts. The quality of the light and the air around him changed; the white glow of the candles turned black. Like a snake, the force inside him uncoiled and slid upward, under his ribs, behind his lungs, against his pulsating heart.

“F-fuck,” he tried to say, so profoundly disquieted that no air moved past his lips. Then the thing inside him surged, frothed, ate—like tar heated instantly to a boil, scalding the surface of every organ and cavity between his nose and his groin. All of those never-thought-of crevices of the body, suddenly alive in his mind, and suddenly limned in pure volcanic agony.

Stop oh please oh please stop just let the pain end, he thought, so far gone that his previous resolution was forgotten beneath sheer animal pleading. Stop the pain stop the pain—

“You are him … and not him!” The thought-voice was a weak echo above the cresting tide of internal fire. Coldmarrow? Patience? Locke could no longer tell. His arms and legs were numb, dissolving into meaningless sensory fog beyond the hot core of his agony. The Bondsmagi and everything beyond them faded into haze. The table seemed to fall away beneath him; blackness rose like the coming of sleep. His eyelids fluttered shut, and at last the blessed numbness spread to his stomach and chest and arms, smothering the hell that had erupted there.

Let that be it. I don’t want to die, but gods, just let that be the last of the pain.

The outside world had gone silent, but there was still some noise in the darkness—his own noise. The faint throb of a heartbeat. The dry shudder of breath. Surely, if he were dead, all that business would have ended. There was a pressure on his chest. A sensation of weight—someone was pushing down on his heart, and the touch felt cold. Surprised at the amount of will it required, Locke forced his eyes partly open.

The hand above his heart was Bug’s, and the eyes staring down from the dead boy’s face were solid black.

“There is no last of the pain,” said Bug. “It always hurts. Always.”

Locke opened his mouth to scream, but no sound moved past his lips—just a barely perceptible dry hissing. He strained to move, but his limbs were lead. Even his neck refused to obey his commands.

This can’t be real, Locke tried to say, and the unspoken words echoed in his head.

“What’s real?” Bug’s skin was pale and strangely loose, as though the flesh behind it had collapsed inward. The curls had come out of his hair, and it hung limp and lifeless above his dead black eyes. A crossbow quarrel, crusted with dry blood, was still buried in his throat. The cabin was dark and empty; Bug seemed to be crouching above him, but the only weight Locke could feel was the cold pressure of the hand above his heart.

You’re not really here!

“We’re both here.” Bug fiddled with the quarrel as though it were an annoying neck-cloth. “You know why I’m still around? When you die, your sins are engraved on your eyes. Look closely.”

Unable to help himself, Locke stared up into the awful dark spheres, and saw that their blackness was not quite unbroken. It had a rough and layered quality, as though made up of a countless number of tiny black lines of script, all running together into a solid mass.

“I can’t see the way out of this place,” said Bug softly. “Can’t find the way to what’s next.”

You were twelve fucking years old. How many sins could you have—

“Sins of omission. Sins of my teachers and my friends.” The chilling weight above Locke’s heart pressed down harder.

That’s bullshit, I know better, I’m a divine of the Crooked Warden!

“How’s that working out for you?” Bug wiped at the trails of blood running down his neck, and the blood came away on his pale fingertips as a brown powder. “Doesn’t seem to have done either of us much good.”

I’m a priest, I’d know how this works, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be! I’m a priest of the Unnamed Thirteenth!

“Well … I could tell you how far you’ll get trusting people when you don’t even know their real name.” Again the pressure on Locke’s chest grew.

I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. It’s just a dream.

“You’re dreaming. You’re dying. Maybe they’re the same thing.” The corners of Bug’s mouth twitched up briefly in a weak attempt at a smile. The sort of smile, thought Locke, that you give someone when you can see they’re in deep shit.

“Well, you’ve made all your decisions. Nothing left for you to do but see which one of us is right.”

Wait, wait, don’t—

The pain in Locke’s chest flared again, spreading sharply outward from his heart, and this time it was cold, deathly cold, an unbearable icy pressure that squeezed him like a vise. Darkness swept in behind it, and Locke’s awareness broke against it like a ship heaved onto rocks.

INTERLUDE

ORPHAN’S MOON

1

THEY LET HIM out of the darkness at last, and cool air touched his skin after an hour of stuffy helplessness.

It had been a rough trip to the site of the ritual, wherever it was. The men carrying him hadn’t had much difficulty with his relatively slight weight, but it seemed they’d gone down many stairs and through narrow, curving passages. Around and around in the dark he’d been hauled, listening to the grunts and whispers of the adults, and to the sound of his own breathing inside the scratchy wool sack that covered his head.

At last that hood was drawn away. Locke blinked in the dimness of a high barrel-vaulted room, faintly lit by pale globes tucked away in sconces. The walls and pillars were stone, and here and there Locke could see decorative paintings flaking with age. Water trickled somewhere nearby, but that was hardly unusual for a structure in lower Camorr. What was significant was that this was a human place, all blocks and mortar, without a shred of visible Elderglass.

Locke was on his back in the middle of the vaulted room, on a low slab. His hands and feet weren’t tied, but his freedom of movement was sharply curtailed when a man knelt and put a knife to his throat. Locke could feel the edge of the blade against his skin, and knew instantly that it was the not-fooling-around sort of edge.

“You are bound and compelled to silence in all ways, at all times, from now until the weighing of your soul, concerning what we do here this night,” said the man.

“I am bound and compelled,” said Locke.

“Who binds and compels you?”

“I bind and compel myself,” said Locke.

“To break this binding is to be condemned to die.”

“I would gladly be condemned for my failure.”

“Who would condemn you?”

“I would condemn myself.” Locke reached up with his right hand and placed it over the man’s knuckles. The stranger withdrew his hand, leaving Locke holding the knife at his own throat.

“Rise, little brother,” said the man.

Locke obeyed, and passed the knife back to the man, a long-haired, muscular garrista Locke knew by sight but not by name. The world Capa Barsavi ruled was a big place.

“Why have you come here tonight?”

“To be a thief among thieves,” said Locke.

“Then learn our sign.” The man held up his left hand, fingers slightly spread, and Locke mirrored the gesture, pressing his palm firmly against the garrista’s. “Left hand to left hand, skin to skin, will tell your brothers and sisters that you do not come holding weapons, that you do not shun their touch, that you do not place yourself above them. Go and wait.”

Locke bowed and moved into the shadow of a pillar. There was enough space, he calculated, for a few hundred people to fit down here. At the moment, there were just a few men and women visible. He’d been brought in early, it seemed, as one of the very first of the postulants to take the oath of secrecy. He watched, feeling the churn of excitement in his stomach, as more boys and girls were carried into the room, stripped of their hoods, and given the treatment he’d received. Calo … Galdo … Jean … one by one they joined him and watched the ongoing procession. Locke’s companions were uncharacteristically silent and serious. In fact, he’d have gone so far as to say that both Sanzas were actually nervous. He didn’t blame them.

The next hood yanked from a postulant’s head revealed Sabetha. Her lovely false-brown curls tumbled out in a cloud, and Locke bit the insides of his cheeks as the knife touched her throat. She took the oaths quickly and calmly, in a voice that had grown a shade huskier in the last season. She spared him a glance as she walked over to join the Gentlemen Bastards, and he hoped for a few seconds that she might choose to stand beside him. However, Calo and Galdo moved apart, offering her a place between them, and she accepted. Locke bit the insides of his cheeks again.

Together, the five of them watched more adults enter and more children about their own age pass under the oath-taking blade. There were some familiar faces in that stream.

First came Tesso Volanti from the Half-Crowns, with his night-black mane of oiled hair. He held Locke’s crew in high esteem despite (or probably because of) the fact that Jean Tannen had given him a thunderous ass-kicking a few summers previously. Then came Fat Saulus and Fatter Saulus from the Falselight Cutters … Whoreson Dominaldo … Amelie the Clutcher, who’d stolen enough to buy an apprenticeship with the Guilded Lilies … a couple boys and girls that must have come out of the Thiefmaker’s burrow around the time Locke had … and then, the very last initiate to have her hood yanked back, Nazca Belonna Jenavais Angeliza Barsavi, youngest child and only daughter of the absolute ruler of Camorr’s underworld.

After Nazca finished reciting her oaths, she removed a pair of optics from a leather pouch and slid them onto her nose. While nobody in their right mind would have laughed at her for doing so, Locke suspected that Nazca would have been unafraid to wear them in public even if she hadn’t been the Capa’s daughter.

Locke could see her older brothers, Pachero and Anjais, standing in the ranks of the older initiates, but her place was with the neophytes. Smiling, she walked over to Locke and gently pushed him out of his spot against the pillar.

“Hello, Lamora,” she whispered. “I need to stand next to an ugly little boy to make myself look better.”

She certainly did not, thought Locke. An inch taller than him, Nazca was much like Sabetha these days, closer to woman than girl. For some reason, she also had a soft spot for the Gentlemen Bastards. Locke had begun to suspect that the “little favors” Father Chains had once done for Capa Barsavi were not as little as he’d let on, and that Nazca was privy to at least some of the story. Not that she ever spoke of it.

“Good to see you here in the cheap seats with us, Nazca,” said Sabetha as she gracefully nudged Jean out of his position behind Locke. Locke’s spine tingled.

“No such thing on a night like this,” said Nazca. “Just thieves among thieves.”

“Women among boys,” said Sabetha with an exaggerated sigh.

“Pearls among swine,” said Nazca, and the two of them giggled. Locke’s cheeks burned.

It was early winter in the seventy-seventh Year of Aza Guilla, the month of Marinel, the time of the empty sky. It was the night called the Orphan’s Moon, when Locke and all of his kind became, by ancient Therin custom, one year older.

It was the one night per year on which young thieves were fully initiated into the mysteries of the Crooked Warden, somewhere in the dark and crumbling depths of old Camorr.

It was, by Chains’ best guess, the night of Locke’s thirteenth birthday.

2

THE DAY’S activities had started with the procurement of an appropriate offering.

“Let’s toss the cake on that fellow right there,” said Jean. It was high afternoon, and he and Locke lay in wait in an alley just off the Avenue of Five Saints in the upper-class Fountain Bend district.

“He seems the type,” agreed Locke. He hefted the all-important package into his arms—a cube of flax-paper wrapped around a wooden frame, with a sturdy wooden base, the whole thing about two and a half feet on a side. “Where you coming from?”

“His right.”

“Let’s make his acquaintance.”

They went in opposite directions—Jean directly east onto the avenue, and Locke to the western end of the alley, so he could head north on the parallel Avenue of the Laurels and swing around the long way to intercept the chosen target.

The Fountain Bend was a nest of the quality; one could tell merely by counting the number of servants on the streets, and noting the character of the yellowjackets taking relaxed strolls around the gardens and avenues. Their harnesses were perfectly oiled, their boots shined, their coats and hats unweathered. Postings to an area like this came only to watch-folk with connections, and once they had the posting they took pains to make themselves decorative as well as functional, lest they be reassigned somewhere much livelier.

Winter in Camorr could be pleasant when the sky wasn’t pissing like an old man who’d lost command of his bladder. Today warm sun and cool breeze hit the skin at the same time, and it was easy to forget the thousand and one ways the city had of choking, stifling, reeking, and sweating. Locke hurried north for two blocks, then veered right, onto the Boulevard of the Emerald Footfall. Dressed as he was, in servant’s clothing, it was perfectly acceptable for him to scamper along with his awkward cargo at an undignified pace.

When the boulevard met the Avenue of Five Saints, Locke turned right again and immediately spotted his quarry. Locke had beaten him to the intersection by fifty yards, and so had plenty of time to slow down and get his act sorted. No more rushing about—on this street, he became the picture of caution, a dutiful young servant minding a delicate package at a sensible speed. Forty yards … thirty yards … and there was Jean, coming up behind the target.

At twenty yards, Locke veered slightly, making it clear that there could be no possible collision if he and the stranger continued on their present courses. Ten yards … Jean was nearly at the man’s elbow.

At five yards, Jean bumped into the target from behind, sending him sprawling in just the right direction, with just enough momentum, to smack squarely into Locke’s flax-paper package. Locke ensured that the fragile cube was snapped and crushed instantly, along with the fifteen pounds of spice cake and icing it contained. Much of it hit the cobbles with a sound like meat hitting a butcher’s counter, and the rest of it hit Locke, who artfully fell directly onto his ass.

“Oh gods,” he cried. “You’ve ruined me!”

“Why, I, I’ve—I don’t … damn!” sputtered the target, jumping back from the splattered cake and checking his clothing. He was a well-fed, round-shouldered sort in respectable dress, with a smooth leather ink-guard on his right jacket cuff that told of life lived behind a desk. “I was struck from behind!”

“Indeed you were,” said Jean, who was as well-dressed as the target, and as wide despite a threefold difference in age. Jean was carrying a half-dozen scroll-cases. “I stumbled into you entirely by accident, sir, and I apologize. But the two of us together have smashed this poor servant’s cake.”

“Well, the fault is hardly mine.” The target carefully brushed a few stray pieces of icing off his breeches. “I was merely caught in the middle. Come now, boy, come now. It’s nothing to cry about.”

“Oh, but it is, sir,” said Locke, sniffling as artfully as he ever had in his Shades’ Hill days. “My master will have my skin for bookbindings!”

“Chin up, boy. Everyone takes a few lashes now and again. Are your hands clean?” The target held a hand out, grudgingly, and helped Locke back to his feet. “It’s only the merest cake.”

“It’s not just any cake,” sobbed Locke. “It’s my master’s birthday confection, ordered a month in advance. It’s a crown-cake from Zakasta’s. All kinds of alchemy and spices.”

“Zakasta’s,” said Jean with an admirable impression of awe. “Damn! This is awful luck.”

“That’s my pay for a year,” burbled Locke. “I don’t get to claim a man’s wages for two more to come. He’ll have it out of my hide and my pocket.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” said Jean soothingly. “We can’t get you a new cake, but we can at least give your master his crown back.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” The target rounded on Jean. “Who the devil are you to speak for me, boy?”

“Jothar Tathis,” said Jean, “solicitor’s apprentice.”

“Oh? Which solicitor?”

“Mistress Donatella Viricona,” said Jean with the hint of a smile. “Of Meraggio’s.”

“Ahhhh,” said the target, as though Jean had just pointed a loaded crossbow directly at his privates. Mistress Viricona was one of Camorr’s best-known litigators, a woman who served as the voice of several powerful noble families. Anyone who slung parchment for a living was bound to know her legend. “I see … but—”

“We owe this poor boy a crown,” said Jean. “Come, we can split the sum. I might have stumbled into you, but you certainly could have avoided him if you’d been more careful.”

Locke suppressed a grin that would have reached his temples if it hadn’t been checked.

“But—”

“Here, I carry enough as pocket-money.” Jean held out two gold tyrins on his right palm. “Surely it’s no hardship for you, either.”

“But—”

“What are you, a Verrari? Are you that much of a scrub that two tyrins is an imposition for you? If so, at least give me your name so I can let my mistress know who wouldn’t—”

“Fine,” said the man, holding his hands up toward Jean. “Fine! We’ll pay for the damn cake. Half and half.” He passed a pair of gold tyrins over to Locke, and watched as Jean did the same.

“Th-thank you, sirs,” said Locke with a quavering voice. “I’ll catch some hell for this, but not nearly what I would have had coming.”

“It’s only reasonable,” said Jean. “Gods go with you, both of you.”

“Yes, yes,” said the older man, scowling. “Be more careful next time you’re hauling a cake around, boy.” He hurried on his way without another word.

“Guilt is such a beautiful thing,” sighed Locke as he scooped up the toppled mess of the boxed cake—a horrid conglomeration of old flour, sawdust, and white plaster worth about a hundredth of what the unfortunate mark had handed over. “That’s a solid tyrin apiece for tonight.”

“Think Chains will be pleased?”

“Let’s hope it’s the Benefactor that ends up pleased,” said Locke with a grin. “I’ll just clear this mess up and find someplace to dump it so the yellowjackets don’t break my skull. Back home?”

“Yeah, roundabout way,” said Jean. “See you in half an hour.”

3

“SO THEN this fellow backs off like Jean’s started juggling live scorpions,” said Locke, just over half an hour later. “And Jean starts calling him a scrub, and a Verrari, and all kinds of things, and the poor bastard just handed over two gold coins like that.”

Locke snapped his fingers, and the Sanza twins applauded politely. Calo and Galdo sat side by side atop the table in the glass burrow’s kitchen, disdaining the use of anything so commonplace as chairs.

“And that’s your offering?” said Calo. “A tyrin apiece?”

“It’s a fair sum,” said Jean. “And we thought we put some effort into it. Artistic merit and all that.”

“Took us two hours to make the cake,” said Locke. “And you should have seen the acting. We could have been on stage. That man’s heart melted into a puddle, I was so sad and forlorn.”

“So it wasn’t acting at all, then,” said Galdo.

“Polish my dagger for me, Sanza,” said Locke, making an elaborate hand gesture that Camorri only used in public when they absolutely wanted to start a fight.

“Sure, I’ll get the smallest rag in the kitchen while you draw me a map to where it’s been hiding all these years.”

“Oh, be fair,” said Calo. “We can spot it easily enough whenever Sabetha’s in the room!”

“Like now?” said Sabetha as she appeared from around the corner of the burrow’s entrance tunnel.

The fact that Locke didn’t die instantly may be taken as proof that a human male can survive having every last warm drop of blood within his body rush instantly to the vicinity of his cheeks.

Sabetha had been exerting herself. Her face was flushed, several strands of her tightly queued hair had fallen out of place, and the open neckline of her cream-colored tunic revealed a sheen of sweat on her skin. Locke’s eyes would ordinarily have been fixed on her as though connected to the aforementioned tunic by invisible threads, but he pretended that something terribly important had just appeared in the empty far corner of the kitchen.

“And where do you two get off teasing Locke?” said Sabetha. “If either of you have any hair on your stones yet, you’ve been putting it there with a paintbrush.”

“You wound us deeply,” said Calo. “And good taste prevents us from being able to respond in kind.”

“However,” said Galdo, “if you were to ask around certain Guilded Lilies, you’d discover that your—”

“You’ve been visiting the Guilded Lilies?” said Jean.

“Ahhh,” said Calo with a cough, “that is to say, were we to visit the, ah, Guilded Lilies, hypothetically—”

“Hypothetically,” said Galdo. “Excellent word. Hypothetically.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just like you two to make someone else do all the work, isn’t it?” Sabetha rolled her eyes. “So what’s your offering, then?”

“Red wine,” said Calo. “Two dozen bottles. We borrowed them from that half-blind old bastard just off Ropelayer’s Way.”

“I went in dressed like a swell,” said Galdo, “and while I kept him busy around the shop, Calo was in and out the rear window, quiet as a spider.”

“It was too easy,” said Calo. “That poor fellow couldn’t tell a dog’s ass from a douche bucket if you gave him three tries.”

“Anyhow, Chains said they could be used for the toasting after the ceremony,” said Galdo. “Since the point is to get rid of the offerings anyway.”

“Nice,” said Jean, scratching at the faint dark fuzz on his heavy chin. “What have you been up to, Sabetha?”

“Yeah, what’s your offering?” said the twins in unison.

“It’s taken me most of the day,” said Sabetha, “and it hasn’t been easy, but I liked the look of these.” She brought three polished witchwood truncheons out from behind her back. One of them was new, one was moderately dented, and one looked as though it had been used to crack skulls for as long as any of the younger Gentlemen Bastards had been alive.

“Oh, you’re kidding,” said Galdo.

“No, you’re fucking kidding,” said Calo.

“Your eyes do not deceive you,” said Sabetha, twirling the batons by their straps. “Several of Camorr’s famously vigilant city watchmen have indeed misplaced their convincing sticks.”

“Oh, gods,” said Locke, his guts roiling with a tangled mess of admiration and consternation. His self-satisfaction at squeezing half a crown out of the poor slob in the Fountain Bend vanished. “That’s … that’s a bloody work of art!”

“Why, thank you,” said Sabetha, giving a mock bow to the room. “I have to admit, I only got two of them off belts. Third one was lying around in a watch station. I figured I had no business turning down that sort of temptation.”

“But why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?” said Locke. “Chasing the watch on your own—”

“Have you always told everyone else what you’re up to?” said Sabetha.

“But you could have used some top-eyes, or a distraction just in case,” said Locke.

“Well, you were busy. I saw you and Jean baking your little cake.”

“You’re showing off,” said Calo. “Hoping to make an impression?”

“You think there’ll be a choosing,” said Galdo, slyly.

“Chains said there’s a chance every year,” said Sabetha. “Might as well stand out. Haven’t you two ever thought about it?”

“The full priesthood?” Calo stuck out his tongue. “Not our style. Don’t get us wrong, we love the Crooked Warden, but the two of us …”

“Just because we like to drink doesn’t mean we want to run the tavern,” finished Calo.

“What about you, Jean?” said Sabetha.

“Interesting question.” Jean took his optics off and wiped them against a tunic sleeve as he spoke. “I’d be surprised if the Crooked Warden wanted someone like me as a divine. My parents took oath to Gandolo. I like to think I’m welcome where the gods have put me, but I don’t believe I’m meant for anything like a priesthood.”

“And you, Locke?” Sabetha asked quietly.

“I, uh, guess I haven’t really thought about it.” That was a lie. Locke had always been fascinated by the hints Chains dropped about the secretive structure of the Crooked Warden’s priesthood, but he wasn’t sure what Sabetha wanted to hear from him. “I, ah, take it you have?”

“I have.” There was that smile of hers, a smile that was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. “I want it. I want to know what Chains smirks about all the time. And I want to win it. I want to be the best—”

She was interrupted by an echoing clang from the entrance tunnel. That could only be Chains returning to the burrow from the various preparations the night would require. He rounded the corner and smiled when he saw them all gathered.

“Good, good,” he muttered. “Sanzas, the wine is being carried in by some people who’ll be less busy than yourselves. Everyone else, I trust you have your offerings?” He looked pleased at the nods he received. Locke caught the twinkle of unusual excitement in his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them. “Excellent. Then let’s have some dinner before we leave.”

“Will we need to dress up or bathe for this?” asked Sabetha.

“Oh no, my dear, no. Ours is a pragmatic sort of temple. Besides, it’s no use in trying to prettify yourselves, since you’re going to have sacks thrown over your heads. Try to act surprised. That’s the only little secret I’ll be giving away in advance.”

4

A HUSH ran through the assembled thieves as several men and women, using a collapsible wooden frame, hung curtains over the door the postulants had been carried through. Other than a few vents in the ceiling, that door was the only entrance to the room Locke could see. Guards took up positions by the curtains—serious bruisers in long leather coats, with cudgels and axes ready. Chains had explained that their purpose was to ensure the privacy of the ritual. Other guards would be out there somewhere, an entire network, lurking along every route an outsider could use to spy upon or disrupt the Orphan’s Moon rites.

There were about ten dozen people in the vault. That was a scant fraction of the people in Camorr whose lives were supposed to be ruled by the god with the hidden name, but that, according to Chains, was the nature of devotion. It was easy to mutter prayers and curses in the heat of the moment, and less convenient to skulk around in the middle of nowhere on the one night a year the dedicated actually came together.

“This is the temple of the church without temples,” said a woman in a hooded gray cloak as she stepped into the middle of the vaulted chamber. “This is the ceremony of the order without ceremonies.”

“Father of our fortunes, we consecrate this hall to your purpose; to be joined to your grace and to receive your mysteries.” This was Chains, his voice rich and resonant. He took his place by the woman’s side, wearing a similar robe. “We are thieves among thieves; our lot is shared. We are keepers of signs and passwords, here without malice or guile.”

“This is our calling and our craft, which you from love have given us.” The third speaker was the garrista who’d sworn the postulants to secrecy, now robed in gray. “Father of Shadows, who teaches us to take what we would dare to take, receive our devotions.”

“You have taught us that good fortune may be seized and shared,” said the female priest.

“Thieves prosper,” chanted the crowd.

“You have taught us the virtue and the necessity of our arts,” said Father Chains.

“The rich remember.”

“You have given us the darkness to be our shield,” said the third priest. “And taught us the blessing of fellowship.”

“We are thieves among thieves.”

“Blessed are the quick and the daring,” said Chains, moving to the front of the hall, where a block of stone had been covered with a black silk drape. “Blessed are the patient and the watchful. Blessed is the one who aids a thief, hides a thief, revenges a thief, and remembers a thief, for they shall inherit the night.”

“Inherit the night,” chanted the crowd solemnly.

“We are gathered in peace, in the eyes of our Benefactor, the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded.” The female priest spoke now, and took a place by Chains’ left hand. “This is the night he claims for his remembrance, the Orphan’s Moon.”

“Are there any among us who would swear a solemn covenant with this temple, and take the oath of joining?” said the third priest.

This was the crucial moment. Any thief, anyone even remotely connected to an unlawful existence, was welcome in this company, so long as they took the oath of secrecy. But those taking the next step, the oath of joining, would proclaim their choice of the Unnamed Thirteenth as their heavenly patron. They would certainly not be turning their backs on the other gods of the Therin pantheon, but to their patron they would owe their deepest prayers and best offerings for as long as they lived. Even children studying to become priests didn’t take formal oaths of joining until their early teens, and many people never took them at all, preferring to cultivate a loose devotion to all gods rather than a more formal obligation to one.

Nazca was the first to step forward, and behind her in a self-conscious rush came everyone else. Once the postulants had arranged themselves with as much dignity as they could manage, Chains held up his hands.

“This decision, once made, cannot be unmade. The gods are jealous of promises and will not suffer this oath to be cast aside. Be therefore sober and solemnly resolved, or stand aside. There is no shame in not being ready at this time.”

None of the postulants backed down. Chains clapped three times, and the sound echoed around the vault.

“Hail the Crooked Warden,” said the three priests in unison.

“STOP!”

A new voice boomed from the back of the chamber, and from behind the crowd of watchers came a trio of men in black robes and masks, followed by a woman in a red dress. They stormed down the aisle in the center of the vault, shoving the postulants aside, and formed a line between them and the altar.

“STOP AT ONCE!” The speaker was a man whose mask was a stylized bronze sun, with carved rays spreading from a sinister, unsmiling face. He seized Oretta, a scar-covered girl with a reputation as a knife-fighter, and dragged her forward. “The Sun commands you now! I burn away shadows, banish night, make your sins plain! Honest men rise as I rise, and sleep as I set! I am lord and father of all propriety. Who are you to defy me?”

“A thief among thieves,” said Oretta.

“Take my curse. The night shall be your day, the pale moons your sun.”

“I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Oretta.

“Does this one speak for you all?”

“She does,” yelled the crowd of postulants. The Sun threw Oretta to the ground, not gently, and turned his back on them all.

“Now hear the words of Justice,” said the woman in the red dress, which was short and slashed. She wore a velvet mask like those used by the duke’s magistrates to conceal their identities. Justice pulled Nazca forward by her shoulders and forced her to kneel. “All things I weigh, but gold counts dearest, and you have none. All names I read, but those with titles please me best, and you descend from common dirt. Who are you to defy me?”

“A thief among thieves,” said Nazca.

“Take my curse. All who serve me shall be vigilant to your faults, blind to your virtues, and deaf to your pleading.”

“I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Nazca.

“Does this one speak for you all?”

“She does!”

Justice flung Nazca into the crowd and turned her back.

“I am the Hired Man,” said a man in a brown leather mask. A shield and truncheon were slung over the back of his robe. He grabbed Jean. “I bar every door, I guard every wall. I wear the leash of better men. I fill the gutters with your blood to earn my bread. Your cries are my music. Who are you to defy me?”

“A thief among thieves,” said Jean.

“Take my curse. I shall hound you by sun or stars. I shall use you and incite you to betray your brothers and sisters.”

“I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Jean. “Do you?” The man shook Jean fiercely. “Does this one speak for you all?”

“He does!”

The Hired Man released Jean, laughed, and turned his back. Locke nudged several other postulants aside to be the first to help Jean back to his feet.

“I am Judgment,” said the last of the newcomers, a man whose black mask was without ornament. He wielded a hangman’s noose. With this, he caught Tesso Volanti around the neck and yanked him forward. The boy grimaced, clutched at the rope, and fought for balance. “Hear me well. I am mercy refused. I am expedience. I am a signature on a piece of parchment. And that is how you die—by clerks, by stamps, by seals in wax. I am cheap, I am easy, I am always hungry. Who are you to defy me?”

“A thief among thieves,” gasped Tesso.

“And will they all hang with you, for fellowship, and split death into equal shares like loot?”

“I am not caught yet,” growled the boy.

“Take my curse. I shall wait for you.”

“I take your curse as a blessing of my heavenly patron,” said Tesso.

“Does this fool speak for you all?”

“He does!”

“You were all born to hang.” The man released Tesso from his noose and turned away. Volanti stumbled backward and was caught by Calo and Galdo.

“Depart, phantoms!” shouted Chains. “Go with empty hands! Tell your masters how slight a dread we bear for thee, and how deep a scorn!”

The four costumed antagonists marched back down the aisle, until they vanished from Locke’s sight somewhere behind the crowd near the chamber door.

“Now face your oath,” said Chains.

The female priest set a leather-bound book on the altar, and the male priest set a metal basin next to it. Chains pointed at Locke. Tense with excitement, Locke stepped up to the altar.

“What are you called?”

“Locke Lamora.”

“Are you a true and willing servant of our thirteenth god, whose name is guarded?”

“I am.”

“Do you consecrate thought, word, and deed to his service, from now until the weighing of your soul?”

“I do.”

“Will you seal this oath with blood?”

“I will seal it with blood on a token of my craft.”

Chains handed Locke a ceremonial blade of blackened steel.

“What is the token?”

“A coin of gold, stolen with my own hands,” said Locke. He used the knife to prick his left thumb, then squeezed blood onto the gold tyrin he’d scored from the cake business. He set the coin in the basin and passed the blade back to Chains.

“This is the law of men,” said Chains, pointing at the leather-bound tome, “which tells you that you must not steal. What is this law to you?”

“Words on paper,” said Locke.

“You renounce and spurn this law?”

“With all my soul.” Locke leaned forward and spat on the book.

“May the shadows know you for their own, brother.” Chains touched a cool, gleaming coin to Locke’s forehead. “I bless you with silver, which is the light of moons and stars.”

“I bless you with the dust of cobblestones, on which you tread,” said the female priest, brushing a streak of grime onto Locke’s right cheek.

“I bless you with the waters of Camorr, which bring the wealth you hope to steal,” said the third priest, touching wet fingers to Locke’s left cheek.

And so it was done—the oath of joining, without a fumble or a missed cadence. Warm with pride, Locke rejoined the other boys and girls, though he stood just a few feet apart from them.

The ritual continued. Nazca next, then Jean, then Tesso, then Sabetha. There was a general murmur of appreciation when she revealed her offering of stolen truncheons. After that, things went smoothly until one of the Sanzas was beckoned forth, and they stepped up to the altar together.

“One at a time, boys,” said Chains.

“We’re doing it together,” said Calo.

“We figure the Crooked Warden wouldn’t want us any other way,” said Calo. The twins joined hands.

“Well, then!” Chains grinned. “It’s your problem if he doesn’t, lads. What are you called?”

“Calo Giacomo Petruzzo Sanza.”

“Galdo Castellano Molitani Sanza.”

“Are you true and willing servants of our thirteenth god, whose name is guarded?”

“We are!”

“Do you consecrate thought, word, and deed to his service, from now until the weighing of your souls?”

“We do!”

Once the Sanzas were finished, the remaining postulants took their oaths without further complication. Chains addressed the assembly while his fellow priests carried away the offering-filled basin. They would give its contents to the dark waters of the Iron Sea later that night.

“One thing, then, remains. The possibility of a choosing. We priests of the Crooked Warden are few in number, and few are called to join our ranks. Consider carefully whether you would offer yourselves for the third and final oath, the oath of service. Let those who would not desire this join their fellows at the sides of the chamber. Let those who would stand for choosing remain where they are.”

The crowd of postulants cleared out rapidly. Some hesitated, but most had looks of perfect contentment on their faces, including Jean and the Sanzas. Locke pondered silently … did he truly want this? Did it feel right? Weren’t there supposed to be signs, omens, some sort of guidance one way or another? Maybe it would be best just to step aside—

He suddenly realized that the only person still standing on the floor beside him was Sabetha.

There was no hesitation in her manner—arms folded, chin slightly up, she stood as though ready to physically fight anyone who questioned her feelings. She was staring sideways at Locke, expectantly.

Was this the sign? What would she think of him if he turned away from this chance? The thought of failing to match Sabetha’s courage while standing right in front of her was like a knife in his guts. He squared his shoulders and nodded at Chains.

“Two bold souls,” said Chains quietly. “Kneel and bow your heads in silence. We three shall pray for guidance.”

Locke went down to his knees, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. Crooked Warden, don’t let me make some sort of awful mistake in front of Sabetha, he thought; then he realized that praying on the matter of his own problems at a moment like this might well be blasphemous. Shit, was his next thought, and that of course was even worse.

He struggled to keep his mind respectfully blank, and listened to the murmur of adult voices. Chains and his peers conferred privately for some time. At last Locke heard footsteps approaching.

“One will be chosen,” said the female priest, “and must answer directly. The chance, if refused, will never be offered again.”

“Small things guide us in this,” said the long-haired garrista. “Signs from the past. The evidence of your deeds. Subtle omens.”

“But the Benefactor doesn’t make difficult decisions for us,” said the woman. “We pray that our choice will serve his interests, and thus our own.”

“Locke Lamora,” said Father Chains softly, setting his hands on Locke’s shoulders. “You are called to the service of the Thirteenth Prince of Earth and Heaven, whose name is guarded. How do you answer his call?”

Wide-eyed with shock, Locke glanced at Chains, and then at Sabetha. “I …” he whispered, then cleared his throat and spoke more clearly. “I … I must. I do.”

Cheers broke out in the vault, but the look on Sabetha’s face at that instant cut coldly through Locke’s excitement. It was a look he knew only too well, a look he’d practiced himself—the game face, the perfect blank, a neutral mask meant to hide hotter emotions.

Given her earlier attitude, Locke had no difficulty guessing what those hotter emotions must be.

CHAPTER FOUR

ACROSS THE AMATHEL

1

EVERYTHING THAT WAS wrong came to a crescendo at once: Locke’s screams, Jean’s crippling vertigo, and the surging black candle flames, filling the cabin with their ghastly grave-water un-light.

There was a bone-rattling vibration in the hot air, a sensation that something vast and unseen was rushing past at high speed. Then the black flames died, casting the room into real darkness. Locke’s screams trailed off into hoarse sobs.

Jean’s strength failed. Pressed down by nausea that felt like a weighted harness, he tumbled forward, and his chin hit the deck hard enough to bring back memories of his less successful alley brawls. He resolved to rest for just a handful of heartbeats; heartbeats became breaths became minutes.

Another of Patience’s cohorts pushed the cabin door open at last and came down the steps with a lantern. By that wobbling yellow light, Jean was able to take in the scene.

Patience and Coldmarrow were still standing, still conscious, but clutching one another for support. The two younger Bondsmagi were on the floor, though whether alive or dead Jean couldn’t muster the will to care.

“Archedama!” said the newcomer with the lantern.

Patience brushed the woman off with a shaky wave.

Jean rose to one knee, groaning. The nausea was still like ten hangovers wrapped around a boot to the head, but the thought that Patience was upright stung his pride enough to lend him strength. He blinked, still feeling a prickly inflammation at the edges of his eyes, and coughed. The candelabrum was charred black and wreathed in vile-smelling smoke. The woman with the lantern flung the stern windows open, and blessedly fresh lake air displaced some of the miasma.

Another few moments passed, and Jean finally stumbled to his feet. Standing beside Coldmarrow, he clung to the table and shook Locke’s left arm.

Locke moaned and arched his back, to Jean’s immense relief. The ink and dreamsteel ran off Locke’s pale skin in a hundred black-and-silver rivulets, forming a complete mess, but at least he was breathing. Jean noticed that Locke’s fingers were curled tightly in against his palms, and he carefully eased them apart.

“Did it work?” Jean muttered. When neither of the magi responded, Jean touched Patience on the shoulder. “Patience, can you—”

“It was close,” she said. She opened her eyes slowly, wincing. “Stragos’ alchemist knew his business.”

“But Locke’s all right?”

“Of course he’s not all right.” She extricated herself from the silver thread that bound her to Coldmarrow. “Look at him. All we can promise is that he’s no longer poisoned.”

Jean’s nausea subsided as the night breeze filled the room. He wiped some of the silvery-black detritus from under Locke’s chin and felt the fluttering pulse in his neck.

“Jean,” Locke whispered. “You look like hell.”

“Well, you look like you lost a fight with a drunken ink merchant!”

“Jean,” said Locke, more sharply. He seized Jean’s left forearm. “Jean, gods, this is real. Oh, gods, I thought … I saw—”

“Easy now,” said Jean. “You’re safe.”

“I …” Locke’s eyes lost their focus, and his head sank.

“Damnation,” muttered Patience. She wiped more of the black-and-silver mess from Locke’s face and touched his forehead. “He’s so far gone.”

“What’s wrong now?” said Jean.

“What you and I just endured,” said Patience, “was a fraction of the shock he had to bear. His body is strained to its mortal limits.”

“So what do you do about it? More magic?”

“My arts can’t heal. He needs nourishment. He needs to be stuffed with food until he can’t hold another scrap. We’ve made arrangements.”

Coldmarrow groaned, but nodded and staggered out of the cabin.

He returned carrying a tray. This bore a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, and several plates heaped with food. He set the tray on the table just above Locke’s head, then cleaned Locke’s face and chest with the towels. Jean took a pinch of baked meat from the tray, pulled Locke’s chin down, and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Come now,” said Jean. “No falling asleep.”

“Mmmmph,” Locke mumbled. He moved his jaw a few times, started to chew, and opened his eyes once more. “Whhhgh hgggh fgggh igh hhhhgh,” he muttered. “Hgggh.”

“Swallow,” said Jean.

“Mmmmph.” Locke obeyed, then gestured for the water.

Jean eased Locke onto his elbows and held the pitcher to his lips. Coldmarrow continued to wipe the ink and dreamsteel away, but Locke took no notice. He gulped water in undignified slurps until the pitcher was empty.

“More,” said Locke, turning his attention to the food. The mage with the lantern set it down, took the pitcher, and hurried out.

The stuff on the tray was simple fare—baked ham, rough dark bread, some sort of rice with gravy. Locke attacked it as if it were the first food the gods had ever conjured on earth. Jean held a plate for him while Locke pushed the bread around with shaking hands, scooped everything else into his mouth, and barely paused to chew. By the time the water pitcher returned, he was on his second plate.

“Mmmm,” he mumbled, and a number of other monosyllables of limited philosophical utility. His eyes were bright, but they had a dazed look. His awareness seemed to have narrowed to the plate and pitcher. Coldmarrow finished cleaning him off, and Patience stretched a hand out above his legs. The rope that had bound him to the table unknotted itself and leapt into her grasp, coiling itself neatly.

The first tray of food—enough to feed four or five hungry people—was soon gone. When the attending mage brought a second, Locke attacked it without slowing. Patience watched him alertly. Coldmarrow, meanwhile, tended to the young magi who had collapsed during the ritual.

“They alive?” said Jean, at last finding a residue of courtesy if nothing more. “What happened to them?”

“Ever tried to lift a weight that was too heavy?” Coldmarrow brushed his fingers against the forehead of the unconscious young woman. “They’ll be fine, and wiser for the experience. Young minds are brittle. Oldsters, now, we’ve had some disappointments. We’ve set aside the notion that we’re the center of the universe, so our minds bend with strain instead of meeting it head-on.”

Coldmarrow’s knees popped as he stood.

“There,” he said, “on top of all our other services this evening, some philosophy.”

“Jean,” Locke muttered, “Jean, where the hell … what am I doing?”

“Trying to fill a hole,” said Patience.

“Well, was I …? I seem to have lost myself just now. I feel gods-damned strange.”

Jean put a hand on Locke’s shoulder and frowned. “You’re getting warmer,” he said. He set his palm against Locke’s forehead and felt a fever-heat.

“Certainly doesn’t feel like it on my side of things,” said Locke. Shivering, he reached for the blanket on his legs. Jean grabbed it for him and draped it across his shoulders.

“You back to your senses, then?” asked Jean.

“Am I? You tell me. I just … I’ve never felt so hungry. Ever. Hell, I’d still be eating, but I think I’m out of room. I don’t know what came over me.”

“It will come over you again,” said Patience.

“Oh, lovely. Well, this may be a stupid question,” said Locke, “but did it work?”

“If it hadn’t, you’d have died twenty minutes ago,” said Patience.

“So it’s out of me,” muttered Locke, staring down at his hands. “Gods. What a mess. I feel … I don’t know. Other than the hundred tons I just shoved into my stomach, I can’t tell if I’m actually feeling any better.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell feeling better,” said Jean.

“I’m cold. Hands and feet are numb. Feels like I’ve aged a hundred years.” Locke slid off the table, drawing the blanket more tightly around himself. “I think I can stand up, though!”

He demonstrated the questionable optimism of this pronouncement by falling on his face.

“Damn,” he muttered as Jean picked him up. “Sure you can’t do anything about this, Patience?”

“Master Lamora, you full-blooded ingrate, haven’t I worked enough miracles on your behalf for one night?”

“Purely as a business investment,” said Locke. “But I suppose I should thank you nonetheless.”

“Yes, nonetheless. As for your strength, everything now falls to nature. You need food and rest, like any other convalescent.”

“Well,” said Locke, “uh, if it’s no trouble, I’d like to speak alone with Jean.”

“Shall I have the cabin cleared?”

“No.” Locke stared at the unconscious young magi for a moment. “No, let your apprentices or whatever sleep off their hangovers. A walk on deck will do me some good.”

“They do have names,” said Patience. “You’ll be working for us; you might as well accept that. They’re called—”

“Stop,” said Locke. “I’m bloody grateful for what you’ve done here, but you’re not hauling me to Karthain to be anyone’s friend. Forgive me if I don’t feel cordial.”

“I suppose I should take your restoration to boorishness as a credit to my arts,” said Patience with a sigh. “I’ll give instructions to have more food and water set out for you.”

“I doubt I could eat another bite,” said Locke.

“Oh, wait a few minutes,” said Patience. “I’ve been with child. Rely on my assurance that you’ll be ruled by your belly for some time to come.”

2

“I TELL you, Jean, he was there. He was there looking down at me, closer than you are right now.”

Locke and Jean leaned against the Sky-Reacher’s taffrail, watching the soft play of the ghost-lights that gave the Lake of Jewels its name. They gleamed in the black depths, specks of cold ruby fire and soft diamond white, like submerged stars, far out of human reach. Their nature was unknown. Some said they were the souls of the thousand mutineers drowned by the mad emperor Orixanos. Others swore they must be Eldren treasures. In Lashain, Jean had even read a pamphlet in which a Therin Collegium scholar argued that the lights were glowing fish, imbued with the alchemical traces that had spilled into the lake in the decades since the perfection of light-globes.

Whatever they were, they were a pretty enough distraction, rippling faintly beneath the ship’s wake. Smears of gray at the horizon hinted the approach of dawn, but a low ceiling of dark clouds still occluded the sky.

Locke was shaky and feverish, wearing his blanket like a shawl. In between sentences, he munched nervously at a piece of dried ship’s biscuit from the small pile he carried wrapped in a towel.

“Given what was happening to you, Locke, I think the safest bet by far would be that you imagined it.”

“He spoke to me in his own voice,” said Locke, shuddering. Jean gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder, but Locke went on. “And his eyes … his eyes … did you ever hear anything like that, at the temples you entered? About a person’s sins being engraved on their eyes?”

“No,” said Jean, “but then, you’d know more inner ritual of at least one temple than I would. Is it treading on any of your vows to ask if you—”

“No, no,” said Locke. “It’s nothing I ever learned in the order of the Thirteenth.”

“Then you did imagine the whole mess.”

“Why the hell would I imagine something like that?”

“Because you’re a gods-damned guilt-obsessed idiot?”

“Easy for you to be glib.”

“I’m not. Look, do you really think the life beyond life is such a farce that people wander around in spirit with their bodies mutilated? You think souls have two eyes in their heads? Or need them?”

“We see certain truths manifested in limited forms for our own apprehension,” said Locke. “We don’t see the life after life as it truly is, because in our eyes it conforms to our mechanics of nature.”

“Straight out of elementary theology, just as I learned it. Several times,” said Jean. “Anyway, since when are you a connoisseur of revelation? Have you ever, at any point in your life since you became a priest, been struck by the light of heavenly clarity, by dreams and visions, by omens, or anything that made you quake in your breeches and say, ‘Holy shit, the gods have spoken!’ ”

“You know I would have told you if I had,” said Locke. “Besides, that’s not how things work, not as we’re taught in our order.”

“You think any sect isn’t told the exact same thing, Locke? Or do you honestly believe that there’s a temple of divines out there somewhere constantly getting thumped on the head by bolts of white-hot truth while the rest of you are left to stumble around on intuition?”

“Broadening the discussion, aren’t you?”

“Not at all. After so many years, so many scrapes, so much blood, why would you suddenly start having true revelations from beyond the grave now?”

“I can’t know. I can’t presume to speak for the gods.”

“But that’s precisely what you’re doing. Listen, if you walk into a whorehouse and find yourself getting sucked off, it’s because you put some money on the counter, not because the gods transported a pair of lips to your cock.”

“That’s … a really incredible metaphor, Jean, but I think I could use some help translating it.”

“What I’m saying is, we have a duty to accept on faith, but also a duty to weigh and judge. Once you insist that some mundane thing was actually the miraculous hand of the gods, why not treat everything that way? When you start finding messages from the heavens in your breakfast sausages, you’ve thrown aside your responsibility to use your head. If the gods wanted credulous idiots for priests, why wouldn’t they make you that way when you were chosen?”

“This didn’t happen while I was eating breakfast, for fuck’s sake.”

“Yeah, it happened while you were this far from death.” Jean held up his thumb and forefinger, squeezed tightly together. “Sick, exhausted, drugged, and under the tender care of our favorite people in the world. I’d find it strange if you didn’t have a nightmare or two.”

“It was so vivid, though. And he was so—”

“You said he was cold and vengeful. Does that sound like Bug? And do you really think he’d still be there, wherever you imagined him, hovering around years after he died just to frighten you for half a minute?”

Locke stuffed more biscuit into his mouth and chewed agitatedly.

“I refuse to believe,” said Jean, “that we live in a world where the Lady of the Long Silence would let a boy’s spirit wander unquiet for years in order to scare someone else! Bug’s long gone, Locke. It was just a nightmare.”

“I sure as hell hope so,” said Locke.

“Worry about something else,” said Jean. “I mean it, now. The magi came through on their end of our deal. We’ll be expected to make ourselves useful next.”

“Some convalescence,” said Locke.

“I am glad as hell to see you up and moping on your own two feet again. I need you, brother. Not lying in bed, useless as a piece of pickled dogshit.”

“I’m gonna remember all of this tender sympathy next time you’re ill,” said Locke.

“I tenderly and sympathetically didn’t heave you off a cliff.”

“Fair enough,” said Locke. He turned around and glanced across the lantern-lit reaches of the deck. “You know, I think my wits might be less congealed. I’ve just noticed that there’s nobody in charge of this ship.”

Jean glanced around. None of the magi were visible anywhere else on deck. The ship’s wheel was still, as though restrained by ghostly pressure.

“Gods,” said Jean. “Who the hell’s doing that?”

“I am,” said Patience, appearing at their side. She held a steaming mug of tea and gazed out across the jewel-dotted depths.

“Gah!” Locke slid away from her. “My nerves are scraped raw. Must you do that?”

Patience sipped her tea with an air of satisfaction.

“Have it your way,” said Locke. “What happened to all of your little acolytes?”

“Everyone’s shaken from the ritual. I’ve sent them down for some rest.”

“You’re not shaken?”

“Nearly to pieces,” she said.

“Yet you’re moving this ship against the wind. Alone. While talking to us.”

“I am. Nonetheless, I’d wager that you’re still going to misplace your tone of respect whenever you speak to me.”

“Lady, you knew I was poison when you picked me up,” said Locke.

“And how are you now?”

“Tired. Damned tired. Feels like someone poured sand in my joints. But there’s nothing eating at my insides … not like before. I’m hungry as all hell, but it’s not … evil. Not anymore.”

“And your wits?”

“They’ll serve,” said Locke. “Besides, Jean’s here to catch me when I fall.”

“I’ve had the great cabin cleaned for you. There’s a wardrobe with a set of slops. They’ll keep you warm until we reach Karthain and throw you to the tailors.”

“We can’t wait,” said Locke. “Patience, are we in any danger of running aground or something if we ask you a few questions?”

“There’s nothing to run aground on for a hundred miles yet. But are you sure you don’t want to rest?”

“I’ll collapse soon enough. I can feel it. I don’t want to waste another lucid moment if I can help it,” said Locke. “You remember what you promised us in Lashain? Answers, I mean.”

“Of course,” she said. “So long as you recall the limitation I set.”

“I’ll try not to get too personal.”

“Good,” said Patience. “Then I’ll try not to waste a great deal of effort by setting you on fire if my temper runs short.”

3

“WHY DO you people serve?” said Locke. “Why take contracts? Why Bondsmagi?”

“Why work on a fishing boat?” Patience breathed the steam from her tea. “Why stomp grapes into wine? Why steal from gullible nobles?”

“You need money that badly?”

“As a tool, certainly. Its application is simple and universally effective.”

“And that’s it?”

“Isn’t that good enough for your own life?”

“It just seems—”

“It seems,” said Patience, “that what you really want to ask is why we care about money at all when we could take anything we please.”

“Yes,” said Locke.

“What makes you think we would behave like that?”

“Despite your sudden interest in my welfare, you’re scheming, skull-fucking bastards,” said Locke, “and your consciences are shriveled like an old man’s balls. Start with Therim Pel. You did burn an entire city off the map.”

“Any few hundred people sufficiently motivated could have destroyed Therim Pel. Sorcery wasn’t the only means that would have sufficed.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Locke. “Let’s allow that maybe all you theoretically needed were some gardening tools and a little creativity; what you actually did was rain fire from the fucking sky. If your lot couldn’t rule the world with that …”

“Are you smarter than a pig, Locke?”

“On occasion,” said Locke. “There are contrary opinions.”

“Are you more dangerous than a cow? A chicken? A sheep?”

“Let’s be generous and say yes.”

“Then why don’t you go to the nearest farm, put a crown on your head, and proclaim yourself emperor of the animals?”

“Uh … because—”

“The thought of doing anything so ridiculous never crossed your mind?”

“I suppose.”

“Yet you wouldn’t deny that you have the power to do it, anytime you like, with no chance of meaningful resistance from your new subjects?”

“Ahhh—”

“Still not an attractive proposition, is it?” said Patience.

“So that’s really it?” said Jean. “Any half-witted bandit living on bird shit in the hinterlands would make himself emperor if he could, but you people, who actually can do it at will, are such paragons of reason—”

“Why sit in a farmyard with a crown on your head when you can buy all the ham you like down at the market?”

“You’ve banished ambition completely?” said Jean.

“We’re ambitious to the bone, Jean. Our training doesn’t give the meek room to breathe. However, most of us find it starkly ludicrous that the height of all possible ambition, to the ungifted, must be to drape oneself in crowns and robes.”

“Most?” said Locke.

“Most,” said Patience. “I did mention that we’ve had a schism over the years. You might not be surprised to hear that it concerns you.” She crooked two fingers on her left hand at Locke and Jean. “The ungifted. What to do with you. Keep to ourselves or put the world on its knees? Nobility would no longer be a matter of patents and lineages. It would be a self-evident question of sorcerous skill. You would be enslaved without restraint to a power you could never possess, not with all the time or money or learning in the world. Would you like to live in such an empire?”

“Of course not,” said Locke.

“Well, I have no desire to build it. Our arts have given us perfect independence. Our wealth has made that freedom luxurious. Most of us recognize this.”

“You keep using that word,” said Locke. “ ‘Most.’ ”

“There are exceptionalists within our ranks. Mages that look upon your kind as ready-made abjects. They’ve always been a minority, held firmly in check by those of us with a more conservative and practical philosophy, but they have never been so few as to be laughed off. These are the two factions I spoke of earlier. The exceptionalists tend to be young, gifted, and aggressive. My son was popular with them, before you crossed his path in Camorr.”

“Great,” said Locke. “So those assholes that came and paid us a visit in Tal Verrar, on your sufferance, don’t even have to leave the comforts of home for another go at us! Brilliant.”

“I gave them that outlet to leaven their frustration,” said Patience. “If I had commanded absolute safety for you, they would have disobeyed and murdered you. After that, I would have had no answer to their insubordination short of civil war. The peace of my society balances at all times on points like this. You two are just the most recent splinter under everyone’s nails.”

“What will your insubordinate friends do when we get to Karthain? Give us hugs, buy us beer, pat us on our heads?” said Jean.

“They won’t trouble you,” said Patience. “You’re part of the five-year game now, protected by its rules. If they harm you outright, they call down harsh retribution. However, if their chosen agents outmaneuver you, then they steal a significant amount of prestige from my faction. They need you to be pieces on the board as much as I do.”

“What if we win?” said Jean. “What will they do afterward?”

“If you do manage to win, you can naturally expect the goodwill of myself and my friends to shelter under.”

“So we’re working for the kindhearted, moral side of your little guild, is that what we should understand?” said Locke.

“Kindhearted? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Patience. “But you’re a fool if you can’t believe that we’ve spent a great deal of time reflecting on the moral questions of our unique position. The fact that you’re even here, alive and well, testifies to that reflection.”

“And yet you hire yourselves out to overthrow kingdoms and kill people.”

“We do,” said Patience. “Human beings are afflicted with short memories. They need to be reminded that they have valid reasons for holding us in awe. That’s why, after very careful consideration, we still allow magi to accept black contracts.”

“Define ‘careful consideration,’ ” said Locke.

“Any request for services involving death or kidnapping is scrutinized,” said Patience. “Black work needs to be authorized by a majority of my peers. Even once that’s done, there needs to be at least one mage willing to accept the task.”

Patience cupped her left hand, and a silver light flashed behind her fingers. “You curious men,” she said. “I offer you the answers to damn near anything, secrets thousands of people have died trying to uncover, and you want to learn how we go about paying our bills.”

“We’re not done pestering you,” said Locke. “What are you doing there?”

“Remembering.” The silver glow faded, and a slender spike of dreamsteel appeared, cradled against the first two fingers of her hand. “You’re bold enough in your questions. Are you bold enough for a direct answer?”

“What’s the proposal?” said Locke, nibbling half-consciously at a biscuit.

“Walk in my memories. See through my eyes. I’ll show you something relevant, if you’ve got the strength to handle it.”

Locke swallowed in a hurry. “Is this going to be as much fun as the last ritual?”

“Magic’s not for the timid. I won’t offer again.”

“What do I do?”

“Lean forward.”

Locke did so, and Patience held the silver spike toward his face. It narrowed, twisted, and poured itself through the air, directly into Locke’s left eye.

He gasped. The biscuits tumbled from his hand as the dreamsteel spread in a pool across his eye, turning it into a rippling mirror. A moment later droplets of silver appeared in his right eye, thickening and spreading.

“What the hell?” Jean was torn between the urge to slap Patience aside and the sternness of her earlier warning not to interfere with her sorcery.

“Jean … wait …” whispered Locke. He stood transfixed, tied to Patience’s hand by a silver strand, his eyes gleaming. The trance lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, and then the dreamsteel withdrew. Locke wobbled and clutched the taffrail, blinking furiously.

“Holy hells,” he said. “What a sensation.”

“What happened?” said Jean.

“She was … I don’t know, exactly. But I think you’ll want to see this.”

Patience turned to Jean, extending the hand with the silver needle. Jean leaned forward and fought to avoid flinching as the narrow silver point came toward him. It brushed his open eye like a breath of cold air, and the world around him changed.

4

FOOTSTEPS ECHOING on marble. Faint murmur of conversation in an unknown language. No, not a murmur. Not a noise at all. A soft tickle of thoughts from a dozen strangers, brushing against an awareness that Jean hadn’t previously known he’d possessed. A flutter like moth wings against the front of his mind. The sensation is frightening. He tries to halt, is startled to discover that the vaporous mass of his body refuses his commands.

Ah, but these aren’t your memories. The voice of Patience, inside his head. You’re a passenger. Try to relax, and it will grow easier soon enough.

“I don’t weigh anything,” Jean says. The words come from his lips like the weakest half-exhalation of a man with dead stones for lungs. Squeezing them out takes every ounce of will he can muster.

It’s my body you’re wearing. I’m leaving some things hazy for your peace of mind. You’re here for a study in culture, not anatomy.

Warm light on his face, falling from above. His thoughts are buoyed from below by a sensation of power, a cloud of ghostly whispers he can’t seem to grab meaningful hold of. He rides atop these like a boat bobbing on a deep ocean.

My mind. My deeper memories, which are quite irrelevant, thank you. Concentrate. I’ll make you privy to my strongest, most deliberate thoughts from the moments I’m revealing.

Jean tries to relax, tries to open himself to this experience, and the impressions tumble in, piece by piece, faster and faster. He is struck by a disorienting jumble of information—names, places, descriptions, and, threaded through it all, the thoughts and sigils of many other magi:

Isas Scholastica

                       Isle of Scholars

—Archedama, it’s not like you to keep us waiting—

    (private citadel of the magi of Karthain)

—is it because—

    … feeling of resigned annoyance …

      —Falconer—

                 (damn that obvious and inevitable question)

  … sound of footsteps on smooth marble …

—can well understand—

    His presence has nothing to do with my tardiness.

—would feel the same in your place—

    As if I’d hide from my duties because of him.

(gods above, did I earn five rings by being meek?)

There is a plain wooden door before Jean, the door to the Sky Chamber, the seat of what passes for government among the magi of Karthain. The door will not open by touch. Anyone attempting to turn the handle will stand dumbfounded as their hand fails again and again to find it, plainly visible though it is. Jean feels a flutter of power as he/Patience sends his/her sigil against the door. At this invisible caress, the door falls open.

—pardon, did not mean to offend—

  … the warm air of the Sky Chamber, already packed with …

    I will not take the wall to my own son!

             —no need to get annoyed, I was merely—

… there he sits, waiting.

      (watching, watching, like his damned bird)

The Sky Chamber is a vault of illusion that would make the artificers of Tal Verrar weak-kneed with envy. It is the first object of free-standing, honest-to-the-gods sorcery that Jean has ever seen. The room is circular, fifty yards in diameter, and Jean knows from Patience’s penumbra of knowledge that the domed ceiling is actually twenty feet beneath the ground. Nonetheless, across the great glass sweep of that dome is a counterfeit sky, like a painting brought to life, perfect in every detail. It shows a stately early evening, with the sun hidden away behind gold-rimmed clouds.

The magi await Patience in high-backed chairs, arranged in rising tiers like the Congress of Lords from the old empire—a congress long since banished to ashes by the men and women who emulate them. They wear identical hooded robes, a soft dark red, the color of roses in shadow. This is their ceremonial dress. Gray or brown robes might have been more neutral, more restful, but the progenitors of the order didn’t want their inheritors to grow too restful in their deliberations.

One man sits in the foremost rank of chairs, directly across from Jean/Patience as the door slides shut behind him/her. Perched on one robed arm, statue-still, is a hawk that Jean recognizes instantly. He has looked directly into its cold, deadly eyes before, as well as those of its master.

(watching, watching, like his damned bird)

A bombardment of questions and greetings and sigils comes on like a crashing wave, then steadily fades. Order is called for, and relative silence descends, a relief to Jean. And then:

Mother.

The greeting comes a moment too late to be polite. It is sharp and clear as only the thoughts of a blood relative can be. Behind it is an emotional grace note, artfully subdued—the wide bright sky, a sensation of soaring, a feeling of wind against the face. The absolute freedom of high flight.

The sigil of the Falconer.

Speaker, she/Jean replies.

Must we be such prisoners of formality, Mother?

This is a formal occasion.

Surely we’re alone in our thoughts.

You and I are never alone.

And yet we’re never together. How is it we can both mean the exact same thing by those statements?

Don’t wax clever with me, Speaker. Now isn’t the time for your games—This is as much your game as it is mine—I WILL NOT BE INTERRUPTED.

There is strength behind that last thought, a pulse of mental muscle the younger mage cannot yet match. A vulgar way to punctuate a conversation, but the Falconer takes the point. He bows his head a fraction of a degree, and Vestris, his scorpion hawk, does the same.

At the center of the Sky Chamber is a reflecting pool of dreamsteel, its surface a perfect unrippled mirror. Four chairs surround it; three are occupied. The magi have little care for the ungifted custom of setting the highest-ranked to gaze upon their inferiors. When so much business is transacted in thought, physical directions begin to lose even symbolic meaning.

Jean/Patience takes the open seat, and reaches out to the other three arch-magi. It’s as easy as joining flesh-and-blood hands. Archedons and archedamas pool energies, crafting a joined sigil, an ideogram that fills the room for an instant with the thought-shape of four names:

-Patience-Providence-

-Foresight-Temperance-

The names are meaningless, traditional, having nothing to do with the personal qualities of their holders. The fused sigil proclaims the commencement of formal business. The light in the chamber dims in response; the early-evening sky is replaced by a bowl of predawn violet with a warm line of tawny gold at the horizon. Archedon Temperance, seniormost of the four, sends forth:

—We return to the matter of the black contract proposed by Luciano Anatolius of Camorr.—

There is a twist, a wrench in Jean’s perceptions. Patience, the here-and-now Patience, adjusts her memories, shifts them to a context he can better understand. The thought-voices of the magi take on the quality of speech.

“We remain divided on whether or not the consequences of this proposal exceed the allowances of our guiding Mandates—first, the question of self-harm. Second, the question of common detriment.”

Temperance is a lean man of seventy, with brown skin the texture of wind-whipped tree bark. His hair is gray, and his clouding eyes are milky agates in deep, dark sockets. Yet his mind remains vigorous; he has worn five rings for half his life.

“With respect, Archedon, I would call on the assembly to also consider the question of higher morality.” This from a pale woman in the first row of seats. Her left arm is missing, and a fold of robe hangs pinned at that shoulder like a mantle. She stands, and with her other hand sweeps her hood back, revealing thin blonde hair woven tightly under a silver mesh cap. This gesture is the privilege of a Speaker, announcing her intention to take the floor and attempt to influence the current discussion.

Jean knows this woman from Patience’s subtle whispers—Navigator, three rings, born on a Vadran trading ship and brought to Karthain as a child. Her private obsession is the study of the sea, and she is closely identified with Patience’s allies.

“Speaker,” says Jean/Patience, “you know full well that no proposed contract need be proven against anything broader than our own Mandates.”

Patience gets this out quickly, to create an impression of neutrality that is not entirely honest and to stress the obvious before someone with a more belligerent outlook can seize the chance to make a fiercer denunciation.

“Of course,” says Navigator. “I have no desire to challenge the law provided by our founders in all their formidable sagacity. I am not suggesting that we test the proposed contract on my terms, but that we have an obligation to test ourselves.”

“Speaker, the distinction is meaningless.” Foresight speaks now, youngest of the arch-magi, barely forty. She and the Falconer are associates. She is also the most aggressive of the five-ring magi, her will as hard as Elderglass. “We are divided on questions of clear and binding law. Why do you muddle this deliberation with nebulous philosophy?”

“The point is hardly nebulous, Archedama. It bears directly upon the first Mandate, the question of self-harm. The sheer scope of the slaughter this Anatolius proposes risks some diminishment of ourselves if we agree to it. We are discussing the single greatest bloodbath in the history of our black contracts.”

“Speaker, you exaggerate,” says Foresight. “Anatolius has been clear concerning his plans for the nobility of Camorr. Few, if any, would actually be killed.”

“Candidly, Archedama, you surprise me with your dissembling. Surely we are not such children as to delude ourselves that someone reduced to the state of a living garden decoration by Wraithstone poisoning has not, by any practical measure, been murdered!”

There is a brightening in the artificial sky as the sun peeks above the horizon. Regardless of the justice of Navigator’s argument, the assembly approves of the manner in which she’s making it. The ceiling responds to the mental prodding of the magi in attendance. The sun literally shines on those that capture general approval, and visibly sets on those that stumble in their arguments.

“Sister Speaker,” says the Falconer, rising calmly and pushing his own hood back. Jean feels another chill at the uncovering of his familiar features—the receding hairline, the bright dangerous eyes and easy air of command. “You’ve never been coy about the fact that you oppose black contracts on general principle, have you?”

Jean draws knowledge from Patience’s whispers. There are about half a dozen Speakers at any time, popular and forthright magi, chosen by secret ballots. They have no power to make or contravene laws, but they do have the right to intrude on Sky Chamber discussions and indirectly represent the interests of their supporters.

“Brother Speaker, I’m not aware of having been coy about anything.”

“What, then, is the full compass of your objection? Is it all higher morality?”

“Wouldn’t that be sufficient? Isn’t the question of whether we might be found wanting at the weighing of our souls an adequate basis for restraint?”

“Is it your only basis?”

“No. I also put forth the question of our dignity! How can we not do it an injury when we reduce ourselves to paid assassins for the ungifted?”

“Is that not the very credo by which we work? Incipa veila armatos de—‘we become instruments,’ ” says the Falconer. “To serve the client’s design, we make ourselves tools. Sometimes that makes us weapons of murder.”

“Indeed, a murder weapon is a tool. But not all tools are murder weapons.”

“When our prospective clients want us to find lost relatives or summon rain, do we not take the contracts? Such is the condition of the world, however, that they tend to want our assistance in matters which are regrettably more sanguine.”

“We are not helpless in the choosing of the contracts proposed to—”

“Sister Speaker, your pardon. I interrupt because I fear that we are prolonging this discussion unnecessarily. Allow me to lay your points to rest, so that we may return to cutting our previous knot. You say it’s the scope of this particular contract that earns your strenuous objection. How do you suggest that we scale it down to a more agreeably moral operation?”

“Scale it down? The whole enterprise is so bloodthirsty and reckless that I can hardly conceive of how we might mitigate it by sparing a few victims among the crowd.”

“How many would we have to spare for such mitigation as would please you?”

“You know as well as I, Brother Speaker, that this is not a question of simple arithmetic.”

“Isn’t it? You’ve listened to proposals for many black contracts over the years, contracts involving the removal of individuals, gangs, even families. You might have objected in principle, but you never made any attempt to have them disallowed.”

“A contract for a single murder, while an undignified thing in itself, is at least more precise than the wholesale destruction of an entire city-state’s rulers!”

“I see. Can we agree, then, on a point at which ‘precise’ becomes ‘wholesale’? How many removals tip the balance? Are fifteen corpses moral, but sixteen excessive? Or seventeen? Or twenty-nine? Surely we must be able to compromise. The low triple digits, perhaps?”

“You are deliberately reducing my argument past the point of absurdity!”

“Wrong, Sister Speaker. I take your points very seriously. They have been treated seriously in our laws and customs for centuries! And they have been treated thus: Incipa veila armatos de! We become instruments. Instruments do not judge!”

The Falconer spreads his arms. Vestris flaps her wings, hops to his left shoulder, and settles back into comfortable stillness.

“That has been our way for centuries, precisely because of situations like this. Precisely because we are not gods, and we are not wise enough to sift the worthy from the unworthy before we take action on behalf of our clients!”

Jean has to admire the Falconer’s cheek—appealing to humility in defense of an argument that magi should be free to slaughter without remorse!

“It is madness to try,” continues the Falconer. “It leads to sophistry and self-righteousness. Our founders were correct to leave us so few Mandates by which to weigh the proposals we receive. Will we harm ourselves? This we can answer! Will we harm the wider world, to the point that our interests may be damaged? This we can answer! But are the men and women we might remove penitent before the gods? Are they good parents to their children? Are they sweet-tempered? Do they give alms to beggars, and if so, does this compel us to stay our hands? How can we possibly begin to answer such questions?

“We make ourselves instruments! Anyone we kill as instruments, we deliver to a judgment infinitely wiser than our own. If the removal be a sin, it weighs upon the client who commands it, not those who act under the bond of obedience!”

“Well put, Speaker.” Archedama Foresight is unable to suppress a smile; the sun has risen while the Falconer has made his arguments, and the chamber is flush with a soft golden glow. “I call to my fellow arch-magi for binding. We have no time for the diversion of philosophy. The subject of a specific contract divided us this morning. It divides us now. One way or another, we should end that division, working firmly within the context of the law.”

“Agreed,” says Temperance. “Binding.”

“Reluctantly agreed,” says Providence. “Binding.”

Jean/Patience feels a warm glow of gratitude. Providence has bent a point of etiquette, speaking his judgment before that of the more senior Patience, but in so doing he has confirmed the verdict, three out of four. Patience, whatever her actual thoughts on the subject, is now free to conceal them and do a small kindness to Navigator.

“Abstain,” Jean/Patience says.

“Binding,” says Foresight.

“Bound, then,” says Temperance. “All further discussion outside the Mandates is set aside.”

Navigator pulls her hood up, bows, and sits. The assembly is restored to its previous stalemate. Providence has refused to sanction the proposed contract, while Foresight has endorsed it. Temperance and Patience have yet to express their opinions.

“You have more for us, Speaker?” Temperance directs his question at the Falconer, who remains standing.

“I do,” says the young man, “if I don’t strain your patience in continuing.”

Jean is struck by the ambiguity of his insight into this affair. Is it possible to make puns in thought-speech? Was that the Falconer’s design? Or is Patience, in translation, highlighting nuances her son didn’t intend? Whatever the truth, none of the arch-magi take exception.

“I bear no particular love for the people of Camorr. Neither do I bear them any particular ill-will,” says the Falconer. “The proposed contract is drastic, yes. It will require deftness and discretion, and the removal of many people. It will have consequences, but I would argue that none of them are relevant to us.

“Let us look to the first Mandate, the question of self-harm. Do we have any particular attachment to the current rulers of Camorr? No. Do we have any properties or investments in the city we can’t protect? No! Do we invite trouble for Karthain by causing upheaval two thousand miles away? Please … as if our presence here couldn’t protect the interests of Karthain, even were Camorr two miles down the road!”

“You talk of investments.” Archedon Providence speaks now, a disarmingly mild man about Patience’s age, a staunch ally of hers. “Anatolius casts a wide net with this scheme. Any feast at Raven’s Reach will command the presence of the city’s money, including Meraggio himself. We do maintain accounts at his house, and others.”

“I’ve researched them,” says the Falconer. “But do these people run countinghouses or trade syndicates by themselves? Any one of them will have family, advisors, lieutenants. Capable and ambitious inheritors. The money in the vaults won’t go anywhere. The letters of credit won’t vanish. The organizations will continue operating under new authorities. At least that’s my conclusion. Do you find it to be in error, Archedon?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Nor I,” says Foresight. “Our few ties to Camorr are secure, our obligations to it nonexistent. Who can name a single concrete injury we would do ourselves if we accepted the Anatolius contract?”

The chamber is silent.

“I trust we may consider the first Mandate dispensed with,” says the Falconer. “Let’s give due airing to the second. What Anatolius proposes—and offers to pay a fair, which is to say, exorbitant price for—is that we engineer an opportunity for him to work his revenge against the nobility of Camorr and against its foremost criminal family. Now, I am merely being exact. I’m not attempting to disguise the magnitude of his intentions.

“With our aid, Anatolius will likely succeed, and hundreds of the most powerful men and women in Camorr will be gentled. Our sister Navigator is correct to point out the foolishness of dancing around this point. These men and women will never again have a single meaningful thought. They won’t be able to wipe the filth from their own asses. Their fate will be tantamount to murder.

“I would certainly not wish that on anyone I knew or cared for, but then, we are here to consider, as the archedama put it, the concrete injuries of our actions, not to hone our sympathy for distant persons. We must measure whether the disruption this would inflict could be so widespread as to compromise our own interests, and our freedom of action.”

“Forgive my suspicion,” says Jean/Patience, “that the Speaker has come to this assembly well-armed with conclusions to aid us in that measurement.”

“Archedama, I would be a poor advocate indeed if I dared to speak extemporaneously on such a crucial matter. I’ve given this contract a great deal of thought since it was first proposed.”

“If it were carried out,” says Archedama Foresight, “what would happen to Camorr?”

“I think it impossible,” says the Falconer, “that literally every noble in Camorr could be caught in this trap. There must inevitably be those too ill to attend, those out of favor at court, and those traveling abroad. There will also be those that leave too early or arrive too late. Dozens of them are sure to survive. Anatolius understands this. His point is made regardless.

“Camorr possesses a standing army of several companies, along with a rather infamous constabulary. At the end of the night, the survivors would retain a disciplined force to keep the peace.”

“That’s what they’d be used for, then?” Archedon Providence adopts a tone of mock surprise. “Certainly not to settle old scores? Camorri are so famous for their deep sense of restraint where lingering grudges are concerned.”

“I’m not trying to be fatuous, Archedon,” says the Falconer, “or unduly optimistic. But our information—and our information is better than the duke of Camorr’s—is that the duke’s standing forces are reasonably loyal to the throne and to Camorr itself. Of course there’d be blood on the walls. Doors kicked in, alley fights, that personal Camorri touch. Yet I think it likely the army and constabulary would stand aside from these affairs until the strongest survivors restored a legitimate chain of command.”

“Are you seriously arguing,” says Providence, “that Camorr would, after a few knife-fights in the dark, suffer no further instability from the sudden and rather horrific subtraction of several hundred nobles?”

“Of course not. Archedon, you do me a rhetorical injustice. Camorr will lose much—its present ambitions, its particular relations with other city-states, its high culture. If Anatolius has his way, he’ll wipe out most of the old dogs who won the Thousand Days and put down the Mad Count’s rebellion.

“Camorr will be severely tested. Tal Verrar, we must assume, will poke every visible wound. But will Camorr collapse? Will there be riots in the streets? Will its soldiers throw down their pikes and run to the wilds? Gods be gracious, no. And will it lash out? At whom? Anatolius intends to make it generally known, if his plan is successful, that what took place was an act of vengeance by Camorri, upon Camorri. There’ll be no foreign phantoms to chase.”

“They will try,” says Temperance, musingly. “And they’ll hunt Anatolius to the ends of creation. Assassins will be lined up at the city gates for work.”

“I agree,” says the Falconer. “But that would be Anatolius’ problem, and he’s eager to have it. He knows how to reach our agents if he wishes to discuss the price of making himself vanish.”

There is a good-humored murmur from around the chamber. The sun has climbed higher; the warm golden glow is steady.

“I believe the chaos unleashed by Anatolius’ plan would be brief, local, and easily contained,” says the Falconer. “It is, of course, the place of the arch-magi to determine whether or not I’ve been convincing. But I would say one thing more—a decision here is only the first requirement for a contract to be placed into action. It must also have a mage willing to become its instrument. I am no hypocrite! If the arch-magi allow it, I would be the first to request the honor of the assignment.”

Jean feels a strange flare of emotion from somewhere below the surface of the memories he rides. It isn’t anger, or even surprise. Rather … satisfaction? Anticipation? The hint of feeling vanishes quickly, pushed back behind the curtains of Patience’s mental stage.

“Are there any further arguments to be made,” says Temperance, “against the Anatolius proposal, on the basis of the second Mandate?”

Silence around the room.

“We call the question.” Temperance raises his left hand, a gesture that allows his sleeve to fall back just far enough to reveal his five rings. “Have these arguments changed the opinions already offered by my peers?”

“I still can’t deem it acceptable,” says Providence.

“I can,” says Foresight.

“Then the time has come for Patience and me to make our declarations.” Temperance broods before continuing. “I agree that this is a proposal without precedent. I agree that it seems a singular and sinister thing, and I am no enemy of black contracts. But our custom compels a duty to fact, not to vague impressions. I find no valid reason in law to disqualify the proposal.”

A critical moment. Temperance has handed Patience the most meaningful decision of the entire assembly. If she refuses the proposal, agents of the Bondsmagi will politely inform Luciano Anatolius that his proposition has not been found convenient. If she allows the proposal, the Falconer will go to Camorr to work an act of butchery.

“I share the qualms of the honorable Navigator, and our esteemed Archedon Providence,” Jean/Patience says at last. “I also share the Archedon Temperance’s respect for the strictness of our Mandates. I too lack any valid reason to disallow the contract.”

Jean is chilled to the core of his vaporous body as he feels this statement come from his/Patience’s lips. Of all the curious privileges he has ever been granted in life, surely this is among the most awful—the chance to speak the words that sent the Falconer to Camorr, to slaughter the Barsavi family, to cause the deaths of Calo and Galdo and Bug, to come within a hair’s width of killing himself and Locke.

“The proposal is accepted,” says Temperance. “I think it no small justice that the task should be yours, Falconer. We know you have the stomach for black contracts. Now we’ll see if your subtlety is any match for your enthusiasm.”

The Falconer has been handed a double-edged opportunity, a chance to crown his relatively early success with a contract unlike any other. A chance to fail spectacularly if he lacks the nerve to pull it off.

“This assembly is adjourned,” says Temperance. Jean’s perception shifts again; in mid-sentence, the sound of the eldest archedon’s voice transmutes to the sensation of thoughts. Patience has returned to her natural perspective.

Like a theater audience with no applause, the magi rise and begin to file out of the Sky Chamber. A hundred private discussions continue, but there is no need to form conversational knots and clusters when they are taking place in the swift silence of thought.

The other arch-magi rise to leave, but Jean/Patience lingers, staring at the pool of dreamsteel in the middle of the chamber. He/she can feel the Falconer’s eyes from across the room.

I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you to make that allowance, Mother.

If you’re no hypocrite, neither am I.

Jean/Patience waves a hand across the surface of the dreamsteel; currents of warmth pulse up and down the ghostly fingers. The silvery metal ripples birth slender shapes. The sculpting takes a few moments, and is far from perfect, but soon enough Jean/Patience has beckoned the dreamsteel into a caricature of the Camorr skyline, with the Five Towers looming over islands studded with smaller buildings.

Having no excuse to forbid this isn’t the same as condoning it.

Frame it as you like.

Is there any point to my offering a piece of advice?

If it’s truly advice, I’ll be surprised.

Don’t go to Camorr. This contract isn’t just complex, it’s dangerous.

I thought as much. Dangerous? I don’t recall my name being on Luciano Anatolius’ list of enemies.

Not merely dangerous for the ungifted. Dangerous for you.

Oh, Mother. I hardly know whether your game is too deep or too shallow for me. Is this your legendary prescience again? Curious how you seem to cite it whenever you have an obvious reason to slow me down.

The Falconer stretches forth a hand, and the Five Towers sink. In seconds the liquid-sculpture buildings dissolve back into their primordial silver ooze. The dreamsteel quivers, then becomes mirror-smooth once again. The Falconer grins.

Someday, Speaker, you may have cause to regret the intensity of your self-regard.

Yes, well, perhaps we can continue to explore your rather thorough catalog of my faults when I return from Camorr. Until then—

I doubt we’ll ever have the opportunity. Farewell, Falconer.

Farewell, Mother. Rest assured I do look forward to enjoying the last word, whenever it comes.

He turns toward the door. As he walks away, Vestris cocks her head slightly, stares with cold hunter’s eyes, and makes the slightest squawk. The bird’s equivalent of a disdainful laugh.

The Falconer departs on his mission to Camorr two days later. When he returns, months will have passed, and he will be in no condition to enjoy any words at all.

5

“GODS ABOVE,” whispered Jean as the deck of the Sky-Reacher became real beneath his feet again. His eyes felt as though he’d been staring into a bitter wind. It was a deep relief to find himself back in the familiar shape and mass of his own body. “That was insane.”

“The first time isn’t easy. You bore it well enough.”

“You people do that often?” asked Jean.

“I wouldn’t go so far as ‘often.’ ”

“You can just pass your memories back and forth,” said Locke, shaking his head. “Like an old jacket.”

“Not quite. The technique requires preparation and conscious guidance. I couldn’t simply give you the sum total of my memories. Or teach you to speak Vadran with a touch.”

“Ka spras Vadrani anhalt.”

“Yes, I know you do.”

“Falconer,” muttered Jean, rubbing his eyes. “Falconer! Patience, you could have stopped him. You were inclined to stop him!”

“I was,” said Patience. She stared out at the Amathel, the cooling dregs of her tea forgotten.

“But the Falconer was one of your exceptionalists, right?” said Locke. “Along with what’s-her-name, Foresight. And here you had a contract, a mission, to go and really fuck things up, Therim Pel style. If he’d actually pulled it off—and he came gods-damned close, let me tell you—isn’t that just the sort of thing that would have given more prestige to his faction?”

“Absolutely.”

“And you let him go anyway.”

“I thought of abstaining, until he announced his willingness to take the contract. No, his intention of taking the contract. Once he’d done so, I realized that he wouldn’t be coming back safely from Camorr.”

“What, you had some sort of premonition?”

“After a fashion. It’s one of my talents.”

“Patience,” said Locke, “I would like to ask you something deeply personal. Not to antagonize you. I ask because your son helped kill four close friends of mine, and I want to know … I guess …”

“You want to know why we don’t get along.”

“Yes.”

“He hated me.” Patience wrung her hands together. “Still does, behind the fog of his madness. He hates me as much as he did when we parted that day in the Sky Chamber.”

“Why?”

“It’s simple. And yet … rather hard to explain. The first thing you should understand is how we choose our names.”

“Falconer, Navigator, Coldmarrow, et cetera,” said Jean.

“Yes. We call them gray names, because they’re mist. They’re insubstantial. Every mage chooses a gray name when their first ring is tattooed on their wrist. Coldmarrow, for example, chose his in memory of his northern heritage.”

“What were you, before you were Patience?” said Jean.

“I called myself Seamstress.” She smiled faintly. “Not all gray names are grandiose. Now, there’s another sort of name. We call it the red name, the name that lives in the blood, the true name which can never be shed.”

“Like mine,” muttered Jean.

“Just so. The second thing you need to understand is that magical talent has no relation to heredity. It doesn’t breed true. Many decades of regrettable interference in the private lives of magi made this abundantly clear.”

“What do you do,” said Jean, “with, ah, ‘ungifted’ children when you have them?”

“Cherish them and raise them, you imbecile. Most of them end up working for us, in Karthain and elsewhere. What did you think we’d do, burn them on a pyre?”

“Forget I asked.”

“And gifted children?” said Locke. “Where do they come from, if they’re not homegrown?”

“A trained mage can sense an unschooled talent,” said Patience. “We usually catch them very young. They’re brought to Karthain and raised in our unique community. Sometimes their original memories are suppressed for their own comfort.”

“But not the Falconer,” said Locke. “You said he was your flesh-and-blood son.”

“Yes.”

“And for him to have the power … how rare is that?”

“He was the fifth in four hundred years.”

“Was his father a mage?”

“A master gardener,” said Patience softly. “He drowned on the Amathel six months after our son was born.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Of course you’re not.” Patience moved her fingers slightly and her tea mug disappeared. “I suppose I might have gone mad, if not for the Falconer. He was my solace. We became so close, that little boy and I. We explored his talents together. Ultimately, though, for magi to be born of magi is more curse than blessing.”

“Why?” said Jean.

“You’ve been Jean Tannen all your life. It’s what your mother and father called you when you were learning how to speak. It’s engraved on your soul. Your friend here also has a red name, but, to his great good fortune, he stumbled into a gray name for himself at an early age. He calls himself Locke Lamora, but deep down inside, when he thinks of himself, he thinks something else.”

Locke smiled thinly and nibbled a biscuit.

“The very first identity that we accept and recognize as us, that’s what becomes the red name. When we grow from the raw instincts of infancy and discover that we exist, conscious and separate from the things around us. Most of us acquire red names from what our parents whisper to us, over and over, until we learn to repeat it in our own thoughts.”

“Huh,” said Locke. An instant later, he spat crumbs. “Holy shit. You know the Falconer’s true name because you gave it to him!”

“I tried to avoid it,” said Patience. “Oh, I tried. But I was lying to myself. You can’t love a baby and not give him a name. If my husband had lived, he would have given the Falconer a secret name. That was the procedure … other magi might have intervened, would have if I hadn’t deceived them. I wasn’t thinking straight. I needed that private bond with my boy so desperately … and, inevitably, I named him.”

“He resented you for it,” said Jean.

“A mage’s deepest secret,” said Patience. “Never shared, not between masters and students, closest friends, even husbands and wives. A mage who learns another mage’s true name wields absolute power over them. My son has bitterly resented me since the moment he realized what I held over him, whether or not I ever chose to use it.”

“Crooked Warden,” said Locke. “I guess I should be able to find it in my heart to have some sympathy for the poor bastard. But I can’t. I sure as hell wish you’d had a normal son.”

“I think I’ve said enough for the time being.” Patience moved away from the taffrail and turned her back to Locke and Jean. “You two rest. We can dispose of any further questions when you awake.”

“I could sleep,” admitted Locke. “For seven or eight years, I think. Have someone kick the door in at the end of the month if I’m not out yet. And Patience … I guess … I am sorry for—”

“You’re a curious man, Master Lamora. You bite on reflex, and then your conscience bites you. Have you ever wondered where you might have acquired such contradictory strains of character?”

“I don’t repent anything I said, Patience, but I do occasionally remember to try and be civil after the fact.”

“As you said, I’m not dragging you to Karthain to be anyone’s friend. Least of all mine. Go take some rest. We’ll talk after.”

6

JEAN HADN’T realized just how exhausted the long night had left him, and after settling into his hammock he tumbled into the sort of sleep that squashed awareness as thoroughly as a few hundred pounds of bricks dropped on the head.

He woke, groggy and disoriented, to the smell of baked meat and crisp lake air. Locke was sitting at a smaller version of the makeshift table on which he’d been subjected to the cleansing ritual, hard at work on another small mountain of ship’s fare.

“Nnngh.” Jean rolled to his feet and heard his joints creak and pop. His bruises from the encounter with Cortessa would smart for a few days, but bruises were bruises. He’d had them before. “What’s the time?”

“Fifth hour of the afternoon,” said Locke around a mouthful of food. “We should be in Karthain just before dawn, they say.”

Jean yawned, rubbed his eyes, and considered the scene. Locke was dressed in loose clean slops, evidently chosen from an open chest of clothing set against the bulkhead behind him.

“How do you feel, Locke?”

“Bloody hungry.” He wiped his lips against the back of his hand and took a swig of water. “This is worse than Vel Virazzo. Wherever we go, I seem to get thinner and thinner.”

“I’d have thought you’d still be sleeping.”

“I had a will for it, but my stomach wouldn’t be put off. You, if you’ll forgive me, look like a man desperately in search of coffee.”

“I don’t smell any. Suppose you drank it all?”

“Come now, even I’m not that much of a scoundrel. Never was any aboard. Seems Patience is big on tea.”

“Damn. Tea’s no good for waking up civilized.”

“What’s boiling in that muddled brain of yours?”

“I suppose I’m bemused.” Jean took one of the two empty chairs at the table, picked up a knife, and used it to slide some ham onto a slab of bread. “And dizzy. Our Lady of the Five Rings has spun our situation well beyond anything I expected.”

“That she has. You think it’s odd from where you’re sitting!”

“It is.” Jean ate, and studied Locke. He’d cleaned up, shaved, and pulled the lengthening mass of his hair into a short tail. The removal of his beard made the marks of his convalescence plain. He was pale, looking far more Vadran than Therin for a change, and the creases at the edges of his mouth were graven a bit deeper, the lines beneath his eyes more pronounced. Some invisible sculptor had been at work the past few weeks, carving the first real hints of age into the face Jean had known for nearly twenty years. “Where on the gods’ fair earth are you putting all that food, Locke?”

“If I knew that I’d be a physiker.”

Jean took another look around the cabin. A copper tub had been set near the stern windows, and beside it a pile of towels and oil bottles.

“Wondering about the tub?” said Locke. “Water’s fresh—they replaced it after I was done. They don’t expect us to go diving in the lake to make ourselves presentable.”

There was a knock at the cabin door. Jean glanced at Locke, and Locke nodded.

“Come,” yelled Jean.

“I knew you were awake,” said Patience. She came down the steps, made a casual gesture, and the door shut itself behind her. She settled into the third chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Are we proving ourselves adequate hosts?”

“We seem to be well-kept,” said Jean with a yawn, “excepting a barbaric absence of coffee.”

“Endure for another day, Master Tannen, and you’ll have all the foul black misuse of water you can drink.”

“What happened to the last person you hired to rig this little game of yours, Patience?” said Jean.

“Straight to business, eh?” said Locke.

“I don’t mind,” said Patience. “It’s why I’m here. But what do you mean?”

“You do this every five years,” said Jean. “You choose to work through agents that can’t be Bondsmagi. So what happened to the last set you hired? Where are they? Can we speak to them?”

“Ah. You’re wondering whether we tied weights around their ankles and threw them into the lake when it was over.”

“Something like that.”

“In some cases, we traded services. In others we offered payments. All of our former exemplars, regardless of compensation, left our service freely and in good health.”

“So, you ruthlessly protect every aspect of your privacy for centuries, but every few years you pick a special friend, answer any questions they might have, show them your fuckin’ memories, begging your pardon, and then you just send them off when you’re finished, with a cheerful wave?”

“None of our previous exemplars ever crippled a Bondsmage, Jean. None of them were ever shown what you were. But you needn’t flatter yourself that you’ve been made privy to some shattering secret that can only be preserved by the most extreme measures. When this is over, we expect confidentiality for the rest of your lives. And if that courtesy isn’t granted, you both know that we’ll never have any difficulty tracking at least one of you down.”

“I guess that works,” said Jean sourly. “So who took the ribbon, last time you did this?”

“You’re being entrusted with a winning tradition,” said Patience. “Though two victories in a row doesn’t quite make a dynasty, it’s a good basis from which to expect a third. Now, we will discuss your work in Karthain, but I made an unusual promise to get you both here. I would have it fulfilled for good and all. Have you any further questions about my people, about our arts?”

“Ask now or forever bite our tongues?” said Locke.

“I offered a brief opportunity, not a scholarly treatise.”

“As it happens,” said Locke, “I do have one last thing I want a real answer to. Jean asked about the contracts you take. He asked why, and you gave us why not? But I don’t think that cuts to the heart of things. I can’t imagine that you people actually need the money after four hundred years. Am I wrong?”

“No. I could touch sums, at an hour’s notice, that would buy a city-state,” said Patience.

“So why are you still mercenaries? Why build your world around it? Why do you call yourselves Bondsmagi without flinching? Why ‘Incipa veila armatos de’?”

“Ahhh,” said Patience. “This is a deeper draught than you might wish to take.”

“Let me be the judge.”

“As you will. When did the Vadrans start raiding the northern coasts, where the Kingdom of the Marrows is now?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Indulge me. When did they first come down from that miserable waste of theirs, whatever their word for it—”

“Krystalvasen,” said Jean. “The Glass Land.”

“About eight hundred years ago,” said Locke. “So I was taught.”

“And how long since the Therin people moved onto this continent, from across the Iron Sea?”

“Two thousand years, maybe,” said Locke.

“Eight hundred years of Vadran history,” said Patience. “Two thousand for the Therin. The Syresti and the Golden Brethren are older still. Let’s generously give them three thousand years. Now … what if I told you that we had reason to believe that some of the Eldren ruins on this continent were built more than twenty thousand years ago? Perhaps even thirty thousand?”

“That’s pretty damned wild,” said Locke. “How can you—”

“We have means,” said Patience with a dismissive wave. “They’re not important. What’s important is this—no one in recorded history has ever made a credible claim of meeting the Eldren. Whatever they were, they vanished so long ago that our ancestors didn’t leave us any stories about meeting them in the flesh. By the time we took their empty cities, only the gods could know how long they’d been deserted.

“Now, one glance at these cities tells us they were masters of a sorcery that makes ours look like an idiot’s card tricks by comparison. They built miracles, and built them to last for hundreds of centuries. The Eldren meant to tend their garden here for a very, very long time.”

“What made them leave?” said Locke.

“I used to scare myself as a kid by thinking about this,” said Jean.

“You can scare yourself now by thinking about it,” said Patience. “Indeed, Locke, what made them leave? There are two possibilities. Either something wiped them out, or something frightened them so badly that they abandoned all their cities and treasures in their haste to be gone.”

“Leave the world?” said Locke. “Where would they go?”

“We don’t have the faintest speck of an idea,” said Patience. “But regardless of how their marvelous cities were emptied in advance of our tenancy, it happened. Something out there made it happen. We have to assume that something could return.”

“Gah,” said Locke, putting his head in his hands. “Patience, you’re a regular bundle of smiles, you know that?”

“I warned you this might not be cheering.”

“This world and all its souls are the sovereign estate of the Thirteen,” said Locke. “They rule it, protect it, and tend the mechanisms of nature. Hell, maybe they were the ones that kicked the Eldren out.”

“Strange, then, that they wouldn’t mention it to us explicitly,” said Patience.

“Patience, let me reveal something from personal experience,” said Locke. “The gods tell us what we need to know, but when you start asking about things you really just want to know, you’d best expect long pauses in the conversation.”

“Inconvenient,” said Patience. “Of course it’s possible that the gods are keeping mum about what happened to the Eldren. Or they couldn’t act to stop it … or wouldn’t. We’ve spent centuries arguing these possibilities. The only sensible assumption is that we’ve got to take care on our own behalf.”

“How?” said Locke.

“The use of sorcery in a long-term fashion, in a grand and concerted manner, with many magi working together, leaves an indelible imprint upon the world. Persons and forces sensitive to magic can detect this phenomenon, just as you can look at a river and tell which direction it’s flowing, and put your hand in the water to tell how fast and warm it is. Great workings are like burning beacons on a clear dark night. Somewhere out in the darkness, we must assume, are things it would be in our best interest not to signal.

“That’s why we maintain only a handful of places like the Sky Chamber, and prefer not to spend our time building fifty-story towers out of glass. We suspect the Eldren paid for their lack of subtlety. They made themselves obvious to some power they didn’t necessarily need to cross paths with.”

“Did my … did the ritual you used to get rid of that poison—”

“Oh, hardly. It was a significant piece of work. Any mage within twenty miles would have felt it, but what I’m talking about requires a great deal more time and trouble. And that, at last, is why we’ve made our contracts such a focus of our lives. Working toward the diverging goals of thousands upon thousands of others over the years dissipates the magical consequences of concentrating our power.

“Think of us as a few hundred tiny flames, crackling in the night. By sparking randomly, at different times, in different directions, we avoid the danger of flaring together into one vast and visible conflagration.”

“I congratulate you,” said Locke. “My mind has been thoroughly bent. But I think I sort of understand. Your little guild … if what you’re saying is true, you didn’t band together just to keep the peace or any bullshit like that. This Eldren thing really spooks you.”

“Yes,” she said. “The court magicians of the last few years of the Therin Throne were out of control. Circles of pure ambition, working to undermine one another. They wouldn’t heed reason. The founders of our order brought their concerns to Emperor Talathri and were laughed off. But we knew the truth of the matter. If human sorcery is to exist at all, it must be quiet and disciplined, or we risk firsthand knowledge of the fate of the Eldren.”

“Pardon my limited understanding of your powers,” said Jean, “but what you did to Therim Pel was anything but quiet.”

“Or disciplined,” said Patience. “Yes, it was precisely the sort of focused, grand-scale will-working we can’t afford. But on that one occasion, it was a necessary risk. The imperial seat, its infrastructure, its archives—all the heritable trappings of power had to be obliterated. Without Therim Pel, any would-be restorer of the empire found the easy path to legitimacy swept away. We needed that security in our early years.”

“While you hunted down any magician that wouldn’t join you,” said Locke.

“Without mercy,” said Patience. “You’re right not to think of us as altruists. Certainly we can be hard. But perhaps you’ll grant now that our motivations are, if not philanthropic, at least … complicated.”

Locke merely grunted and spooned porridge into his mouth.

“Have I satisfied you on this matter?”

Locke nodded and swallowed. “I’m afraid that if you tell me any more I’ll never be able to sleep in a dark room again.”

“Shall we talk about our business in Karthain?” said Jean, sensing that he and Locke were both in the mood for a less disquieting subject.

“The five-year game,” said Patience. “Are the two of you ready for details?”

“My fighting spirit’s back in residence,” said Locke. “I’ve been stuck in bed for weeks. Turn me loose with a list of laws you want broken.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any tea, Jean?” said Patience.

“No,” said Jean. “Not for breaking fast. I wouldn’t say no to red wine, though. Good rugged paint-stripping stuff. Plonk with sand in it. That’s a good planning wine.”

“I’ll see to it.”

“So,” said Locke, “we work for your faction. I presume that’s you, Coldmarrow, Navigator, all you high-minded types who only slaughter people when they’ve been naughty little children. What about your fellow five-ringers? Where do they stand?”

“Providence and Temperance will be cheering for you. Foresight, as I’m sure will be no surprise, will be hoping for you to slip and break your neck.”

“Foresight and the Falconer’s lot, that’s the other team? Just two sides, no splinter factions, no lurking surprises?” said Locke.

“We only have enough major disagreements to supply two factions, I’m afraid.”

The door slipped open, and Coldmarrow entered with a tray. He set down an open bottle of red wine, several glasses, and Patience’s mug from the previous night. He then handed Patience two scrolls and withdrew as soundlessly as he’d come.

Patience took her tea mug in hand. There was a sizzling noise, and a cloud of steam wafted from the cup. Jean poured two glasses of wine and set one in front of Locke. He took a swig from his own. It tasted like something out of a tanning vat.

“Ah,” he said, “demonic ass-wash. Just the thing.”

“I’m not sure we meant that for drinking,” said Patience. “Possibly for repelling boarders.”

“Smells adequate to the task,” said Locke, adding water to his glass.

“Now, these,” said Patience, pushing the scrolls toward Locke and Jean with her free hand, “would be you.”

Jean picked up his scroll, snapped the seal, and found that it was actually several tightly rolled documents. He scanned them and saw Lashani letters of transit.

“For … Tavrin Callas!” He scowled.

“An old and comfortable piece of clothing, I should think,” said Patience with a smirk.

Beneath the letters of transit, which were a reasonably common means for travelers to prove themselves something less than total vagabonds, there was a letter of credit at one Tivoli’s countinghouse, for the sum of three thousand Karthani ducats. If he wanted to lay claim to that money, of course, he’d have to accept his old alias one more time.

“Cheer up, Jean,” said Locke. “I’m Sebastian Lazari, it seems. Never heard of the fellow.”

“I apologize if the selection of your own false faces is part of the savor for you,” said Patience. “We needed to set up those accounts and put other things into motion before we fetched you out of Lashain.”

“This is swell,” said Locke. “Don’t think we can’t start working with this, now that my nerves are more settled, but I hope this isn’t the fullness of our suckle on the golden teat.”

“Those are merely your setting-up funds, to get you through your first few days. Tivoli will put you in control of your working treasury. One hundred thousand ducats, same as your opposition. A goodly sum for graft and other needs, but not so much that you can simply drench Karthain in money and win without being clever.”

“And, uh, if we set aside a little for afterward?” said Locke.

“We encourage you to spend these funds down to the last copper on the election itself,” said Patience, “since anything left over when the results are confirmed will disappear, as though by magic. Clear?”

“Frustratingly damn clear,” said Locke.

“How does this election work, at the most basic level?” said Jean.

“There are fourteen districts in the city, and five representing the rural manors. Nineteen seats on the ruling Konseil. Each political party stands one candidate per seat, and designates a line of seconds in case the primary candidate is embroiled in scandal or otherwise distracted. That tends to happen with curious frequency.”

“No shit,” said Locke. “What are these political parties?”

“Two major interests dominate Karthain. On one hand there’s the Deep Roots party, old aristocracy. They’ve all been legally debased out of their titles, but the money and connections are still there. On the other side you’ve got the Black Iris party—artisans, younger merchants. Old money versus new, let’s say.”

“Who are we taking care of?” said Jean.

“You’ve got the Deep Roots.”

“How? I mean, what are we to these people?”

“Lashani consultants, hired to direct the campaign behind the scenes. Your power will be more or less absolute.”

“Who’s told these people to listen to us?”

“They’ve been adjusted, Jean. They’ll defer enthusiastically to you, at least where the election is concerned. We’ve prepared them for your arrival.”

“Gods.”

“It’s nothing you don’t try to do with raw charm and fancy stories. We just work faster.”

“We’ve got six weeks, is that right?” said Locke.

“Yes.” Patience sipped at her tea. “The formal commencement of electoral hostilities is the night after tomorrow.”

“And this Deep Roots party,” said Locke, “you said they’ve won the last two elections?”

“Oh, no,” said Patience.

“You did,” said Jean. “You said we were being entrusted with a winning tradition!”

“Ah. Pardon. I meant that my faction of magi has backed the winning party of ungifted twice in a row. It’s a matter of chance, you see, which party either side gets. The Deep Roots have been rather lackluster these past ten years, but during those years fortune gave us the Black Iris. Now, alas—”

“Gods’ immaculate piss,” muttered Locke.

“What are the limits on our behavior?” said Jean.

“As far as the ungifted are concerned, not many. You’ll be working with people eager to help you break every election law ever scribed, so long as you don’t do anything bloody or vulgar.”

“No violence?” said Locke.

“Brawls are a natural consequence of enthusiasm,” said Patience. “Everyone loves to hear about a good fistfight. But keep it at fists. No weapons, no corpses. You can knock a few Karthani about, and make whatever threats you like, but you cannot kill anyone. Nor can you kidnap any citizen of Karthain, or physically remove them from the city. Those rules are enforced by my people. I should think the reasons are obvious.”

“Right. You’re not paying us to assassinate the entire Black Iris bunch and ride off into the sunset.”

“Your own situation is more ambiguous,” said Patience. “You two, and your counterpart controlling the Black Iris, should expect anything, including kidnapping. Guard your own backs. Only outright murder is forbidden in your respect.”

“Well, that’s cheery,” said Locke. “About this counterpart, what do we get to know?”

“You know quite a bit already.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s uncomfortable news,” said Patience, “but we’ve learned that at least one person within the ranks of my faction is passing information to Archedama Foresight.”

“Well, that’s bloody careless of you!”

“We’re working on the situation. At any rate, Foresight and her associates learned of my intention to hire you several weeks ago. They acquired a direct countermeasure.”

“Meaning what?”

“You and Jean have a unique background in deception, disguise, and manipulation. You’re a rare breed. In fact, there’s only one other person left in the world with intimate knowledge of your methods and training—”

Locke shot to his feet as though his chair were a crossbow and the trigger had been pulled. His glass flew, spilling watered wine across the tabletop.

“No,” he said. “No. You’re fucking kidding. No.”

“Yes,” said Patience. “My rivals have hired your old friend Sabetha Belacoros to be their exemplar. She’s been in Karthain for several days now, making her preparations. It’s a fair bet that she’s laying surprises for the two of you as we speak.”

II

CROSS-PURPOSES

When the rose’s flash to the sunset

Reels to the rack and the twist,

And the rose is a red bygone,

When the face I love is going

And the gate to the end shall clang,

And it’s no use to beckon or say, “So long”—Maybe I’ll tell you then—

some other time.

—Carl Sandburg

from “The Great Hunt”

INTERLUDE

STRIKING SPARKS

1

IT WAS COOL and dark in the Elderglass burrow of the Gentlemen Bastards, and far quieter than usual, when Locke awoke with the certain knowledge that someone was staring at him. He caught his breath for an instant, then mimicked the deep, slow breathing of sleep. He squinted and scanned the gray darkness of the room, wondering where everyone was.

Down the hall from the kitchen there were four rooms, or, more appropriately, four cells. They had dark curtains for doors. One belonged to Chains, another to Sabetha, the third to the Sanzas, and the fourth to Locke and Jean. Jean should have been on his cot against the opposite wall, just past their little shelf of books and scrolls, but there was no sound from that direction.

Locke listened, straining to hear over the thudding of his pulse. There was a whisper of bare skin against the floor, and a flutter of cloth. He sat up, left hand outstretched, only to find another warm set of fingers entwined around his, and a palm in the middle of his chest pushing him back down.

“Shhhh,” said Sabetha, sliding onto the cot.

“Wha … where is everyone?”

“Gone for the moment,” she whispered into his ear. Her breath was warm against his cheek. “We don’t have much time, but we do have some.”

She took his hands and guided them to the smooth, taut muscles of her stomach. Then she slid them upwards until he was cupping her breasts—she’d come into the room without a tunic.

One thing the bodies of sixteen-year-old boys (and that was more or less what Locke was) don’t do is respond mildly to provocation. In an instant he was achingly hard against the thin fabric of his breeches, and he exhaled in mingled shock and delight. Sabetha brushed aside his blanket and slid her left hand down between his legs. Locke arched his back and uttered a noise that was far from dignified. Luckily, Sabetha giggled, seeming to find it endearing.

“Mmmm,” she whispered. “I do feel appreciated.” She pressed down firmly but gently and began to squeeze him to the rhythm of their breathing, which was growing steadily louder. At the same time, she slid his other hand down from her breast, down her stomach, down to her legs. She was wearing a linen breechclout, the sort that could be undone with just a tug in the right place. She pressed his hand between her thighs, against the intriguing heat just behind the fabric. He caressed her there, and for a few incredible moments they were completely caught up in this half-sharing, half-duel, their responses to one another becoming less controlled with every ragged breath, and it was delicious suspense to wonder who would snap first.

“You’re driving me mad,” he whispered. The heat from her skin was so intense he imagined he could see it as a ghost-image in the dark. She leaned forward, and her breath tickled his cheeks again; he drew in the scents of her hair and sweat and perfume and laughed with pleasure.

“Why are we still wearing clothes?” she said, and they rolled apart to amend the situation, fumbling, struggling, giggling. Only now the soft heat of her skin was fading, and the gray shadows of the room loomed more deeply around them, and then Locke was kicking out, spasming in a full-body reflex as she slipped from his grasp like a breath of wind.

That cruelest of landlords, cold morning reality, finished evicting the warm fantasy that had briefly taken up residence in his skull. Muttering and swearing, Locke fought against his tangled blanket, felt his cot tipping away from the wall, and failed in every particular to brace himself for his meeting with the floor. There are three distinct points of impact no romantically excited teenage boy ever hopes to slam against a hard surface. Locke managed to land on all three.

His outflung right hand failed to do anything useful, but it did snatch the opaque cover from his cot-side alchemical globe, bathing the cell in soft golden light for him to gasp and writhe by. A carelessly stacked pile of books toppled loudly to the floor, then took several similar piles with it in a fratricidal cascade.

“Gods below,” muttered Jean, rolling away from the light. Jean was definitely in his proper place, and their cell was once again the cluttered mess of daily life rather than the dark private stage of Locke’s dream.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrgh,” said Locke. It didn’t help much, so he tried again. “Arrrrrrrrrrr—”

“You know,” said Jean, yawning irritably, “you should burn some offerings in thanks for the fact that you don’t actually talk in your sleep.”

“… rrrrrrgh. What the hell do you mean?”

“Sabetha’s got really sharp ears.”

“Nnngh.”

“I mean, it’s pretty gods-damned obvious you’re not dreaming about calligraphy over there.”

There was a loud knock on the wall just outside their cell, and then the curtain was swept aside to reveal Calo Sanza, long hair hanging in his eyes, working his way into a pair of breeches.

“Good morning, sunshines! What’s with all the noise?”

“Someone took a tumble,” muttered Jean.

“What’s so hard about sleeping on a cot like a normal person, ya fuckin’ spastic dog?”

“Kiss my ass, Sanza,” Locke gasped.

“Heyyyyyyyyy, EVERYBODY!” Calo pounded on the wall as he shouted. “I know we’ve got half an hour yet to sleep, but Locke thinks we should all be up right now! Find your happy faces, Gentlefucker Bastards, it’s a bright new day and we get to start it EARLY!”

“Calo, what the hell is wrong with you?” hollered Sabetha, somewhere down the hall.

Locke put his forehead against the floor and moaned. It was the height of the endless steaming summer of the seventy-eighth Year of Preva, Lady of the Red Madness, and everything was absolutely screwed up to hell.

2

SABETHA DARTED in, parried Locke’s attempt at a guard, and smacked the outside of his left knee with her chestnut wood baton.

“Ow,” he said, hopping up and down while the sting faded. Locke wiped his forehead, lined up again in the duelist’s stance, and touched the tip of his baton to Sabetha’s. They were using the sanctuary of the Temple of Perelandro as a practice room, under Jean’s watchful eye.

“High diamond, low square,” said Jean. “Go!”

This was more an exercise in speed and precision than actual fighting technique. They slammed their batons together in the patterns demanded by Jean, and after the final contact they were free to swipe at one another, scoring touches against arms or legs.

Clack! Clack! Clack! The sound of their batons echoed across the stone-walled chamber.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

Clack! Clack! Thump!

“Yeow,” said Locke, shaking his left wrist, where a fresh red welt was rising.

“You’re faster than this, Locke.” Sabetha returned to her starting position. “Something distracting you this morning?”

Sabetha wore a loose white tunic and black silk knee-breeches that left nothing about her lithely-muscled legs to the imagination. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair pulled tightly back with linen cord. If she’d heard anything specific about the disturbance he’d kicked off to start the day, at least she wasn’t saying much.

“More than one something?” she said. “Any of them attached to me?”

So much for the lukewarm comfort of uncertainty.

“You know I’m attached to you,” said Locke, trying to sound cheerful as they touched batons again.

“Or might like to be, hmmm?”

“Middle square,” yelled Jean, “middle square, middle diamond! Go!”

They wove their pattern of strikes and counterstrikes, rattling their batons off one another until the end of the sequence, when Sabetha flicked Locke’s weapon down and smacked a painful crease into his right biceps. Sabetha’s only commentary on this victory was to idly twirl her baton while Locke rubbed at his arm.

“Hold it,” said Jean. “We’ll try a new exercise. Locke, stand there with your hands at your sides. Sabetha, you just hit him until you get tired. Be sure to concentrate on his head so he won’t feel anything.”

“Very funny.” Locke lined up again. “I’m ready for another.”

He was nothing of the sort. At the end of the next pattern, Sabetha slapped him on the right biceps again. And again, following the pattern after that, with precision that was obviously deliberate.

“You know, most days you can at least manage to hit back,” she said. “Want to give it up as a bad job?”

“Of course not,” said Locke, trying to be subtle about wiping the nascent tears from the corners of his eyes. “Barely getting started.”

“Have it your way.” She lined up again, and Locke couldn’t miss the coldness of her poise. Ah, gods. When Sabetha felt she was being trifled with, she had a way of radiating the same calm, chilly regard that Locke imagined might pass from executioner to condemned victim. He knew all too well what it meant to be the object of that regard.

“High diamond,” said Jean warily, apprehending the change in Sabetha’s mood. “Middle square, low cross. Go.”

They flew through the patterns with furious speed, Sabetha setting the pace and Locke straining to match her. The instant the last stroke of the formal exercise was made, Locke flew into a guard position that would have deflected any blow aimed at his much-abused right biceps. Sabetha, however, was actually aiming for a point just above his heart, and the hotly stinging slap nearly knocked him over.

“Gods above,” said Jean, stepping between them. “You know the rules, Sabetha. No cuts at anything but arms or legs.”

“Are there rules in a tavern brawl or an alley fight?”

“This isn’t a damned alley fight. It’s just an exercise for building vigor!”

“Doesn’t seem to be working for one of us.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s gotten into you, Jean? Are you going to stand in front of him for the rest of his life?”

“Hey, hey,” said Locke, stepping around Jean and attempting to hide a considerable amount of pain behind a disingenuous smile.

“All’s well, Jean.”

“All’s not well,” said Jean. “Someone is taking this far too seriously.”

“Stand aside, Jean,” said Sabetha. “If he wants to stick his hand in a fire, he can learn to pull it out himself.”

“He is right here, thank you very much, and he is fine,” said Locke. “It’s fine, Jean. Let’s have another pattern.”

“Sabetha needs to calm down.”

“Aren’t I calm?” said Sabetha. “Locke can have quarter anytime he asks for it.”

“I don’t choose to yield just yet,” said Locke, with what he hoped was a charming, devil-may-care sort of grin. Sabetha’s countenance only darkened in response. “However, if you’re concerned about me, you can back off to any degree you prefer.”

“Oh, no.” Sabetha was anything but calm. “No, no, no. I don’t withdraw. You yield! Deliberately. Or we keep going until you can’t stand up.”

“That might take a while,” said Locke. “Let’s see if you have the patience—”

“Damn it, when will you learn that refusing to admit you’ve lost isn’t the same as winning?”

“Sort of depends on how long one keeps refusing, doesn’t it?”

Sabetha scowled, an expression that cut Locke more deeply than any baton-lash. Staring fixedly at him, she took her baton in both hands, snapped it over her knee, and bounced the pieces off the floor.

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” she said. “I seem to be unable to conform to the intended spirit of this exercise.”

She turned and left. When she’d vanished into the rear hall of the temple, Locke let out a dejected sigh.

“Gods,” he said. “What the hell is going on between us? What happened, just now?”

“She has a cruel streak, that one,” said Jean.

“No more than any of us!” said Locke, more hotly than he might have intended. “Well, we’ve got some … philosophical differences, to be sure.”

“She’s a perfectionist.” Jean picked up the broken halves of Sabetha’s baton. “And you’re a real idiot from time to time.”

“What did I do, besides fail to be a master baton duelist?” Locke massaged some of the tender reminders Sabetha had left him of her superior technique. “I didn’t train with Don Maranzalla.”

“Neither did she.”

“Well, come on, how does that make me an idiot?”

“You’re no Sanza,” said Jean, “but you can certainly be one sharp stab in the ass. Look, you’d have stood here and let her slap you into paste just for the sake of being in the same room with her. I know it. You know it. She knows it.”

“Well, uh—”

“It’s not endearing, Locke. You don’t court a girl by inviting her to abuse you from sunrise to sunset.”

“Really? That sounds an awful lot like courtship in every story I’ve ever read—”

“I mean literally abused, as in getting pounded into bird shit with a wooden stick. It’s not charming or impressive. It just makes you look silly.”

“Well, she doesn’t like it when I beat her at anything. She’s certainly not going to respect me if I give up! So just what the hell can I do?”

“No idea. Maybe I see some things clearer than you because I’m not bloody infatuated, but what to actually do with the pair of you, gods know.”

“You’re a deep well of reassurance.”

“On the bright side,” said Jean, “I’m sure you’re higher in her esteem right now than the Sanzas.”

“Sweet gods, that’s sickly praise.” Locke leaned against a wall and stretched. “Speaking of Sanzas, did you see Chains’ face when we woke him up this morning?”

“I wish I hadn’t. He’s going to break those two over his knee like Sabetha’s stick.”

“Where do you think he stomped off to?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen him leave angry before the sun was even up.”

“What in all the hells is going on with us?” said Locke. “This whole summer has been one long exercise in getting everything wrong.”

“Chains muttered to me a few nights ago,” said Jean, fiddling with the broken baton. “Something about awkward years. Said he might have to do something about us being all pent up together.”

“Hope that doesn’t mean more apprenticeships. I’m really not in the mood to go learn another temple’s rituals and then pretend to kill myself.”

“No idea what it means, but—”

“Hey, you two!” Galdo Sanza appeared out of the rear corridor, the spitting image of Calo, save for the fact that his skull was shaven clean of every last speck of hair. “Tubby and the training dummy! Chains is back, wants us in the kitchen with a quickness. And what’d you do to Sabetha this time?”

“I exist,” said Locke. “Some days that’s enough.”

“You should make some friends at the Guilded Lilies, mate,” said Galdo. “Why fall on your face trying to tame a horse when you can have a dozen that are already saddled?”

“So now you like to fuck horses,” said Jean. “Bravo, baldy.”

“Laugh all you will, we’re in demand over there,” said Galdo. “Favorite guests. Command performances.”

“I’m sure you’re popular,” said Jean with a yawn. “Who doesn’t like getting paid for fast, easy work?”

“I’ll say a prayer for you next time I’m having it with two at once,” said Galdo. “Maybe the gods will hear me and let your stones drop. But, seriously, Chains came in the river entrance, and I think we’re all about to die.”

“Well, hurrah,” said Locke. “When the weather’s like this, who honestly wants to live?”

3

THE FATHER Chains waiting in the glass burrow’s kitchen wasn’t wearing any of his usual guises or props. No canes or staves to lean on, no robes, no look of sly benevolence on that craggy, bearded face. He was dressed to be out and about in the city, heavily sweated with exertion, and all the furrows in his forehead seemed to meet in an ominous valley above his fierce dark eyes. Locke was unsettled; he’d rarely seen Chains glower like that at an enemy or a stranger, let alone at his apprentices.

Locke noticed that everyone else was keeping a certain instinctive distance from Chains. Sabetha sat on a counter, well away from anyone, arms folded. The Sanzas sat near one another more out of old habit than present warmth. Their appearances were divergent; Calo with his long, oiled, well-tended tresses and Galdo, scraped smooth as a prizefighter. The twins shared no jokes, no gestures, no small talk.

“I suppose it’s only fair to begin,” said Chains, “by apologizing for having failed you all.”

“Um,” said Locke, stepping forward, “how have you failed us, exactly?”

“My mentorship. My responsibility to not allow our happy home to turn into a seething pit of mutual aggravation … which it has.” Chains coughed, as though he’d irritated his throat merely by bringing such words out. “I thought I might ease up on the regimen of previous summers. Fewer lessons, fewer errands, fewer tests. I hoped that without constraints, you might blossom. Instead you’ve rooted yourselves deep without flowering.”

“Hold on,” said Calo, “it hasn’t been such an unwelcome break, has it? And we’ve been training. Jean’s seen to it that we’ve kept up with battering one another about.”

“That’s hardly your principal form of exercise these days,” said Chains. “I’ve heard things from the Lilies. You two spend more time in bed than invalids. Certainly more than you spend planning or practicing our work.”

“So we haven’t run a game on anyone for a few weeks,” said Calo. “Is the fuckin’ Eldren-fire falling? Who gives a damn if we take some ease? What should we be doing, sir, learning more Vadran? More dances? A seventeenth way to hold knives and forks?”

“You snot-nosed grand duke of insolence,” said Chains, growing louder with each word, “you ignorant, wet-eared, copper-chasing shit-barge puppy! Do you have any idea what you’ve been given? What you’ve worked for? What you are?”

“What I am is tired of being yelled at—”

“Ten years under my roof,” said Chains, looming over Calo like an ambulatory mountain, suffused with moral indignation, “ten years under my protection, eating at my table, nurtured by my hand and coin. Have I beaten you, buggered you, put you out in the rain?”

“No,” said Calo, cringing. “No, of course not—”

“Then you can stand one gods-damned rebuke without flapping your jaw.”

“Of course,” said Calo, most meekly. “Sorry.”

“You’re educated thieves,” said Chains. “No matter how you might think it profits you to feign otherwise, you are not ordinary. You can pass for servants, farmers, merchants, nobles; you have the poise and manners for any station. If I hadn’t let you grow so callow, you might realize what an unprecedented personal freedom you all possess.”

Locke reflexively opened his mouth to deliver some smooth assuagement, but the merest half-second flick of Chains’ glare was more than enough to keep him mute.

“What do you think this is all for?” said Chains. “What do you suppose it’s all been in aid of? So you can laze around and work the occasional petty theft? Drink and whore and dice with the other Right People until you get called out or hung? Have you seen what happens to our kind? How many of your bright-eyed little chums will live to see twenty-five? If they scrape thirty they’re gods-damned elders. You think they have money tucked away? Villas in the country? Thieves may prosper night by night, but there’s nothing for them when the lean times come, do you understand?”

“But there’s garristas,” said Galdo, “and the Capa, and a lot of older types at the Floating Grave—”

“Indeed,” said Chains. “Capas and garristas don’t go hungry, because they can take scraps from the mouths of their brothers and sisters. And how do you suppose you get to grow old in the Capa’s service? You guard his doors with an alley-piece, like a constable on the beat. You watch your friends hang, and die in the gutters, and get called up for teeth lessons because they said the wrong thing in their cups or held back a few silvers one fucking time. You put your head down and shut up, forever. That’s what earns you some gray hair.

“No justice,” he continued sourly. “No true fellowship. Vows in darkness, that’s all, valid until the first time someone goes hungry or needs a few coins. Why do you think I’ve raised you to wink at the Secret Peace? We’re like a sick dog that gnaws its own entrails, the Right People are. But you’ve got a chance to live in real trust and fellowship, to be thieves as the gods intended, scourging the swells and living true to yourselves. I’ll be damned before I’ll let you forget what a gift you’ve been given in one another.”

No smart remark ever made could stand before the gale of this sort of chastisement. Locke noted that he wasn’t the only one with a sudden overwhelming compulsion to stare at the floor.

“And so, I need to apologize for my own failure.” Chains drew a folded letter from his coat. “For allowing us to reach this pretty state of affairs, falling out with one another and forgetting ourselves. It’s a bad time for all of you. You’re confused bundles of nerves and passion, cooped up down here where you can do maximum damage to your mutual regard. You’ve certainly been disagreeable company for me. I’ve decided I need a vacation.”

“Well, then,” said Jean, “where will you be going?”

“Going? Drinking, I suppose. Perhaps I’ll go see old Maranzalla. And I’ve a mind to hunt down some chamber music. But forgive me if I’ve been unclear. I require a vacation from all of you, but I’m not leaving Camorr. You five will be making a journey to Espara. I’ve arranged work there to keep you busy for several months.”

“Espara?” said Locke.

“Yes. Isn’t it exciting?” The room was quiet. “I thought that might be your response. Look, I tucked a pin into my jacket for this very moment.”

Chains drew a silver pin from one of his lapels and tossed it into the air. It hit the floor with the faintest chiming clatter.

“One of those expressions I’ve always wanted to put to the test,” said Chains. “But seriously, you’re out. All of you. Evicted. There’s a wagon caravan leaving from the Cenza Gate on Duke’s Day. You’ve got two days to make yourselves part of it. After that, it’s a week and a half to Espara.”

“But,” said Calo, “what if we don’t want to go to bloody Espara?”

“Then leave, and don’t come back to this temple,” said Chains. “Forfeit everything. In fact, leave Camorr. I won’t want to see you again, anywhere.”

“What’s in Espara that’s so important?” said Sabetha.

“Your partnership. It’s past time it was put to a real test, far beyond my reach. Take all your years of training and make something of them. False-face together, rely upon one another, and come back alive. Prove that we haven’t been wasting our time down here. Prove it to me … and prove it to yourselves.”

Chains held up the folded letter.

“You’re going to Espara to enjoy a career on the stage.”

4

“AFTER MY soldiering ended,” continued Chains, “and before I came back to Camorr, I indulged in several vices, not the least of which was acting. I fell in with a troupe in Espara run by the single unluckiest thick-skulled son of a bitch that ever crawled out of a womb. Jasmer Moncraine. I saved his life by design and he saved mine by accident. We’ve kept in touch across the years.”

“Oh gods,” said Sabetha, “you’re sending us in payment of a debt!”

“No, no. Jasmer and I are square. The favor is mutual. I need the five of you occupied elsewhere. Jasmer has desperate need of players, and an equally desperate need to avoid paying them.”

“So it is questionable circumstances, then.”

“Oh, never doubt. I get the impression from his letters that he’s one mistake away from being chained up for debt. I’d appreciate you preventing that. He wants to do Lucarno’s Republic of Thieves. Your story will be that you’re a band of up-and-coming thespians from Camorr; I sent a letter ahead of you telling him how to play the angles right. The rest is entirely up to you.”

“Do you have a copy of the letter for us?” said Locke.

“Nah.”

“Well, then, what should we do about—”

Chains tossed a jingling bag at Locke’s head. Locke barely managed to pluck it out of the air before it struck his nose.

“Oh, look, a bag of money. That’s all the help you’ll be getting from me, my boy.”

“But … aliases, travel arrangements—”

“Your problem, not mine.”

“We don’t know anything about the stage!”

“You know about costumes, makeup, elocution, and deportment. Everything else, you can learn once you get there.”

“But—”

“Look,” said Chains. “I don’t want to spend the rest of the day interrupting your questions, so I’m going to temporarily forget how to make words come out of my mouth. I’ll be nursing a chilled bottle of Vadran white over at the Tumblehome until further notice. Remember the caravan. Two days. You can be part of it, or you can leave the Gentlemen Bastards. Your time is henceforth your own.”

He left the kitchen in a state of extreme self-satisfaction. A few moments later, Locke heard the creak and slam of the burrow’s concealed riverside exit. Locke and his cohorts traded a sincere set of bewildered looks.

“Well, this is a fist-fuck and a flaming oil bath,” said Calo.

“Is there anyone here,” said Locke quietly, “who’d rather leave the gang than go to Espara?”

“There’d better not be,” said Galdo.

“The billiard ball’s right for once,” said Calo. “It’s not as though I’m enthusiastic about this, but anyone who wants to leave can do it headfirst off the temple roof.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Then we need to talk. Get some ink and parchment.”

“Count the money,” said Sabetha.

“I’ll fetch some wine,” said Jean. “Strong wine.”

5

THEY WERE far from comfortable together. The Sanzas sat on opposite sides of the table, and Sabetha leaned against a chair pushed away from everyone else. Yet they all seemed to grasp the urgency of their situation; over the course of two bottles of Verrari lemon wine they hashed out mostly civil arguments and scratched up lists of supplies and responsibilities.

“Right, then,” said Locke when his glass was empty and his notepages full. “Sabetha will try to scare up any portions of The Republic of Thieves from the shops and scribes, so we can all have a look at it on the road.”

“I’ve got some other Lucarno plays I’ll pack,” said Jean. “And some Mercallor Mentezzo dross I’m not so fond of, but we should all study them and pick up some lines.”

“Jean and I will find a wagon and get us in with a caravan master,” said Locke. He passed one of his lists over to Galdo. “The Sanzas will pack the common goods and supplies.”

“We need aliases,” said Sabetha. “We can smooth out our stories on the way, but we should have our game names ready to use.”

“Who do you want to be, then?” said Jean.

“Hmmmm. Call me … Verena. Verena Gallante.”

“Lucaza,” said Locke. “I’ll be Lucaza … de Barra.”

“Must you?” said Sabetha.

“Must I what?”

“You always have to choose an alias that starts with ‘L,’ and Jean nearly always goes for a ‘J.’ ”

“Keeps things simple,” said Jean. “And now, just because you’ve said that, I’ll be … Jovanno. Hell, Locke and I can be first cousins. I’ll be Jovanno de Barra.”

“False names are fun,” said Calo. “Call me Beefwit Smallcock.”

“These are aliases, not biographical sketches,” said Galdo.

“Fine, then,” said Calo. “Lend me a hand. There’s a masculine form of Sabetha, isn’t there?”

“Sabazzo,” said Galdo, snapping his fingers.

“Yeah, Sabazzo. I’ll be Sabazzo.”

“Like hell you will,” said Sabetha.

“Hey, I know,” said Galdo. “I’ll be Jean. You can call yourself Locke.”

“You two will crap splinters for a month after I make you eat this table,” said Jean.

“Well, if you put it like that,” said Calo. “Why don’t we use our middle names? I’ll be Giacomo, and you can be Castellano.”

“Might work,” said Galdo grudgingly. “Need a last name.”

“Asino!” said Calo. “It’s Throne Therin for ‘donkey.’ ”

“Gods lend me strength,” said Sabetha.

6

“MASTER DE Barra,” said Anatoly Vireska two nights later, looking up with a smile that put every gap in his teeth on display, like archery ports in a crumbling fortress wall. The rangy, middle-aged Vadran caravan master gave the Gentlemen Bastards’ wagon a friendly thump as Jean brought their team of four horses to a halt. “And company. You picked a good time to show up.”

“I’ve seen this place when it’s busy.” Locke glanced backward at the Millfalls District and the Street of Seven Wheels, which lay under the strange particolored haze of fading Falselight. Traffic on the cobbled road itself was sparse, since few business travelers came or went from the Cenza Gate as darkness was falling. “Figured we might get a jump on the chaos.”

“Just so. Pull up anywhere in the commons beneath the wall. Now, if you want more than half-assed shelter, there’s the Andrazi stable down the lane to the right, and the Umbolo stable just yonder, the one with all the mules. Andrazi tips me a few coppers a week to point people her way, but I wouldn’t take the money if I didn’t think her place was the better bargain, hey?”

“Duly noted,” said Jean.

“Want me to send a boy around to help with your horses? I could have my outfitter check your packing, too.”

“I’m sure we’re fine, thanks,” said Locke.

“Glad to hear it. Just so we’re clear, though, my guards don’t stand to duty until we line up all our ducklings tomorrow morning. As long as we’re behind walls, your security is your own business. Given that you’re bedding down twenty yards from a watch barracks, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Nor shall we.” Jean waved farewell, and convinced the horses to take them into the shadow of Camorr’s walls. Rickety overhanging panels topped about a hundred yards’ worth of barren common space in the lee of the wall, where those unwilling or unable to pay for service at the commercial stables could pull in. Sabetha, Calo, and Galdo piled out of the back of the open-topped wagon as it rolled to a stop.

“One quarter of a mile down, a mere two hundred to go,” said Locke. The humid air was heavy with the smells of old hay, animal sweat, and droppings. Other travelers were lighting lanterns, laying out bedrolls, and starting cooking fires; there were at least a dozen wagon parties stopped beside the wall. Locke wondered idly how many of them were bound for Espara as part of Vireska’s caravan.

“Let’s get you fixed up for the night, boys.” Jean hopped down from the wagon and gave a reassuring pat to the flank of the nearest cart-horse. Jean had spent several months in the role of a teamster’s apprentice two years earlier, and had assumed responsibility for driving and tending their animals without complaint. The team represented a significant portion of the money Chains had given them, but could be resold in Espara to flesh out their temporarily thinned finances.

“Sweep beneath the wagon, would you, Giacomo?” said Galdo. “Don’t want turds for pillows.”

“Sweep it your fuckin’ self, Castellano,” said Calo. “Nobody put you in charge.”

“Mind yourself,” whispered Sabetha, grabbing Calo by the arm. “We’ve got ten days on the road ahead of us. Do they have to be a miserable trial for no good reason?”

“I’m not his damn valet,” said Calo.

“That’s right.” Locke stepped between the Sanzas, thinking quickly. “None of us are. We’ll share sweeping duties, all of us. Calo starts tonight—”

“I’m Giacomo.”

“Right, sorry. Giacomo starts tonight. Other brother when we stop tomorrow. I’ll take the night after that, and so on. A fair rotation. Good enough?”

“I can live with it,” muttered Calo. “I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Just won’t have him putting on airs.”

Locke ground his teeth together. The Sanzas had spent the last several months steadily discarding their old habits of synchronicity in action and appearance. They took pains to distinguish themselves from one another, and their differences in grooming were the merest outward flourishes of the phenomenon. Locke would never have begrudged the twins an individualistic phase, but their timing was awkward as hell, and their ongoing spats were like fresh wood heaped on an already rising fire.

“Look,” said Locke, realizing that the gang’s mechanisms of fellowship needed oiling rather badly, “with so many taverns close at hand, I don’t see any need for us to torture ourselves with boiled beef and bag water. I’ll fetch us something more pleasing.”

“We have the coin for that sort of luxury?” said Sabetha.

“I might have cut a purse or two while I was out this morning. Just for the sake of, ah, financial flexibility.” Locke shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. “You want to come with?”

“You need me to?”

“Well … I’d like you to.”

“Hmmm.”

She stared at him for a few seconds, during which Locke experienced the curious sensation of his heart apparently sinking several inches deeper into his chest. Then she shrugged.

“I suppose.”

They left Jean with the horses, Galdo watching their supplies, and Calo gingerly cleaning the ground beneath the wagon. There was a well-lit tavern at the end of the lane beside the wall, just past the Andrazi stable, and by unspoken mutual consent they headed toward it in the gathering darkness. Locke stole a glance at Sabetha as they walked.

Her tightly bound hair was further packed beneath a close-fitting linen cap, and all of her clothing was long and loose, disguising her curves. It was the sort of dress a prudent, mild, and unassertive young woman would choose for the road, and as such it suited Sabetha not at all. Still, she wore it as well as anyone could, as far as Locke’s eyes were concerned.

“I was, ah, hoping I could talk to you,” he said.

“Easily done,” said Sabetha. “Open your mouth and let words come out.”

“I— Look, can you not … can you please not be glib with me?”

“Requesting miracles now, are we?” Sabetha looked down and kicked a stone out of her path. “Look, I’m sorry. Contemplating ten days stuck together on the road. And the brothers being … you know. The whole thing has me feeling like a hedgehog, rolled up with my spikes out. Can’t help myself.”

“Oh, a hedgehog is absolutely the last thing I would ever compare you to,” said Locke with a laugh.

“Interesting,” said Sabetha, “that I mention my own feelings, and you seem to think that what I’m after is reassurance concerning your perceptions.”

“But …” Locke felt another knot in his chest. Conversations with Sabetha always seemed to call his attention to malfunctioning internal mysteries he hadn’t previously known he possessed. “Look, come on, do you have to dissect everything I say, pin it up like an anatomist, and sift through it?”

“First I’m too glib, now I’m cutting too fine. Surely you should be pleased to be receiving such close attention to what you’re actually saying?”

“You know,” said Locke, feeling his hands shake nervously with the thought of what he was about to put in the open, “you know that when I’m around you I find it very easy to shove my foot into my mouth. Sometimes both feet. And you do see it.”

“Mmmmm,” she said.

“More than that. You make use of the advantage.”

“I do.” She looked at him strangely. “You fancy me.”

“That,” said Locke, feeling thunderstruck, “that is … really … not how I would have …”

“Not as grand in plain speech as it is up here?” She tapped her forehead.

“Sabetha, I … I value your good opinion more than anything in the world. It kills me not to have it. It kills me not to know whether I have it. We’ve lived together all these years, and still there’s this fog between us. I don’t know what I did to put it there, but I would throw myself under a cart to lift it, believe me.”

“Why do you assume it’s something you’ve done, and something you can undo at will? I’m not some arithmetic problem just waiting for you to show your work properly, Locke. Did you ever think that I might … gods, you’ve got me stumbling now. That I might be actively contributing to this … to our awkwardness?”

“Actively contributing?”

“Yes, as though I might have warm-blooded motives of my own, being as I’m not an oil painting, or some other decorative object of desire—”

“Do you like me?” said Locke, shocked at himself for blurting the question out. It was an invitation to have his heart laid out and smashed on an anvil, and there were a thousand things she could say that would do the hammer’s work. “At all? Do I ever please you with my company? Am I at least preferable to an empty room?”

“There are times when the empty room is a sore temptation.”

“But—”

“Of course I like you,” she said, raising her hands as though to touch him reassuringly. She didn’t complete the gesture. “You can be clever, and enterprising, and charming, though rarely all three at once. And … I do sometimes admire you, if it helps you to hear it.”

“It means everything to hear it,” he said, feeling the tightness in his chest turn to buoyant warmth. “It’s worth a thousand embarrassments, just to hear it. Because … because I feel the same way. About you.”

“You don’t feel the same way about me,” she said.

“Oh, but I do,” he said. “Without qualifying remarks, even.”

“That’s—”

“Hey there!”

A polished club came down on Locke’s shoulder, a gentle tap, yet impossible to ignore. The club was attached to a heavyset man in the leather harness and mustard-yellow coat of the city watch, attended by a younger comrade carrying a lantern on a pole.

“You’re in the middle of a lane,” said the big yellowjacket, “not a bloody drawing-room. Move it elsewhere.”

“Oh, of course, sir,” said Locke in one of his better respectable-citizen voices (this constable, not being agitated, didn’t require the use of Locke’s very best). He and Sabetha moved off the lane and into the shadows beneath the wall, where fireflies sketched pale green arcs against the darkness.

“No one thinks of anyone else without qualifying remarks,” said Sabetha. “I love Chains dearly, and still he and I have … disappointed one another. I’ll always be fond of the Sanzas, but right now I wish they’d go away for a year. And you—”

“I’ve frustrated you, I know.”

“And I’ve returned the favor.” She did touch him now, gently, on his upper left arm, and it took most of his self-control not to jump out of his shoes. “Nobody admires anyone else without qualification. If they do they’re after an image, not a person.”

“Well,” said Locke, “in that case, I harbor a great many resentments, reservations, and suspicions about you. Does that please you better?”

“You’re trying to be charming again,” she said softly, “but I choose not to be charmed, Locke Lamora. Not with things as they stand.”

“Can I make amends for whatever I’ve done to frustrate you?”

“That’s … complicated.”

“I like to think that I take hints as well as anyone,” said Locke. “Why not throw some at my head?”

“Going to be a lot of time to kill between here and Espara, I suppose.”

“Can we … speak again tomorrow night? After we’ve stopped?”

“The gentleman requests the favor of a personal engagement, tomorrow evening?”

“At the lady’s pleasure, before the dancing and iced wine, immediately following the grand sweep beneath the wagon for stray horseshit.”

“I may consent.”

“Then life is worth living.”

“Don’t be a dunce,” she said. “We should do our business at the tavern and get back before the Sanzas try to sneak off to the Guilded Lilies one last time.”

They came away from the tavern with cold boiled chicken, olives, black bread, and two skins of yellow wine with a flavor somewhere between turpentine and wasp piss. Simple as it was, the meal was ducal indulgence compared to the salted meat and hardtack waiting in crates on the back of their wagon. They ate in silence, distracted by the sight of the Five Towers shining in the oncoming night, and by hungry insects.

Jean volunteered to sit first watch (no Camorri ever born, least of all one who’d made it out of Shades’ Hill, would blithely trust to providence even in the literal shadow of a city watch barracks). After acknowledging this noble sacrifice, the other four curled up beneath the wagon, sweaty and mosquito-plagued, to bed down.

It occurred to Locke that this was technically the first time he and Sabetha had ever slept together in any sense of the term, even if they were separated by nothing less than a complete pair of Sanza twins.

“We crawl before we walk,” he sighed to himself. “We walk before we run.”

“Hey,” whispered Galdo, who was curled against his back, “you don’t fart in your sleep, do you?”

“How would you be able to detect a fart over your natural odor, Sanza?”

“For shame,” said Galdo. “There’s no Sanzas here, remember? I’m an Asino.”

“Oh yes,” said Locke with a yawn. “Yes, you certainly are.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: STARTING POSITION

1

“SABETHA’S IN KARTHAIN,” said Locke.

“She could hardly do the job from elsewhere,” said Patience.

“Sabetha. My Sabetha—”

“I marvel at such a confident assertion of possession.”

“Our Sabetha, then. The Sabetha. How do you people know so gods-damned much about my life? How did you find her?”

“I didn’t,” said Patience. “Nor do I know how it was done. All I know is that her instructions and resources will mirror your own.”

“Except she has a head start,” said Jean, easing Locke back into his chair. The expression on Locke’s face was that of a prizefighter who’d just received a proper thunderbolt to the chin.

“And she’s working alone,” said Patience, “whereas you two have one another. So one might hope that her positional advantage will be purely temporary. Or is she really that much of a tiger, to set you both quaking?”

“I’m not quaking,” said Locke quietly. “It’s just … so gods-damned unexpected.”

“You’ve always hoped for a reunion, haven’t you?”

“On my own terms,” said Locke. “Does she know that it’s us she’s up against? Did she know before she took the job?”

“Yes,” said Patience.

“Your opposition, they didn’t do anything to her?”

“As far as I’m aware, she required no compulsion.”

“This is hard to take,” said Locke. “Gentlemen Bastards, well, we trained against one another, and we’ve quarreled, obviously, but we’ve never, ah, never actually opposed one another, not for real.”

“Given that she’s completely removed herself from your company for so many years now,” said Patience, “how can you believe that she still considers herself part of your gang?”

“Thank you for that, Patience,” growled Jean. “Do you have anything else for us? If not, I think we need to—”

“Yes, I’m sure you do. The cabin is yours.”

She withdrew. Locke put his head in his hands and sighed.

“I don’t expect life to make sense,” he said after a few moments, “but it would certainly be pleasant if it would stop kicking us in the balls.”

“Don’t you want to see her again?”

“Of course I want to see her again!” said Locke. “I always meant to find her. I meant to do it in Camorr; I meant to do it after we’d made a big score in Tal Verrar. I just— You know how it’s all gone. She’s not going to be impressed.”

“Maybe she wants to see you,” said Jean. “Maybe she leapt at the chance when the Bondsmagi approached her. Maybe she’d already tried to hunt us down.”

“Gods, what if she did? I wonder what she made of the mess we left behind in Camorr. I just can’t believe … working against her. Those bastards!”

“Hey, we’re just supposed to fix an election,” said Jean. “Nobody’s going to hurt her, least of all us.”

“I hope,” said Locke, brightening. “I hope … damn, I have no idea what to hope.” He spent a few minutes nibbling at his food in a nervous daze, while Jean sipped his warm red plonk.

“I do know this,” Locke said at last. “On the business side of things, we’re already in the shit.”

“Up to our elbows,” said Jean.

“Given a choice, I would have grudged her a ten-minute head start, let alone a few days.”

“Makes me think back to when Chains used to play you two off one another,” said Jean. “All those arguments … all those stalemates. Then more arguments.”

“Don’t think I don’t remember.” Locke tapped a piece of biscuit distractedly against the table. “Well, hell. It’s been five years. Maybe she’s learned to lose gracefully. Maybe she’s out of practice.”

“Maybe trained monkeys will climb out of my ass and pour me a glass of Austershalin brandy,” said Jean.

2

DAWN OVER the Amathel, the next morning. A hazy golden-orange ribbon rose from the eastern horizon, and the calm dark waters mirrored the cobalt sky. A dozen fishing boats were moving past the Sky-Reacher in a swarm, their triangular white wakes giving the small craft the appearance of arrowheads passing in dreamlike slow motion. Karthain itself was coming up to larboard, not half a mile away.

From the quarterdeck, Jean could see the clean white terraces of the city, bulwarked with thick rows of olive and cypress and witchwood trees, misted with a silver morning fog that gave him an unexpected pang for Camorr. A blocky stone lighthouse dominated the city’s waterfront, though at the moment its great golden lanterns were banked down so that their glow was no more than a warm aura crowning the tower.

Locke leaned against the taffrail, staring at the approaching city, eating cold beef and hard white cheese he’d piled awkwardly into his right hand. Locke had paced the great cabin most of the night, unable or unwilling to sleep, settling into his hammock only to rest his unsteady legs.

“How do you feel?” Patience, wrapped in a long coat and shawl, chose not to appear out of thin air, but approached them on foot.

“Ill-used,” said Locke.

“At least you’re alive to feel that way.”

“No need to drop hints. You’ll get your command performance out of us, never worry about that.”

“I wasn’t worried,” she said sweetly. “Here comes our dock detail.”

“Dock detail?” Jean glanced past Patience and saw a long, low double-banked boat rowed by twenty people approaching behind the last of the fishing boats.

“To bring the Sky-Reacher in,” said Patience, “and mind her lines and sails and other tedious articles.”

“Not in the mood to wiggle your fingers and square everything away?” said Locke.

“One of the few things that we agree upon, exceptionalists and conservatives alike, is that our arts don’t exist for the sake of swabbing decks.”

The dock detail came aboard at the ship’s waist, a very ordinary-looking pack of sailors. Patience beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow her as two of the newcomers took the wheel.

“I do assume you’re carrying your hatchets, Jean? And all of the documents I gave you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you shouldn’t mind going ashore immediately.”

She led them to the Sky-Reacher’s larboard waist, where Jean could see four sailors still waiting in the boat. It was an easy trip down the boarding net, just seven or eight feet. Even Locke made it without mishap, and then Patience, who evidently required a hoist only when gravity wasn’t on her side.

“Some of your people are waiting on the pier,” she said as she settled onto a rowing bench. “They’re all sensible of the urgency of the situation.”

“Our people?” said Locke.

“As of now, they’re entirely your people. The arrangement of their affairs is in your hands.”

“And they’ll just do as we say? To what extent?”

“To a reasonable extent, Locke. Nobody will fling themselves into the lake at your whim, but you two are now the de facto heads of the Deep Roots party’s election apparatus. Functionaries will take your orders. Candidates will kiss your boots.”

The sailors pushed them away from the Sky-Reacher and pulled for the lantern-lit waterfront.

“This is the Ponta Corbessa,” said Patience, gesturing ahead. “The city wharf. I take it neither of you knows much about this place?”

“Our former plan was to avoid Karthain, uh, forever,” said Jean.

“Your new associates will acquaint you with everything. Give it a few days and you’ll be very comfortable, I’m sure.”

“Hrm,” said Locke.

“Speaking of comfort, there is one last thing I should mention.”

“And that is?” said Locke.

“You will of course be free to communicate with Sabetha in whatever fashion she allows, but collusion will not be acceptable. You are opponents. You will oppose and be opposed, without quarter. We’re paying you to see a contest. Disappoint us in that regard and I can assure you, not getting paid will be the least of your worries.”

“Give the threats a rest,” said Locke. “You’ll get your gods-damned contest.”

The longboat drew up against a stone quay. Jean clambered out of the boat and heaved Locke up after him, then grudgingly offered his arm to Patience. She took it with a nod.

They were in the shadow of the lighthouse now, on a stretch of cobbled waterfront backed by warehouses and shuttered shops. A sparse forest of masts rose behind the buildings—probably some sort of lagoon, Jean thought, where ships could rest in safety. The area was strangely deserted, save for a small group of people standing beside a carriage.

“Patience,” said Jean, “what should we— Ah, hell!”

Patience had vanished. The sailors in the longboat pushed off without a word and headed back toward the Sky-Reacher.

“Bitch knows how to make an exit,” said Locke. He popped the last of his meat and cheese into his mouth and wiped his hands on his tunic.

“Excuse me!” A heavyset young man in a gray brocade coat broke from the group at the carriage. “You must be Masters Callas and Lazari!”

“We must,” said Jean, flashing a friendly smile. “Pray give us a moment.”

“Oh,” said the man, who possessed the true Karthani accent, which was something like the speech of a Lashani after a few strong drinks. “Of course.”

“Now,” said Jean quietly, turning to Locke, “who are we?”

“A pair of rats about to stick their noses into a big fucking trap.”

“Characters, you git. Lazari and Callas. We should settle the particulars before we start talking to people.”

“Ah, right.” Locke scratched his chin. “We’ve got no time to practice Karthani accents, so to hell with hiding that we’re from out of town.”

“Less work suits me,” said Jean.

“Good. Then we need to decide who’s the iron fist and who’s the velvet glove.”

“Sounds like something you should be hiring a couple of strumpets to help you with.”

“I’d hit you if I thought it would do any good, Jean. You know what I mean.”

“Right. Let’s be obvious. Me brute, you weasel.”

“Agreed. You brute, me charming mastermind. But there’s no sense in setting things too taut before we even know who we’re dealing with. Be a brute that plays nice until provoked.”

“So we’re not actually playing characters at all, then?”

“Well, hell.” Locke cracked his knuckles and shrugged. “It’s one less detail for us to muck up. Anyway, Patience said these people would eat out of our hands. Let’s put that to the test.”

“Now, then,” said Jean, turning back to the heavyset young man. “Start talking again.”

“I’m delighted to see you alive and well, gentlemen!” The stranger came closer, and Jean noted his round, ruddy features, the look of a man eager to please and be pleased. And yet his eyes, behind slender optics, were shrewd and measuring. His hair had failed to retain any sort of hold on the areas forward of his ears, but he had a thick and well-tended plait that hung, black as a raven’s wing, to the small of his back. “When we heard about the wreck, we were distraught. The Amathel is lately so mild, it’s hard to credit—”

“Wreck,” said Locke. “Ah, yes, the wreck! Yes. The terrible, convenient wreck. What else could compel us to be here without decent clothing or purses? Well, I’m afraid everything happened in such a terrible rush, but I’m told that we survived.”

“Ha! Splendid. Fear nothing, gentlemen, I’m here to mend your situation in every particular. My name is Nikoros.”

“Sebastian Lazari.” Locke extended his hand. Nikoros shook it with a look of surprise on his face.

“Tavrin Callas,” said Jean. Nikoros’ grip was dry and firm.

“Well, I say, thank you, gentlemen, thank you! What an unexpected mark of confidence. I take it very kindly.”

“Mark of confidence?” said Locke. “Forgive us, Nikoros. We’re new to Karthain. I’m not sure we understand what we’ve done.”

“Oh,” said Nikoros. “Damned stupid of me. I apologize. It’s just that … well, you’ll probably think us such a pack of credulous ninnies, but I assure you … it’s tradition. Here in Karthain we’re close, extremely close, with our given names. On account of, you know, the Presence.”

It was easy enough for Jean to hear the capital “P” as Nikoros pronounced the word.

“You mean,” he said, “the Bonds—”

“Yes, the magi of the Isas Scholastica. When we speak of ‘the Presence,’ well—we’re just being polite. We’re quite used to them, really. They’re not the objects of, ah, curiosity they might be elsewhere. In fact, I can assure you they look almost like ordinary people. You’d be amazed!”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Locke. “Well, this is useful stuff. I take it we should withhold our given names when we’re introduced to Karthani?”

“Well, yes. It’s the hoariest old superstition, but it’s been our custom since the fall of the old Throne. Most of us use birth-order titles or nicknames. I’m called Nikoros Via Lupa, since my office is on the Avenue of the Wolves. But plain Nikoros suits as well.”

“We’re obliged to you,” said Jean. “Now, what is it that you do, exactly?”

“I’m a trade insurer. Ships and caravans. But, ah, more relevantly, I’m on the Deep Roots party standing committee. I’m sort of a shepherd for party business.”

“You have real authority over party affairs?”

“Oh, quite. Funds and operations, with some latitude. But, ah, when it comes to that, gentlemen, my most important duty is to carry out your instructions. Once I’ve helped you settle in, of course.”

“And you understand the nature of our employment,” said Locke. “The real nature of it, that is.”

“Oh, oh, quite.” Nikoros tapped the side of his nose with a finger several times and smiled. “Those of us at the top understand that half the fight is, well, unconventional. We’re all for it! After all, the Black Iris are out to do the same to us. We think they might even bring in specialists like yourselves.”

“Be assured they have,” said Locke. “How long have you been involved with all this?”

“Party business, you mean? Oh, ten years or so. It’s the biggest thing going, socially. More fun than billiards. I worked with our, ah, specialist last election. We pulled off nine seats, and nearly won! We have such hopes, this time around.”

“Well,” said Jean, “the sooner we’re settled in, the sooner we can nourish those hopes.”

“Right! To the carriage. We’ll get you two wrapped up in something more suitable.” He beckoned, and a slender blonde woman in a black velvet jacket met them halfway as they moved toward the carriage. “Allow me to present Seconddaughter Morenna, Morenna Clothiers.”

“Your servant.” She curtsied, and a brass-weighted measuring line appeared in her hands as swiftly as an assassin’s knife. “It seems you have a sartorial emergency.”

“Yes,” said Locke. “Circumstance has flung us down and danced upon us.”

“Clothes first,” said Nikoros as he hustled Locke and Jean into the enclosed carriage box, “then we’ll see to your funds.” Morenna came last. Nikoros drew the door shut and pounded on the underside of the carriage roof. As it rattled off, Morenna seized the collar of Locke’s slop jacket and pulled him firmly to a hunched-over standing position.

“I beg your deepest pardon,” she muttered, plying her measuring line around his neck and shoulders. “We usually keep a fellow on hand at the shop to take the measurements of our gentlemen customers, but he’s taken ill. I assure you that I make these intrusions as impersonally as a physiker.”

“It would never occur to me to be offended,” said Locke in a dazed voice.

“Marvelous. If you’ll excuse me, sir, we’ll just need to have your jacket off.” She somehow managed to fold, wrench, and twirl Locke within the confined space, removing his jacket at last and causing a small rain of twice-baked ship’s biscuits to patter around the carriage interior. “Oh my, I had no idea—”

“Not your fault,” said Locke with an embarrassed cough. “I, uh, like to feed birds.”

Under his arms, around his chest, along the outside of his legs—Morenna took measurements from Locke with the speed of a fencer scoring touches. Soon it was Jean’s turn.

“Same thing, sir,” she muttered while she fussed with his coat.

“There’s no need—If you’ll give me a moment—” said Jean, but it was too late.

“Heavens,” said Morenna as she pulled his hatchets out of their makeshift hiding place at the small of his back. “These have seen some use.”

“I’ve had to settle the occasional misunderstanding.”

“Do you prefer to carry them tucked away like this under a coat or jacket?”

“There’s nowhere better.”

“Then I can show you several rigs that could be stitched into your coats. We’ve got leather harness, cloth straps, metal rings, all reliable and discreet. Tuck a whole arsenal into your breeches and waistcoats, if you like.”

“You’re my new favorite tailor,” said Jean, contentedly submitting to the darting play of the measuring line while the carriage rolled along.

3

THEIR JOURNEY took about ten minutes, while the sun rose and painted the walls and alleys around them with warm light. Jean took advantage of his window seat to form several impressions of Karthain along the way.

The first was that it was a city of tiered heights. As they moved inward from the waterfront, past the ship-filled lagoon, he saw that the more northerly sections of the city rose, hills and terraces alike, to a sort of plateau that must have been several hundred feet above the Ponta Corbessa. Nothing so extreme as Tal Verrar’s precipitous drops, but it did seem as though the gods or the Eldren had tilted the city about forty-five degrees toward the water after originally laying it out.

Furthermore, it seemed to be an unusually well-tended place. Perhaps Nikoros had chosen a route that would best flatter his city? Whatever the case, Jean couldn’t fail to note the swept streets, the clean white stone of the newer houses, the neatly trimmed trees, the smooth bubbling of every fountain and waterfall, or the decorative enamel mosaics on the cable cars sliding between the taller buildings.

Most striking was the character of the city’s Elderglass. Its bridges over the wide Karvanu (which poured down five separate white-foaming falls before it reached the heart of the city) were not solid arches, but rather suspension bridges made of thousands of panels of milky black Elderglass, connected by countless finger-thick lengths of glass cable to supporting towers like spindly caricatures of human temple spires.

The first bridge they crossed had a disconcerting amount of sway and bounce—just a few inches of give, to be sure, but any bounce at all was of immediate interest to someone high over water in a carriage.

“Never fear,” said Nikoros, noticing the matching expressions on Locke’s and Jean’s faces. “You’ll be used to this in no time. It’s Elderglass! Nothing we do could so much as fray a cable.”

Jean stared at the other huge bridges spanning the Karvanu. They looked like the work of mad giant spiders, or harps designed for hands the size of palaces. He also noticed, for the first time, a strangely tuneful humming and creaking that he assumed was the music of the cables.

“Welcome to the Isas Salvierro,” said Nikoros when the carriage halted a few minutes later, blessedly back on unyielding stone. “A business district, one of the pumping hearts of the city. My office is just north of here.”

The small group bustled out of the carriage and into Morenna Clothiers, where they found a wide shop floor surrounded by a raised second-floor gallery. Seconddaughter Morenna locked the door behind them.

“These aren’t our usual hours,” she said. “You’re an emergency case.”

There was a strong smell of coffee wafting throughout the shop, and Jean’s mouth watered. The walls of the lower room were layered with bolts of cloth in a hundred different colors and textures, while several wooden racks of coats and jackets had been brought out into the middle of the floor.

“Allow me to introduce Firstdaughter Morenna,” said Seconddaughter, pointing to a taller, heavier blonde woman on the upper level, who was pulling a gleaming metallic thread from a rattling clockwork spindle. “And of course our darling Thirddaughter.”

The youngest of the tailoring sisters was as petite as Seconddaughter, though her hair was a shade darker and she alone of the three wore optics. She was absorbed in trimming some unknown velvet bundle with a pair of blackened-iron shears, and she gave the merest nod in greeting.

“Thimbles on, girls, it’s time for battle,” said Seconddaughter.

“My,” said Firstdaughter, who stepped away from her machine and descended to the first floor. “Shipwreck, was it? You gentlemen look like you’ve been in the wars. Is Lashain having some sort of difficulty?”

“Lashain is its old charming self, madam,” said Locke. “Our misfortune was personal.”

“You’ve come to the right place. We adore a challenge. And we adorn the challenged! Second, have you taken their measurements?”

“Everything I could in decency.” Seconddaughter snatched up a slate, and with a squeaky piece of chalk scribed two columns of numbers on it. She threw the slate to Firstdaughter. “Save for breeches inseams. Could you be a dear?”

Firstdaughter conjured a measuring line in her free hand and advanced on Locke and Jean without hesitation. “Now, gentlemen, our male apprentice is out sick, so you’ll need to bear my scrutiny a moment. Take heart, there’s many a wife that won’t give her husband this sort of attention for love or money.” Chuckling, she took rapid and mostly professional measurements from crotch to ankles on both men, then added some squiggles to the bottom of the slate.

“I assume that we’re replacing an entire wardrobe?” said Thirddaughter, setting her velvet down.

“Yes,” said Locke. “These fine dishrags represent the sum of our current wardrobe.”

“You’ve the sound of an easterner,” said Thirddaughter. “Will you want the style to which you’re accustomed, or something more—”

“Local,” said Jean. “Absolutely local. Fit us out like natives.”

“It will take several days,” said Seconddaughter, holding a swatch of something brown up to Jean’s neck and frowning, “to deliver all the bespoke work, you understand, and that’s with us chugging along like water-engines. But while we’re arranging that, we can set you up with something respectable enough.”

“We don’t do boots, though,” said Firstdaughter, stripping Jean’s jacket and sending his hatchets clattering to the floor. “Oh, dear. Will you be wanting somewhere to tuck those?”

“Absolutely,” said Jean.

“We’ve got a thousand ways,” said First. She picked up the Wicked Sisters and set them respectfully on a table. “But as I was saying, Nikoros, we haven’t turned cobblers in the last few hours. Have you kept that in mind?”

“Of course,” said Nikoros. “This is but the first stop. I’ll have them set up like royalty before lunch.”

The next half hour was a furious storm of fittings, removals, tests, measurements, remeasurements, suggestions, countersuggestions, and sisterly arguments as Locke and Jean were gradually peeled out of their slops and reskinned as fair approximations of gentlemen. The creamy silk shirts were a little too big, the vests and breeches taken in or let out with some haste. Locke’s long coat hung loose and Jean’s was tight across the chest. Still, it was a drastic improvement, at least from the ankles up. Now they could set foot in a countinghouse without provoking the guards into raising weapons.

Once the immediate transmutation was accomplished, the three women took notes for a more expansive wardrobe—evening coats, morning jackets, formal and informal waistcoats, breeches in half a dozen styles, velvet doublets, fitted silk shirts, and all the trimmings.

“Now, you said you’d be doing more, ah, entertaining, as it were,” said Thirddaughter to Locke. “So I gather you’ll need a slightly wider selection of coats than your friend Master Callas.”

“Entirely correct,” said Jean, rolling his arms around and enjoying his restoration to a state of elegance, tight coat or no. “Besides, I’m the careful one. I can make do with less. Give my friend a bit more of your attention.”

“As you will,” said Thirddaughter, gently but firmly grabbing Jean by his left cuff. A long dangling thread had caught her attention; she had her shears out with a graceful twirl and snipped it in the blink of an eye. “There. Squared away. I believe, then, we’ll start with seven coats for Master Lazari, and give you four.”

“We’ll send them to your inn as we finish them,” said Firstdaughter, tallying figures on a new slate. These figures had nothing to do with Locke’s and Jean’s measurements. She passed the slate to Nikoros, and when he nodded curtly her pleasure was readily apparent.

“Lovely,” said Locke. “Except we don’t know where we’re staying just yet.”

“The Deep Roots party does,” said Nikoros with a half-bow. “You’re in our bosom now, sirs. You’ll want for nothing. Now, might I beg you to come along, just a few steps up the lane? Those bare feet will never do for lunch or dinner.”

4

THE NEXT two hours of the morning were spent, as Nikoros had prophesied, scuttling up and down the streets of the Isas Salvierro in pursuit of boots, shoes, jewelry, and every last detail that would help Locke and Jean pass as men of real account. Several of the shops involved had not yet opened for regular business, but the force of Nikoros’ connections and pocketbook unlocked every door.

As their list of immediate needs grew shorter, Jean noticed that Locke was spending more and more time eyeballing the alleys, windows, and rooftops around them.

Behavior very obvious, he signaled.

Threat gods-damned serious, was the reply.

And despite himself, despite personal experience that one of the least intelligent things to do, when you fear being spied upon, is to crane your head in all directions and advertise your suspicion, Jean did just that. As the carriage rattled toward Tivoli’s countinghouse, he stole fretful glances out his window.

Sabetha. Gods below, he couldn’t imagine a more troublesome foe. Not only had he and Locke set foot in a city where their presence was expected, she knew precisely how they worked. That was true in reverse, to some extent, but all the same he felt like they were just leaving the starting mark in a race that had been going on without them for some time.

“Think she’ll hit us early?” said Jean.

“She’s hitting us as we speak,” muttered Locke. “We just don’t know where yet.”

“Gentlemen,” said Nikoros, who was working to keep the pile of parcels on the seat next to him from toppling onto the compartment floor at every turn, “what’s troubling you?”

“Our opposition,” said Locke. “The Black Iris people. Is there a woman that you know of, a new woman, only recently arrived?”

“The redheaded woman, you mean?” said Nikoros. “Is she important?”

“She—” Locke seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say. “She’s our problem. Don’t tell anyone we asked, but keep your ears open.”

“We haven’t identified her yet,” said Nikoros. “She’s not Karthani.”

“No,” said Locke. “She’s not. Do you have any idea where she is?”

“I could show you a few coffeehouses and taverns run by Black Iris members. Not to mention the Sign of the Black Iris itself. They got their name from that place. If I had to guess, I’d look for her there.”

“I’ll want a list of all those places,” said Locke. “Get me the name of every business, every inn, every hole in the wall connected with the Iris people. Write them down. I’ll have paper sent out to you while we’re in Tivoli’s.”

“I fancy I can give you something useful off the top of my head. Do you want something more complete, later? I have membership lists, property lists …”

“I’ll want it all,” said Locke. “Make copies. Do you have a scribe you trust, really trust?”

“I have a bonded scrivener I’ve used forever,” said Nikoros. “He votes Deep Roots.”

“Have the poor bastard cancel his life for a day or two,” said Locke. “Pay him whatever he asks. I assume you can tug on the party’s purse strings at will?”

“Well, yes—”

“Good, because that teat is about to be milked. Have your scribe copy everything important. Everything. Anything election-related goes to us. Anything personal goes to your countinghouse vault.”

“But, why—”

“For the next month and a half, I expect you to behave as though your office is in danger of burning down at any moment.”

“But surely they wouldn’t …”

“Nothing is off the table. Nothing! Got it?”

“If you insist.”

“Maybe we’ll have a meeting with the opposition sooner or later,” said Locke. “Set some rules. Until then, a bad accident is a near-certainty. I know if I could get at someone like you on the Black Iris side, turn their papers into ash, I’d be sorely tempted.”

“I can give you names—”

“Write them down,” said Locke. “Write them all down. You’re going to be tasting ink with your lunch, I’m afraid.”

5

TIVOLI’S COUNTINGHOUSE was a classic of its type, a perfect cross between inviting extravagance and blatant intimidation.

Locke admired the building. The narrow windows, like fortress embrasures, were girded with iron bars, and the shelves beneath the windows were cement blocks studded with broken glass. The exterior walls (all four of them, for the three-story building stood alone on a hard-packed dirt courtyard) were painted with well-executed frescoes of fat, infinitely content Gandolo blessing account books, scales, and stacks of coin. The alchemical resin used to protect these images from the weather gave the walls a faint gleam, and Locke knew from personal experience it also made them devilishly hard to climb.

The interior smelled of mellow incense. Golden lanterns hung in niches, casting a warm, inviting light except where pillars and drapes contrived to create equally inviting pools of shadow. To either side behind the main doors, guards sat on stools in gated alcoves, and a quick glance up confirmed that there was a tastefully concealed portcullis ready to be dropped, if not by the guards or bankers then by hidden watchers behind the walls.

There was no chance of robbing such a place on a whim, nor with anything less than a dozen armed and ready types, and even that was more likely to earn a bloodbath than a fortune. The shrine-like inviolability of houses like this was actually as necessary to those in the criminal line as it was to any honest citizen. There was no point in stealing well or wisely if the loot couldn’t be stashed somewhere safe.

“I see Nikoros in the carriage outside,” said a woman who emerged from behind a painted screen. She was about forty, dark-skinned, with chestnut hair bound beneath a black silk skullcap. Her right eye was clouded, and she wore a pair of optics from which the corresponding lens had been removed. “You must be the political gentlemen.”

“Callas and Lazari,” said Jean.

“Singular Tivoli, gentlemen. Your servant.”

“Singular?” said Locke.

“More elegant than ‘Only Tivoli,’ I find, and far more sociable than ‘Solitary Tivoli.’ You have some documents?”

Locke handed over the papers they’d been given by Patience. Tivoli barely glanced at them before she nodded.

“Private credit for three thousand each,” she said. “Scratched these up myself a few days ago. Do you want to draw any of it?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “Can you give us fifty apiece?”

That was adequate pocket money, thought Locke. Half a pound of Karthani ducats each. He turned the sum into Camorri crowns in his head, and idly reflected on what it could get him: a small company of mercenaries for several months, half a dozen outstanding horses, twice as many adequate ones, plain food and lodging for years … not that he’d have any reason to buy such far-fetched things. Yet it would certainly procure an excellent dinner. His stomach rumbled at the thought.

“Might I offer you gentlemen some refreshment while the matter is tended to?” Tivoli glanced at Locke. Were her ears that sharp? “Dark ale? Wine? Pastries?”

“Yes,” said Locke, resenting his weakness but unable to master it. “Yes, anything solid, that would be ne … nice.” Gods above, he’d almost said “necessary.”

“Also,” said Jean, “could we trouble you to have paper, ink, and quills sent out to our carriage? Nikoros has some scribbling to do.”

Tivoli settled Locke and Jean in one of the alcoves, on chairs that would have been at home in the suite of false furniture they’d given to Requin. An attendant brought a tray of flaky brown pastries in the western style, filled with cheese and minced mushrooms. They were the richest thing Locke had eaten in weeks. Jean and Tivoli took small cups of dark ale, and watched in joint bemusement as Locke removed the pastries from existence, rank by rank.

“I’m sorry,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been ill. My stomach might as well have been locked up on another continent.” He knew he was being less than polite, but the alternative was to gnaw on more ship’s biscuits, which he had transferred to an inner pocket of his new coat.

“Think nothing of it,” said Tivoli. “Manners that would keep you starving are no manners worth respecting. Shall I call for more?”

Locke nodded, and in moments the surviving pastries received reinforcements. These were followed by an attendant carrying a wooden board with a neatly gridded surface, on which low stacks of gold and silver coins had been set out. Jean divided this money into two new leather purses while Locke continued eating.

“Now,” said Tivoli, “I trust there’s little more to say about your personal funds. The other matter we need to touch upon is a certain sum left in my care with strict instructions that it remain unrecorded. Before we discuss its handling, I must ask that you make absolutely no reference to my name in connection with this sum, at any time, save in the utmost privacy between yourselves. Certainly never in writing.”

“I assure you, madam, that in all matters of discretion not involving food, we make etiquette tutors look like slobbering barbarians,” said Jean.

“Excellent,” she said, rising from her chair. “Then let me acquaint you with the hundred thousand ducats I’m not holding on your behalf.”

6

THE UNRECORDED sum lay in a windowless cell off an underground hallway guarded by clockwork doors that must have weighed half a ton apiece. A stack of iron-bound chests was set against an interior wall, and Tivoli pushed one open to reveal gleaming contents.

“About seven hundred and fifty pounds of gold,” she said. “I can turn a fair percentage of it into silver without much notice, whenever you require.”

“I … yes, that may indeed be necessary before we’re finished,” said Locke. He felt a strange tug at his heart. He’d taken the vast fortune of the Gentlemen Bastards for granted for so long, and now here was another, set out for his disposal, as though the first had never been lost.

“Is there anyone besides yourselves,” said Tivoli, “that you would wish to have access to these funds?”

“Absolutely not,” said Jean.

“And that’s never to be countermanded,” added Locke. “Ever. No one else will come on our behalf. Anyone who says otherwise will be lying. Any evidence they produce should be torn up and stuffed down their breeches.”

“We have, from long practice, developed many efficient means of dealing with mischief-makers,” said Tivoli.

“May my associate and I speak privately?” said Locke.

“Of course.” Tivoli stepped out of the cell and pushed the door half-closed. “This door will open from your side at just a touch of the silver lever. Take as long as you require.”

When the door had clattered all the way shut, Jean closed the open chest and sat upon it. “Your guts doing tumbling exercises like mine?”

“I’d never have credited it,” said Locke, running his fingers over the cool wood of another strongbox. “All those years we spent stealing bigger and bigger sums. The money was like a painted backdrop for me. Now that we’ve had a couple fortunes yanked out from under us, though …”

“Yeah,” said Jean. “It seems dearer, somehow. This Tivoli—how far do you suppose we can trust her?”

“I think we can afford to assume the best in her case,” said Locke. “Patience sent us here. Probably means that Sabetha can’t touch our funds at their source, and that hers are equally beyond our reach. This is ammunition for the game. You’d want it kept safe for proper use if you were the magi, wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve saved me some explaining.” The voice was deep, cultured, with a languid Karthani accent, and it came from right behind Locke. He whirled.

A man leaned against the door; he was about Locke’s age and height, wearing a long coat the color of dried rose petals. His hair and short beard were icy blond. Gloves, breeches, boots, and neck-scarf were all black, without ornament.

“Gods,” said Locke, regaining control of himself. “I would have opened the door for a knock.”

“I didn’t choose to wait,” said the man.

“Well, I don’t need to ask to see the rings on your wrist,” said Locke. “Who are you, then? With Patience, or against?”

“With. I’ve come for a private word on behalf of all of us you stand to disappoint.”

“We’ve been at work in your interest for about four hours now,” said Locke. “Surely you could wait a day or two before coming it the total asshole? What do you think, Jean?”

“Jean is occupied,” said the stranger.

Locke turned to see Jean with his eyes unfocused and mouth slightly open. Save for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he might have been a well-dressed statue.

“Gods’ truth,” said Locke, turning back to the stranger. “I don’t care who you are, I am tired of talking to you fucking people under circumstances like—”

Before he finished his sentence, he threw a punch. Without betraying any surprise or concern, the mage caught Locke’s fist in one of his gloved hands and struck back, straight to Locke’s midsection. The strength bled from his legs and he went down gasping. The mage retained his hold on Locke’s hand and used it to wrench him around, until he was on his knees facing away from his antagonist.

“Just breathe through the pain,” said the mage, casually. “Even for you, that was arrogant. You’re no threat to anyone in your condition.”

“T-t-Tivoli,” Locke gasped. “Tivoli!”

“Grow up.” The mage knelt behind him, put his left hand on Locke’s jaw, and set the other in a choking hold. Locke kicked and struggled, but the man effortlessly maintained control of Locke’s head and tightened the grip. “She can’t hear you, either.”

“Patience,” hissed Locke. “Patience … will … nggghk …”

“This conversation is never going to be any concern of hers. She isn’t hovering over you like a little cloud. She has people like me to do that for her.”

“Ngggh … ygggh … fghkingggh … bastarrrgh!”

“Yes,” said the mage, loosening his choke at last. Locke coughed and sucked air into his burning lungs. “Yes, I do want for manners, don’t I? And you’re such a gentle saint-like fellow yourself. Are you ready to listen?”

Locke, relieved to be breathing again and deeply ashamed of his weakened state, said nothing.

“The message is this,” continued the mage, taking silence for acquiescence. “We want the contest to be genuine. We want to see you work for six weeks. If you make peace with that woman and contrive some sort of dumb-show—”

“Patience already warned me,” coughed Locke. “Gods above, you must’ve known that, you tedious piece of shit!”

“It’s one thing to be told, it’s another thing to understand. You’ve got a real entanglement with the woman on the other side. We’d have to be idiots not to allow that you might be tempted.”

“I’ve already promised—”

“Your promises aren’t worth a dead man’s spit, Camorri. So here’s something tangible. Make any arrangement with your redheaded friend to fix this contest, in either direction, and we’ll kill her.”

“You son of a— You can’t—”

“Of course we can. Just as soon as the election is over. We’ll take our time while you watch.”

“The other mages—”

“You think they give a damn about her? The Falconer’s friends? They hired her to vex you. Once the five-year game is over, they’ll be no protection.”

Locke attempted to stumble to his feet, and after a moment the mage yanked him up by the back of his coat. Locke turned, glared, and made a show of dusting himself off.

“It’s no use giving me the evil eye, Lamora. Take the warning to heart. You should be flattered that we understand how useless half-measures are with you.”

“Flattered,” said Locke. “Oh, yeah. Flattered. That’s exactly the word that was on the tip of my tongue. Thanks.”

“The woman is a hostage to your good behavior. You don’t get another reminder. And don’t bother telling Patience about this, either. You’d suffer for it.”

“That all?”

“That’s all the conversation I have in me, friend.”

“Then wake Jean up.”

“He’ll stop daydreaming once I’ve gone.”

“Too chickenshit to say this sort of thing in front of him?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” said the mage, “that the last thing your partner needs is another one of my kind proving just how helpless he is while he’s awake to bear the disgrace?”

“I …”

“I’m not without my sympathies, Lamora. They just don’t necessarily reside with you. Now mind the job we hired you for.”

With a wave of his hand he was gone. Locke swung his arms around the empty air where the mage had been standing, then patted the nearby wall, then checked to make sure the door was still tightly closed. He gave a grunt of disgusted resignation and massaged his neck.

“Locke? Did you say something?”

Jean was back on his feet, looking hale.

“Uh, no, Jean, I’m sorry. I just … uh, coughed.”

“Are you all right?” Jean peered at him over the rims of his optics. “You’re sweating like mad. Did something happen?”

“It’s just … nothing.” Gods above, the red-coated bastard was right. Jean didn’t need another reminder of how casually the magi could make a puppet of him. With Locke barely started on the path to recovery, he needed all of Jean’s confidence and energy, without distraction. “I’m sure it’s just all this walking about. I’ll get used to it again soon enough.”

“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean. “We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”

“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people in the world I’d want to disappoint.”

7

“NIKOROS, WHO the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere Nikoros had called the Palanta District.

“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except the actual day of an election.”

“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful. So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”

“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed, protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll have more precise figures as the election goes on.”

“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or am I wrong?”

“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your name, too.”

“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen smaller ones.”

“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”

Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros had a long-standing relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses, and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”

“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves as the Committee.”

“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.

“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening. Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”

“How many?”

“Not above a hundred and fifty.”

“Gods below,” said Locke. “I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later, though. Where did you want to hold this mess?”

“At your lodgings. Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations. I’m eager for you to see it. It’s the best place in the city, our temple for Deep Roots affairs.”

A temple it could have been, given its size. They pulled up before Josten’s just as the sun was reaching its mild zenith in a sky that was gradually graying over with clouds. Porters scrambled from the building’s shaded front entrance and took packages under Nikoros’ direction. Jean hopped out of the carriage before Locke did, and studied the structure.

It was a sprawling, gabled, three-story affair with at least nine visible chimneys and several dozen windows. A dozen carriages could have lined up before it with room to spare.

“Hell of an inn,” said Locke as his shoes hit the cobbles.

“Not just an inn,” said Nikoros. “A fine dining establishment, a complete bar, a coffeehouse. Paradise on earth for merchants and traders with party sympathies. A quarter of the city’s commerce gets hashed out here.”

The interior lived up to Nikoros’ enthusiasm. At least five dozen men and women drank and conversed at long tables amidst solid, darkly varnished wooden pillars. An entire clothier’s shop worth of hats and coats hung from nearly every surface, and waiters in black jackets and breeches bustled about with the haste of siege engineers preparing an attack. To Jean’s eye the place looked like Meraggio’s turned inside-out, with the dining and drinking made a centerpiece of business affairs rather than a concealed luxury.

“Up there,” said Nikoros, gesturing toward raised galleries with polished brass rails, “you’ll find the reserved sections. One for the biggest syndicates, the ones I write for. Another for the scribes and solicitors; they pay the house a ransom to stay close to the action. And there’s a gallery for Deep Roots business.”

Jean sensed a number of eyes upon him, and although Nikoros drew waves and nods from onlookers, it was obvious that the two Gentlemen Bastards had become objects of curiosity merely by walking in with him. Jean sighed inwardly, thinking that a back-door entrance might have been wiser, but the die was cast. If Sabetha hadn’t already known they were loose on the streets of Karthain, it was inconceivable that at least one person here wasn’t in her employ, watching for their arrival.

Behind the well-furnished bar on the far side of the room was a tall black man, thin as a hat rack, wearing a more expensive version of the waiter’s uniform under a billowing white cravat and leather apron. The instant he caught sight of Nikoros, he set down the ledger he was reading and crossed the room, dodging waiters.

“Welcome, sirs, welcome, to Josten’s Comprehensive, the Hall Inclusive!” The man bowed at the waist before Locke and Jean. “Diligence Josten, gentlemen, master of the house. You’re expected. How can I make your life easier?”

“I’d do public murder for a cup of coffee,” said Jean.

“You’ve come to the only house in Karthain with coffee worth murdering for. We have seven distinct blends, from the aromatic Syresti dry to the thick—”

“I’ll take the kind I don’t have to think about.”

“The very best kind of all.” Josten snapped his fingers, and a nearby waiter hurried off. “Now, your rooms. They’re in the west wing, second floor, a pair of joined suites, and I’ll have your things—”

“Yes, yes,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I require a moment.” He grabbed Jean and Nikoros by their lapels and dragged them into a private huddle.

“This innkeeper,” whispered Locke, “how far can we trust him, Nikoros?”

“He’s been Deep Roots since this place was three bricks and some postholes in the mud. Gods above, Lazari, he’s as likely to turn as I am.”

“What makes you think we trust you?”

“I … I—”

“Take a breath, I’m kidding.” Locke patted Nikoros on the back and smiled. “If you’re wrong, of course, we’re buggered as all hell. Josten! My dear fellow. Yes, have our junk sent to our rooms, I’m sure they’re perfect, with just the right number of walls and ceilings. I’ll count them later. You know why we’re here?”

“Why, to help us kick the Black Iris in the teeth for a change. And to enjoy your coffee.”

A waiter appeared at Jean’s side, offering a steaming mug on a brass tray. Jean took it and swallowed half of it in one gulp, shuddering with pleasure as the heat cascaded down his battle-hardened gullet.

“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s the stuff. Sweet liquid death. With just a hint of ginger.”

“Okanti beans,” said Josten. “My family once grew them on the home islands, before we came north.”

“Feeling human again?” said Locke.

“This brew could make a dead eunuch piss lightning,” said Jean. He tossed back the second half of the cup. “You want to go up and rest?”

“Gods, no,” said Locke. “Time is precious, security’s nonexistent, and our collective ass is hanging in the wind just begging a certain someone to put an arrow right between the cheeks. Josten, I’ve got to make cruel use of you, I’m afraid.”

“Name any requirement. I’ll meet it eye to eye.”

“Good man, but you’ll learn soon enough not to say that sort of thing to me until I’ve finished speaking. And then you’ll probably learn not to say nice things at all. Your waiters, porters, and the like, have you hired any new ones in the last week?”

“Five or six.”

“Get their names on paper. Get that paper to Master Callas here.” Locke jerked a thumb at Jean. “Instruct your most trusted employees to watch your newest hirelings at all times. Don’t do anything, but get full reports of their activities. On paper.”

“And get that paper to Master Callas?”

“Right you are. Next, consider every door in the entire structure that you routinely keep locked. Excepting the guest rooms, of course. Have all the locks changed, every last one. Do it tomorrow, during business hours. Nikoros will reimburse you from party funds.”

“I—” said Nikoros.

“Nikoros, your job this afternoon is to say yes to anything that comes out of my mouth. The more you rehearse this, the sooner it’ll become a smooth mechanical process allowing no time for painful reflection. Can you practice for me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a natural. Anyway, Josten, get locksmiths down here tomorrow even if you have to promise them a month’s pay. Make sure your fresh hirelings don’t get new keys. Arrange to make it look like the locksmiths have simply run out. Tell them they’ll get theirs in a few days. We’ll see if any of them do anything interesting as a result. Clear so far?”

Josten nodded and tapped his right temple with one finger.

“Next, get a metalsmith to bang up some simple neck chains for all of your employees. Dignified but cheap. Gilded iron, nothing anyone would want to pawn. This is important. We don’t want some enterprising spy throwing together an outfit to mimic one of your waiters so they can lurk about. Anyone on duty wears a chain. Anyone working without a chain gets hauled in back for an impolite conversation. Nobody takes their chain with them when they leave, or they’re fired. Got it? Chains get handed in to you and your most trusted associates, and donned again when it’s time to start a new shift.

“Once you’ve seen to that, announce to all of your employees that you’re doubling their wages until the day after the election. Nikoros will reimburse you out of party funds.”

“Er … yes,” said Nikoros.

“Mention also,” said Locke, “the importance of preserving a secure house during the election, and that anyone reporting anything genuinely unusual or out of place will be compensated for their trouble. If a spider farts in a wine cellar, I want you to hear about it.”

Josten’s eyes had widened, but he nodded as before.

“What else …? Physical security! We need brutes. Say half a dozen. Reliable types, patient, ready for a scrap but not slobbering to start one. No idiots. And some women we can blend in with the crowd. Handy things, pretty girls with knives under their skirts. Where can we get some?”

“The Court of Dust,” said Nikoros. “The caravan staging and receiving posts. There’s always guards for hire. Not exactly Collegium scholars, mind you.”

“Just so long as they don’t suck their thumbs in polite company,” said Locke. “See to it tomorrow, Nikoros, and take Master Callas with you. He can sort cream from crap. Clean up the new recruits, get them decent clothes, and put them up here for the duration. Pay for the rooms out of party funds. Also—make it clear that anyone brought on as muscle answers directly to me or Callas. They take no orders from anyone else without our permission.”

“Uh, sure,” said Nikoros.

“Now, Nikoros, you have an office full of papers to preserve. Run off and get your scribe working. Take the steps we discussed earlier. What time are you parading us around?”

“Ninth hour of the evening.”

“Good, good, shit. Wait. Will everyone in attendance know that Callas and I are running the show?”

“No, no, only the members of the Committee. We did hire you, remember.”

“Ah,” said Locke. “That’s fine. You carry on with getting the hell out of here, and we’ll see you tonight.”

Nikoros nodded, shook hands with Josten, and went out the front door.

“What else …?” Locke turned back to Josten. “Rooms. Yes. The rooms adjacent to our suite, and across from it, are not to be let. Keep them vacant. Have Nikoros pay you the full six weeks’ rent for them out of party funds. But give the keys for the empty rooms to me, right?”

“Easily done.”

Jean studied Locke carefully. This rapid transition to a state of wide-eyed energetic scheming was something he’d seen many times before. However, there was a nervous, feverish quality to Locke’s mood that made Jean bite his lip with concern.

“What else …?”

“Luncheon, perhaps?” Jean interrupted as gracefully as he could. “Food, wine, coffee? A few minutes to sit down and catch your breath in private?”

“Food, yes. Coffee and wine are a ghastly mix. One or the other, I don’t care which. Not both.”

“As for food, sir—” said Josten.

“Put anything on my plate short of a live scorpion and I’ll eat it. And … and …” Locke snapped his fingers. “I know what I’ve forgotten! Josten, have you had any new customers in the past few days? Particularly new customers, never seen before, ones that spend a great deal of time sitting around?”

“Well, now that you mention it.… Don’t stare at them, but on your right, far side of the room, the third table from the rear wall, under the painting of the lady with the exceptional boso … necklace.”

“I see,” said Locke. “Yes, that is an extraordinary place to hang a necklace. Three men?”

“First started coming three days ago. They eat and drink, more than enough to keep their spot. But they keep it for hours at a time, and they come and go in shifts, sometimes. There’s a fourth fellow not there right now.”

“Do they have rooms?”

“No. And they don’t do business with the regular crowd. Sometimes they play cards, but mostly … well, I don’t know what they do. Nothing offensive.”

“Would you call them gentlemen? In their manner of dress, in their self-regard?”

“Well, they’re not penniless. But I wouldn’t go so far as gentlemen.”

“Hirelings,” said Locke, removing some of the more obvious pieces of jewelry Nikoros had secured for him and stuffing them into a coat pocket. “Valets. Professional men of convenience, unless I miss my guess. I’m a little overdressed for this, but I think I can compensate by toning down my manners.”

“Overdressed for what?” said Jean.

“Insulting complete strangers,” said Locke, loosening his neck-cloth. “Got to mind the delicate social nuances when you inform some poor fellow that he’s a dumb motherfucker.”

8

“HANG ON,” said Jean. “If you’re looking to start a fight, I’m—”

“I thought about that,” said Locke. “You’re likely to scare them. I need them to feel insulted and not threatened. That makes it my job.”

“Well, would you like me to intervene before you get your teeth punched out, or is that part of your scheme?”

“If I’m right,” said Locke, “you won’t need to. If I’m wrong, I grant you full license to indulge in an ‘I told you so’ when I’m conscious again, with an option for a ‘you stupid bastard’ if you choose.”

“I’ll claim that privilege.” The quick-moving waiter appeared with a second cup of coffee for Jean. He seized it and slapped a pair of copper coins down in its place. The waiter bowed.

“Josten,” said Locke, “if it turns out I’m about to do something knavish to honest customers, we’ll compensate you.”

“Going to be a damned interesting six weeks,” muttered Josten.

Locke took a deep breath, cracked his knuckles, and walked over to the table at which the three strangers sat. Jean stayed some distance behind, minding his cup of coffee. His presence there was a comfort, familiar as a shadow.

“Good afternoon,” said Locke. “Lazari is my name. I trust I’m intruding.”

“I’m sorry,” said the man closest to Locke, “but we were—”

“I’m afraid I don’t care,” said Locke. He slid into an unclaimed chair and appraised the strangers: young, clean, well-groomed, not quite expensively dressed. They were sharing a bottle of white wine and a pitcher of water.

“We were having a private discussion!” said the man on Locke’s right.

“Ah, but I’m here to do you two a service.” Locke gestured at the two men sitting across from him. “Concerning the fellow I’m sitting next to. Word around the bar is that he can only get it up when he’s on top of another fellow he’s taken by force or subterfuge.”

“What the hell is this?” hissed the man on the right.

“Phrased less delicately,” said Locke, “if you continue to associate with this well-known deceiver, he’s going to tie you down, do you somewhere very untidy until you bleed, and not bother to untie you after.”

“This is unseemly,” said one of the men across the table. “Unseemly, and if you don’t withdraw immediately—”

“I’d be more worried about your friend not withdrawing immediately,” said Locke. “He’s not known for being quick.”

“What’s the meaning of this infantile interruption?” The man on Locke’s right pounded on the table, just strongly enough to rattle the bottle and glasses.

“Good gods,” said Locke, pretending to notice the wine for the first time, “you thoroughly artless fuck-stains didn’t actually drink any of that, did you?”

He swept his hat off and used it to knock the wineglasses of the men across from him into their laps.

“You bastard!” said one.

“Why I … I …” sputtered the other.

“But then, maybe it’s not drugged after all.” Locke grabbed the bottle and took a long swig. “Wouldn’t need to be, for Karthani. Milk-sucking pants-pissers could get drunk off the smell of an empty bottle!”

“I’ll … fetch the landlord!” said the man across from him on the left, retrieving his empty glass from his lap.

“Frightening,” said Locke. “Savage as a kitten on a tit. Say, did you ever hear the one about the rich Karthani and the Karthani who knew who his mother was? Shit, wait, I said Karthani, didn’t I? Told the damn thing wrong.”

“Leave,” said the man on his right. “Leave! Now!”

“Hey, how does a Karthani find out his wife is having her monthly flow? He crawls into his son’s bed and the boy’s cock is already wet. Ha! Oh, have you heard the one about the Karthani who claimed he could count to five—”

The man on Locke’s right pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. Locke grabbed him by the lapel. The man halted, glowering. Locke didn’t have the strength to drag him back down if he decided to fight, but the crucial insult of the uninvited touch was already given.

“Where are you off to?” said Locke. “I haven’t finished my sensitive cultural exchange.”

“Remove your hand from my coat, you obnoxious—”

“Or else what?”

“We take this to the master of the house.”

“I am the master of the house,” said Locke. “And you already know it. You’ve been sent here to watch for my coming. See the hefty gentleman ten yards behind me? He’s the other one you’re looking for. Take a long, careful look, children. I don’t doubt that your mistress expects a detailed report.”

The man jerked away.

“Come now,” said Locke reasonably, taking another swig from the wine bottle. “No men with any quantity of self-respect could have borne the abuse I’ve just given you. If you were gentlemen you’d have called me out, and if you were roughs you’d have punched me in the teeth. The fact is, you’ve been paid a tidy sum to sit here spying on me, and you were all confused as hell about what to do when I pissed on your dignity.”

The two men across the table started to rise, and Locke gestured sharply for them to remain seated.

“Don’t do anything stupid now, sirs. There’s no retrieving your situation. Lift one finger in an unkind act, and I guarantee it’ll take six months for your bones to knit. I’ll also have fifty witnesses swearing you had it coming.”

“What do you want with us?” muttered the man on the right.

“Haul your pathetic carcasses out the door. Be quick and polite. If I ever see you within shouting distance of Josten’s again, you’ll wake up in an alley with all your teeth shoved up your ass. That goes for your absent friend, too.”

Locke put his hat back on, stood up, and strolled casually away. He spared a smile for Jean, who raised his coffee cup in salute—the scrape of chairs against the floor behind him told Locke that the men were departing in haste. He and Jean watched them leave.

“You really are a vulgar little cuss when the spirit moves you,” said Jean.

“I’ve got worse,” said Locke. “Stored on some high shelf in my mind like an alchemist’s poisons. Got most of it from Calo and Galdo.”

“Well, you were venomous enough for our obvious friends.”

“Yes. Obvious. A fine thing to chase out the conspicuous spies. Now all we have to worry about are the capable ones.”

9

LOCKE DESTROYED an excellent luncheon for six—Jean contented himself with a small corner of the feast, and came away grateful for not losing any limbs—then dozed fitfully in their suite of rooms, alternating naps in a lounging chair with episodes of furious pacing.

As the sun set and the tiny fragments of sky visible around the window curtains turned black, men from Morenna’s delivered the beginnings of the promised wardrobe. Locke and Jean examined the new coats, vests, and breeches for concealed needles or alchemical dusts before hanging them in the massive rosewood armoires provided with the rooms.

At the eighth hour of the evening maids and porters appeared with tubs of steaming water. Locke tested each tub with a finger and, when his flesh didn’t peel from his bones, allowed that they might just be safe for their intended use.

By the time Nikoros knocked forty minutes later, the two Gentlemen Bastards were cleaned up and comfortably ensconced in clothes that fit perfectly.

“Gentlemen,” said Nikoros, who had substantially upgraded his own clothes, “I’ve brought you some useful things, I hope.”

He passed a leather portfolio to Locke, who flipped it open and found at least a hundred pages inside. Some were covered with dense scribbling that was surely Nikoros’, others with flawless script that surely wasn’t.

“Deep Roots party financial reports,” said Nikoros. “Important membership lists, plans and minutes from the last election, lists of properties and agents, matching lists for what we know of the Black Iris, copies of the city election laws—”

“Splendid,” said Locke. “And you took all the steps I discussed earlier?”

“My scribe’s still working, but everything else is seen to. If the earth should open up and swallow my offices, I swear I won’t be losing anything irreplaceable.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Want a drink? We’ve got a liquor cabi— No, wait, I haven’t examined the bottles yet, sorry.”

“I’m sure anything provided by Josten is perfectly safe,” said Nikoros, raising his eyebrows.

“It’s not Josten’s faithfulness I worry about.”

“Well, let me assure you that we don’t throw parties in Karthain for the purpose of staying dry.” He reached inside his coat and drew out two ornate silver lapel badges attached to green ribbons; an identical ornament was on his own left breast, though his was gold. “As for that, I mustn’t forget your colors.”

“The official Deep Roots plumage?” said Jean, extending a hand for his pin.

“Yes. For the party tonight, Committee members wear gold pins, Konseil members wear jade, privileged others wear silver. These will mark you as men to respect, but not men who need to be followed around and remarked upon, if you don’t wish it.”

“Good,” said Locke, decorating his lapel. “Now that we’re properly garnished, let’s serve ourselves up to the family.”

10

THE ENTIRE character of Josten’s main room had changed for the evening. The number of attendants at the street doors had doubled, and their uniforms were far more impressive. Dark green banners hung from the rafters and down the varnished pillars. Carriages could be heard coming and going constantly, and Locke caught a glimpse of several more attendants outside, holding their hands up to a party of well-dressed men without green ribbons. Clearly the party was a closed affair.… Were the men on the pavement legitimately uninformed late diners, or some sort of opposition mischief? There was no time to investigate.

A string quintet was bowing away pleasantly in one of the upper galleries, and all the visible fireplaces had huge kettles for tea and coffee bubbling before them. Curtained tables held thousands of glass bottles, and enough decanters, flutes, pitchers, and tumblers to blind every eye in the city with the force of their reflected light. Locke blinked several times and turned his attention to the men and women flowing into the room.

“This is already well more than a hundred and fifty,” he said.

“These things happen,” said Nikoros, giggling energetically as though at some private joke. “We plan with s-such restraint, but there’s so many people we can’t afford to offend!”

Locke peered at him. Nikoros had changed, somehow, in the few minutes between their room and the party. He was sweating profusely, his cheeks were flushed, his eyes darted around like little creatures trapped behind glass panes. Yet he wasn’t nervous; he was beatific. Gods!

Their straight-arrow trade insurer, their liaison to the Deep Roots upper crust, was a taker of Akkadris dust. Locke smelled the sharp pine-like odor of the stuff. Damn! Akkadris, Muse-of-Fire, the poet killer. Liquor soothed and loosened wits, but dust did the opposite, lighting fires in the mind until the dusthead shook with excitement for no discernible reason. It was an expensive and incrementally suicidal habit.

“Nikoros,” said Locke, grabbing one of his lapels, “you and I need to have a very frank discussion about—”

“Via Lupa! Via Lupa, dear boy!” A ponderous old man with a face like a seamed pink pudding bore down on them, witchwood cane tapping the floor excitedly. The man’s white eyebrows fluttered like wisps of smoke, and his lapel badge was polished jade. “Nikoros of the wolves, so called for his profit margins. Ha!”

“G-good evening, Your Honor!” Nikoros used the interruption to extricate himself from Locke’s grasp. “Oh! Gentlemen, may I present Firstson Epitalus, Konseil member for Isas Thedra for forty-five years. Some would call him the, ah, f-figurehead on our political vessel.”

“So I’m a figurehead, am I? A helpless woman splashing about without the good sense to cover my tits? Do I need to send a friend along to require an explanation of that remark, young fellow?”

“Leave the poor boy alone, First. It’s quite clear that you do have the good sense to cover your tits.” A lean, grizzled woman took Epitalus by the arm in a friendly fashion. She looked a lived-in sixty to Locke, though she had lively eyes and a mischievous smile. She, too, wore a jade badge, and as she and Epitalus burst into laughter Nikoros joined in nervously, louder than either of them.

“And allow me to also present … ah—”

It was only a momentary lapse, but the woman seized upon it eagerly.

“Oh, say the name, Nikoros, it won’t burn your tongue.”

“Ahem. Yes, ahem: Damned Superstition Dexa, Konseil member for Isas Mellia and head, ah, head of the Deep Roots Committee.”

“Damned Superstition?” said Locke, smiling despite himself.

“Which it is,” said Dexa, “though you’ll note I play firmly by the rules anyway. Hypocrisy and caution are such affectionate cousins.”

“Your Honors,” said Nikoros, “please, please allow me the p-pleasure of introducing Masters Lazari and Callas.”

Bows, handshakes, nods, and endearments were exchanged with the speed of a melee, and once all the appropriate strokes had been made, Their Honors immediately relapsed into informality.

“So you’re the gentlemen that we’ve discussed so often recently,” said Dexa. “I understand you smoked some vipers out of our midst this very afternoon.”

“Hardly vipers, Your Honor. Just a few turds our opposition threw into the road to see if we were minding our feet,” said Locke.

“Well, keep it up,” said Epitalus. “We have such confidence in you, my lads, such confidence.”

Locke nodded, and felt a flutter in his guts. These people certainly hadn’t read a single note on the fictional exploits of Lazari and Callas. Their warmth and enthusiasm had been installed by the spells of the Bondsmagi. Would it last forever, or dissolve like some passing fancy once the election was over? Could it dissolve before then, by accident? An unnerving thought.

Nikoros managed to herd their little group toward the gleaming mountains of liquor. While his heart-to-heart with Nikoros had been postponed by the circumstances, Locke did feel more comfortable once he’d secured a drink. A glass in the hand seemed as much a uniform requirement as a green ribbon on the chest for this affair.

Epitalus and Dexa soon went off to tend to the business of being important. Nikoros whirled Locke and Jean around the room several times, making introductions, pointing out prodigies and curiosities, Committee members, friends, cousins, cousins of friends, and friends of cousins.

Locke had once been used to mingling with the aristocracy of Camorr, and while the upper crust of Karthain lacked for nothing in terms of wit and pomp, there seemed to be a distinct difference in character that ran deeper than mere variations of habit between east and west. It took half an hour of conversation for him to finally apprehend the nature of the contrast—the Karthani gentry lacked the martial quality that was omnipresent in the well-to-do of most other city-states.

There were no obvious battle scars, no missing arms within pinned-up jacket sleeves, no men and women with the measured step of old campaigners or the swagger of equestrians. Locke recalled that the army of Karthain had been disbanded when the magi took up their residence. For four centuries, the ominous Presence had been the city’s sole (and entirely sufficient) protection against outside interference.

Introductions and pleasantries continued. “Now, who’s that fellow over there?” said Locke, sipping at his second Austershalin brandy and water. “The one with the odd little hat.”

“The natty-hatted gentleman? Damn … his name escapes me at the moment.” Nikoros took a generous gulp of wine as though it might help; whatever aid it rendered was not instantaneous. “Sorry. But I do know his particular friend, the one at his shoulder. One of our district organizers. Firstson Cholmond. Always claims to be writing a book.”

“What sort?” said Jean.

“History. A grand historical study of the city of Karthain.”

“Gods grant him a paralyzing carriage accident,” said Jean.

“I sympathize. Most historians have always struck me as perpetrators of tedium,” said Nikoros. “He swears that his book is different. Still—”

Whatever Nikoros might have said next was lost in a general uproar. Firstson Epitalus had ascended to one of the upper galleries, and he was waving for something resembling order from the crowd, which had by now soaked up a good fraction of its own weight in liquor.

“Good evening, good evening, good evening!” yelled Epitalus. “Good evening!” And then, as though anyone in the audience might conceivably remain unenlightened as to the quality or time of day: “Good evening!”

The string quintet ceased its humming and twanging, and the general acclamation sank to a tipsy murmur.

“Welcome, dear hearts and cavaliers, devoted friends, to the seventy-ninth season of elections in our Republic of Karthain! Take a moment, I pray, to reflect with pity on how few of us remain who can remember the first.…”

Good-natured laughter rippled across the crowd.

“Even those of you still moist behind the ears should be able to recall our heroic efforts of five years past, which, despite furious opposition, preserved our strong minority of nine seats on the Konseil!”

Curiously raucous cheers echoed across the hall for some time. Locke winced. Strong minority? Was he missing out on some bit of Karthani drollery, or were they really that incapable of admitting they’d lost?

“And so, surely, the burden of defending their old gains rests heavily on our foes, and must render them eminently vulnerable to what’s coming their way this time!”

This was answered with full-throated yells, the clinking of glasses, applause, and the sound of at least one thin-blooded reveler succumbing to the influence of complimentary liquor. Fortunately, his tumble from a balcony was interrupted by a crowd of soft-bodied folks, who were deep enough in their cups to take no offense at his sudden arrival. Waiters discreetly removed the poor fellow while Epitalus went on.

“Might I beg you, therefore, to raise a glass in toast to our dear opposition, the overconfident lads and lasses across the city? What shall we wish them, eh? Confusion? Frustration?”

“They’re already confused,” yelled Damned Superstition Dexa from somewhere near the front of the crowd, “so let it be frustration!”

“Frustration to the Black Iris,” boomed Epitalus, raising his glass. The cry was echoed from every corner of the crowd, and then with one vast gulp several hundred people were in pressing need of a refill. Waiters wielding bottles in both hands waded into the fray. When Epitalus had received a fresh supply of wine, he raised his glass again.

“Karthain! Gods bless our great jewel of the west!”

This toast, too, was echoed enthusiastically, but in its wake Locke witnessed something curious. A fair number of the people around him touched their left hands to their eyes, bowed their heads, and whispered, “Bless the Presence.”

“Gods grant us all the blessing of a long-awaited victory,” said Epitalus, “as they have granted me the honor of your very kind attention. I’ll not detain you a moment longer! We have plenty of work to do in the coming six weeks, but tonight is for pleasure, and I must insist that you all pursue it vigorously!”

Epitalus descended from the elevated gallery to a round of applause that shook the rafters. The musicians started up again.

“What do you think of the old boy?” said Jean.

“He’s got a strangely sunny view of ten years of defeat,” said Locke, “but if I get killed in the next six weeks, I want him to speak at my funeral.”

“Not to piss on the good cheer,” said Jean in a much lower voice, “but did you notice that our friend Nikoros—”

“Yeah,” sighed Locke. “We’ll straighten him out later.”

The mass of well-dressed Firstsons, Secondsons, Thirddaughters, and the like returned to its previous knots of conversation and besieged the silver platters of food which were now being uncovered at the back of the hall. Performance alchemists in bright silk costumes emerged from the kitchens, some to mix drinks, others already juggling heatless fire or conjuring glowing steam in rainbows of color.

“My compliments, Nikoros,” said Locke. “Your party seems to be a smashing success. Something tells me we’re not going to be getting any bloody work done before noon tomorrow, though.”

“Oh, Josten’s your man for that,” said Nikoros. “He, ah, he mixes a hangover remedy that’ll knock the f-fumes right out of your brain! Alchemy ain’t in it. So I think we can help ourselves to another glass or two with a clear—”

It was then that Locke noticed a new murmur from the crowd near the main doors, not the low purr of drunken contentment, but a spreading signal of unease. Men and women with green ribbons parted like clouds before a rising sun, and out of the gap came a stout, curly-haired man in a pale blue coat and matching four-cornered hat. He carried a polished wooden staff about three feet long, topped with a silver figurine of a rampant lion. A tipstaff if Locke had ever seen one.

“Herald Vidalos,” said Nikoros warmly. “D-dear fellow, have you come at a fine time! You must, must take a little something against the chill! Help yourself.”

“Deepest regrets, Nikoros.” The man called Vidalos had a curiously gentle voice, and it was obvious that he was in some discomfort. “I’m afraid I’ve come on the business of the Magistrates’ Court.”

“Oh?” Nikoros stiffened. “Well, ah, perhaps I can, I can help you keep it discreet. Who do you need to see?”

“Diligence Josten.”

By now a wide circle of the floor had cleared around Vidalos. Josten pushed his way through the crowd and stepped into the open.

“What news, Vidalos?”

“Nothing that gives me any pleasure.” Vidalos touched his staff gently to Josten’s left shoulder. “Diligence Josten, I serve you before witnesses with a warrant from the Magistrates’ Court of Karthain.”

He withdrew the staff and handed the innkeeper a scroll sealed inside a case. While Josten broke the seal and unrolled the contents, Locke casually moved to stand beside him.

“What’s the trouble?” he whispered.

“By the Ten fucking Holy Names,” said Josten, running his eyes down the neat, numerous paragraphs on the scroll. “This can’t be right. All of my fees are properly paid—”

“Your license for the dispensation of ardent spirits is in arrears,” said Vidalos. “There’s no record at the Magistrates’ Court of the fee having been received for this year.”

“But … but I did pay it. I certainly did!”

“Josten, sir, I desire to believe you with all my soul, but it’s my charge to execute this warrant, and execute it I must, or it’s my hide they’ll have off on Penance Day.”

“Well, we can settle the business about the records later,” said Josten. “Just tell me what I owe and I’ll pay it right now.”

“I’m forbidden to take fees or penalties in hand, sir,” said Vidalos. “As you well know. You’ll have to go to the next Public Proceedings at the Magistrates’ Court.”

“But … that’s three days from now. Until then—”

“Until then,” said Vidalos quietly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to disperse this party. After that it’s your choice, whether we seal your doors or remove your liquor. It’s only a few days, sir.”

“Only a few days?” hissed Josten, incredulous.

“Oh, Sabetha,” Locke muttered to himself. “You gods-damned artist. Hello to you, too.”

INTERLUDE

BASTARDS ABROAD

1

THEY WERE FORTY miles beyond the border of greater Camorr, on the third morning of their journey, when they passed the first corpse swaying beneath the arching branch of a roadside tree.

“Oh, look,” said Calo, who sat beside Jean at the front of the wagon. “All the comforts of home.”

“It’s what we do with bandits when there’s a spare noose about,” said Anatoly Vireska, who was walking beside them munching on a late breakfast of dried figs. Their wagon led the caravan. “There’s one every mile or two. If the noose is occupied, or it ain’t convenient, we just open their throats and shove ’em off the road.”

“Are there really that many bandits?” said Sabetha. She sat atop the wagon with her feet propped on the snoring form of Galdo, who’d kept the predawn watch. “Beg pardon. It’s just that there doesn’t seem to be anyone actually lurking about.” She sounded bored.

“Well, there’s good and bad times,” said the caravan master. “Summer like this we might see one once a month. Our friend here, we strung him up about that long ago. Been quiet since.

“But when a harvest goes bad, gods help us, they’re in the woods thick as bird shit. And after a war, it’s mercenaries and deserters raising hell. I double the guard. And I double my fees, heh.”

Locke wasn’t sure he agreed that there was nothing lurking. The countryside had the haunted quality he remembered from the months he’d once spent learning the rudiments of farm life. All those nights he’d lain awake listening to the alien sound of rustling leaves, yearning for the familiar clamor of carriage wheels, footsteps on stone, boats on water.

The old imperial road had been built well, but it was starting to crumble now in these remote places between the major powers. The empty garrison forts, silent as mausoleums, were vanishing behind misty groves of cypress and witchwood, and the little towns that had grown around them were reduced to moss-covered ruins and lines in the dirt.

Locke walked along beside the wagon on the side opposite Vireska, trying to keep his eyes on their surroundings and away from Sabetha. She’d discarded her rather matronly hood, and her hair fluttered in the warm breeze.

She hadn’t kept their “appointment” the second evening. In fact, she’d barely spoken to him at all, remaining absorbed in the plays she’d packed and deflecting all attempts at conversation as adroitly as she’d parried his baton strokes.

The caravan, six wagons total, trundled along in the rising morning heat. At noon they passed through a thicket like a dark tunnel. A temporarily empty noose swung from one of the high dark branches, a forlorn pendulum.

“You know, it was novel at first,” said Calo, “but I’m starting to think the place could use a more cheerful sort of distance marker.”

“Bandits would tear down proper signposts,” said Vireska, “but they’re all afraid to touch the nooses. They say that when you don’t hang someone over running water, the rope holds the unquiet soul. Awful bad luck to touch it unless you’re giving it a new victim.”

“Hmm,” said Calo. “If I was stuck out here jumping wagon trains in the middle of shit-sucking nowhere, I’d assume my luck was already as bad as it gets.”

2

THEY HALTED for the night in the village of Tresanconne, a hamlet of about two hundred souls built on three marsh-moated hills, protected by stockades of sharpened logs. It was the only kind of settlement that could flourish out here, according to Vireska—too big for bandits to overrun, but too remote to make it worthwhile for parties of soldiers from Camorr to pay it a visit for “road upkeep taxes.”

No rural idyll, this. The villagers were sullen and suspicious, more appreciative of outside goods than the outsiders who brought them. Still, the rough hilltop lot they provided for caravans was preferable to any bed awaiting them out in the lightless damps of the wilderness.

Locke took his turn sweeping beneath the wagon while Jean saw to the horses. The Sanza twins, grudgingly accepting one another’s proximity, wandered off to survey the village. Sabetha remained atop the wagon, guarding their possessions. Locke needed just a few minutes to ensure that the space in which they would set their bedrolls was no embarrassment to civilization, and then it occurred to him that they were more or less alone.

“I, ah, I regret not having a chance to speak to you last night,” he said.

“Oh? Was it any real loss to either of us?”

“You had— Well, I don’t suppose you did promise. You’d said you’d consider it, at least.”

“That’s right, I didn’t promise.”

“Well … damn. You’re obviously in a mood.”

“Am I?” There was danger in her tone. “Am I really? Why should that be exceptional? A boy may be as disagreeable as he pleases, but when a girl refuses to crap sunshine on command the world mutters darkly about her moods.”

“I only meant it by way of, uh, well, nothing, really. It was just a conversational note. Look, it’s really damned … odd … having to look for ploys to speak with you, as though we were complete strangers!”

“If I’m in a mood,” said Sabetha after a moment of reflective silence, “it’s because this journey is unfolding more or less as I had foreseen. Tedium, bumpy roads, and biting insects.”

“Ah,” said Locke. “Do I count as part of the tedium or one of the biting insects?”

“If I didn’t know any better,” she said softly, “I’d swear the horseshit-sweeper was attempting to be charming.”

“You might as well assume,” said Locke, not sure whether he was feeling bold or merely willing himself to feel bold, “that I’m always attempting to be charming where you’re concerned.”

“Now, that’s risky.” Sabetha rolled sideways and jumped down beside him. “That sort of directness compels a response, but what’s it to be? Do I encourage you in this sort of talk or do I stop you cold?”

She took a step forward, hands on hips, and despite himself Locke leaned backward, bracing against the wagon at the last second to avoid a fall that would have been, perhaps, the most graceless thing ever accomplished in the history of Therin civilization.

“I get a vote?” he said meekly.

“If it’s not to be encouragement, can you accept being stopped cold?” She raised one finger and touched his chin. It was neither invitation nor chastisement. “The Sanzas might be driving us all crazy at the moment, but I will say this on their behalf … when their advances were made and refused, they never brought the subject up again.”

“Calo and Galdo made a pass at you?”

“Certainly not at the same time,” she said. “Why so surprised? Surely you’ve noticed that you’re not the only hot-blooded young idiot with fully functional bits and pieces in our little gang.”

“Yes, but they—”

“They understand that my feelings for them lie somewhere between sisterly affection and saintly tolerance. And while I sometimes imagine that they would hump trees if they thought nobody was around to see it, they’ve respected my wishes absolutely. Could you handle disappointment so well?”

“If I’m to be disappointed,” said Locke, heart pounding, “I really wish you would cut the prelude and just disappoint me, already.”

“Oooh, there’s some fire at last.” Sabetha folded her arms beneath her breasts and edged closer to him. “Tell me, how do you even know for sure that I don’t fancy girls?”

“I—” Locke was lucky to spit the one syllable out before the power of coherent speech ran up a white flag and deserted him. Gods above …

“You never even thought about that, did you?” she said, her voice a sly whisper.

“Well, hells … is that … I mean to say, do you—”

“Fancy oysters or snails? What a damned awkward thing to be unsure of, for someone in your position. Oh … oh, for Perelandro’s sake, you look like you’re about to be executed.” She bent over and whispered in his right ear. “I happen to like snails very well, thank you.”

“Ahhh,” he said, feeling the earth grow solid beneath his feet again. “I’ve never … never been so pleased at such a comparison before.”

“It’s a champion among metaphors,” she said with the faintest smile. “So very apt.”

“And now that you’ve had your sport with me, do I join Calo and Galdo in their exclusive little club?”

“They’re still my friends.” She sounded genuinely hurt. “My oath-brothers. That’s nothing to scorn, especially for a … a would-be priest of your order.”

“Sabetha, I do fancy you. It scares the hell out of me to admit it, but I say it plainly, as you did the other night. Only I don’t say it casually. I have … I have admired you since the instant we met, do you understand, the very instant, that day we went out from Shades’ Hill to see the hangings. Do you remember?”

“Of course,” she whispered. “The strange little boy who wouldn’t leave Streets. What a sad trial you were. But what was there to admire, Locke? We were dusty, starving little creatures. You couldn’t have been six. What feelings were there to have?”

“I only know they were there. When I heard that you’d drowned I felt as though my heart had been stepped on.”

“I’m sorry for that. It was necessary.” She glanced away from him for a long moment before continuing. “I think you look upon our past in the light of your present feelings and imagine some glow that is … more reflection than substance.”

“Sabetha, I don’t remember my own father. And other than a single memory of … of sewing needles, my mother is as much a mystery. I don’t remember where I was born, or the Catchfire plague, or how I survived it, or anything that I did before the Thiefmaker bought me from the city watch!”

“Locke—”

“Listen! It’s all gone! But the moments I’ve spent with you, whether you knew I was there or not—they’re still with me, smoldering like coals. I can touch them and feel the heat.”

“You’ve been reading too many of Jean’s romances. What basis for comparison have you ever had, Locke? You and I have been together all these years … why wouldn’t you evolve some sort of fixation? It’s only … perfectly natural … expected familiarity—”

“Who are you trying to convince?” On the attack now, he played her game, took a step forward. “That doesn’t sound like it’s meant for my benefit. You’re trying to talk yourself out of confiding in me! Why—”

His voice had grown louder with every word, and she startled him by slapping a hand over his mouth.

“You are turning something quite personal into a speech for the whole camp,” she said in her flawless Vadran.

“Sorry,” he whispered in the same language. “Look, this isn’t some damn fixation, Sabetha. If I could just—somehow let you see yourself through my eyes. I guarantee your feet would never touch the ground again.”

“There’s magic that might have some useful applications,” she said, wistfully, “if you were to pull that off. And if I were to … choose to be charmed just now.”

“Well, if not now, then—”

“I told you my feelings for you are complicated. Everything concerning you is complicated, and by that I don’t mean that I’m confused or muddle-headed or, or … frightened. I mean that there are actual, genuine circumstances about us and around us that make this difficult. There are obstacles, damn it.”

“Then tell me about them. Tell me anything I can do—”

“Are we speaking Vadran now?” said Calo, from his previously silent perch in Sabetha’s vacated place atop the wagon.

“Oh, Sanza, damn your eyes,” hissed Sabetha. “I just about jumped out of my bloody skin.”

“Now, that’s praise,” said Galdo, who rolled out from beneath the wagon. “You’re not easy to take unawares. You must have really had your head—”

“—shoved up your ass,” said Calo.

“Are you two back in your usual rhythm, then?” said Locke crossly.

“Nah,” said Galdo. “Just curious, is all.”

“How sharp is your Vadran?” said Locke.

“Mine Vadran is great sharp,” said Calo in that tongue, exaggeratedly mangling each word. “Perfect like without flaws, am the clever Sanza I being.”

“I think the two of us are a bit rusty, though,” said Galdo, “so if you could just repeat all the parts we missed—”

“Get used to gaps in your comprehension,” said Sabetha. “The rest of us certainly have.”

“Village not worth your attention?” said Locke with a sigh.

“Just the opposite,” said Galdo. “We thought we’d fetch a few pieces of silver. Some of these smelly hillside mudfuckers are playing cards at what passes for their tavern.”

“Shouldn’t take much of the old Camorr flash to dazzle ’em,” said Calo, making a small rock appear and disappear from the palm of his hand. “Could roll off in the morning owning half this bloody place.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” said Sabetha.

“What are they gonna do,” said Galdo, “declare war? Look, if we come back in a few months and find out that a hundred swamp country yokels have knocked over the Five Towers, we’ll write a sincere apology.”

“And we only need a few coins anyway,” said Calo, throwing back the tarp over their supplies. “To buy in. After that, we’ll be taking donations, not giving ’em.”

“Hold on,” said Locke. “Since when are you two criminals?”

“Since …” Calo squinted and pretended to calculate. “Sometime between first leaving Mother and hitting the ground between her legs, I imagine.”

“Head first,” added Galdo.

“I know the Sanzas are as crooked as a snake in a clockwork snake-bending machine,” said Locke, “but the Asino brothers are actors, not cardsharps.”

“You know how actors make a living between engagements?” said Calo. “Believe me, some of them are flash fucking cardsharps. I learned some of my best stuff from—”

“What I mean,” said Locke, “is that we should all just be actors, and only actors. I’ve been thinking about this. No games of opportunity on the way. No more picked pockets. We should draw a line between the people we are in Camorr and the people we are in Espara. When we go home, anyone thinking to follow us back to our real lives should find nothing. No hints, no trail.”

“Seems … sensible,” said Galdo.

“And it starts here,” said Locke. “It means we don’t do anything to make ourselves memorable. You really think your yokel friends will simply let you clean them out and send us on our merry way tomorrow morning? Someone’s going to get cut, Sanzas. Everyone in this village will be after your skins, and our guards won’t save you. They have to work this route week in and week out. They need these people.”

“He’s right,” said Calo. “I knew it was a dumb fuckin’ plan, you bald degenerate.”

“It was your idea, you greedy turd-polisher!”

“Well, at any rate,” said Calo to Locke. “We ain’t following through on it.”

“Then why not start boiling dinner? Or better yet, if you really want to drop a coin in the village, see if you can hunt down some meat that doesn’t come in the form of a brick.”

The Sanzas received this suggestion with enthusiasm, and vanished once again down the winding track to what passed for Tresanconne’s high street. Locke and Sabetha faced one another in their absence, and Locke detected a sudden coolness in her demeanor.

“That right there,” she said, “would be one of the obstacles I mentioned.”

“What?”

“You really didn’t notice?”

“Notice what? What am I meant to realize?”

“Think about it,” she said. She crossed her arms again, this time with her shoulders hunched forward. A protective, unwelcoming gesture. “I’m serious. I’ll give you a moment. Think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“Years ago,” said Sabetha, “I was the oldest child in a small gang. I was sent away by my master to train in dancing and manners. When I returned, I found that a younger child had taken my place.”

“But—I hardly—”

“Calo and Galdo, who once treated me as a goddess on earth, had transferred their allegiance to the small newcomer. In time, he got himself a third ally, another boy.”

“That is purest— Why, Jean is devoted to you, as a friend.”

“But not as a particular friend,” she said. “Not as he is to you.”

“Is that your obstacle?” Locke felt as though a heavy object had just spun out of the darkness and cracked him on the head. “My friendship with Jean? Does it make you jealous?”

“You listen about as well as you observe,” said Sabetha. “Haven’t you ever noticed that suggestions from me are treated as suggestions, while suggestions from you are taken as a sacred warrant? Even if those suggestions are identical?”

“I think you’re being very unfair,” said Locke weakly.

“You saw it just now! I couldn’t dissuade the Sanzas from drinking arsenic on the strength of mere common sense, but they trip over themselves to take your directions. This is your gang, Locke—it has been since you arrived, and with Chains’ blessing. You’ve been shaped and groomed as garrista for when he’s gone. And as … well, as a priest. His replacement.”

“But I … I had no notion, or intention—”

“Of course not. You haven’t really questioned anything since your arrival. You’ve assumed a position of primacy, which is easy to take for granted … until you’re quietly shuffled out of it. After that, I find the matter never quite leaves one’s thoughts.”

“But—I have been worked and tested as sorely as you,” said Locke, fighting to keep his voice down. “As sorely as anyone! Do you remember how long it took me to pay this off?” He reached down the front of his tunic and pulled out his shark’s tooth, ensconced in its little leather bag. “Gods above, I could have a city house and a carriage for the money I poured into this damn thing. And I served as many apprenticeships as—”

“I’m not talking about your training, Locke, I know what Chains has done to us all. I’m talking about the way you accepted everything as you accept your own skin. Something natural and undeserving of reflection. Well, let me assure you that the only woman in a house of men has frequent cause for reflection.”

“This is a complete surprise to me,” said Locke.

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s a problem.”

She stared up at the sky, where one of the moons was emerging from behind a low haze of clouds, and Locke had no idea how to begin responding to her.

“A week to go,” she said at last. “A long, slow week of all the pleasures I named earlier. We’re going to be tired, sore, smelly, and bitten half to death by the time we reach Espara. I would … I want to talk to you again, Locke, but I can’t bring myself to make it a subject of hopeful anticipation night after night under these circumstances. Neither of us will be at our best.”

“And this merits our best,” he said grudgingly.

“I think it does. So can we keep it simple while we’re traveling? Eyes on the ground, asses in our seats, and all of these … matters tabled until a later date?”

“You think it’s fair to dump this in my lap and then request a conversational truce?”

“I don’t think it’s fair at all,” she said. “Just necessary.”

“Well, then. If nothing else, it seems I’ll have a lot of time to ruminate on an explanation for you—”

“An explanation? You think what I want out of you is some sort of defense? Surely you can see that I’ve explained you already. What comes next is—”

“Yes?”

“I won’t say. I think I need you to tell me.”

“All you have to do is—”

“No,” she said sharply. “I’ve told you everything you need to know to figure out what comes next. If my words really are like smoldering coals, Locke, then let these ones smolder. Sift them, and bring me an answer sometime after we reach Espara. Bring me a good answer.”

3

ESPARA, FORMERLY a seat of prestige only one step below Therim Pel itself, had descended from its imperial years the way some men and women descend into middle-aged lethargy, discarding the vigor and ambition of youth like a suit of clothes that can no longer be wriggled into.

Locke caught his first glimpse of the place just after noon on the tenth day, when the caravan turned the bend between two ruin-studded hills and entered the familiar, irregular green-and-brown whorls of a farming landscape. On the southern horizon lay the faint shapes of towers under curling gray smears of smoke.

“Espara,” said Anatoly Vireska. “Right where I left it. No more stops for rest, my young friends. Before the sun sets you’ll be in the city looking for your actor fellows.”

“Well done, caravan master,” said Locke, who had the reins while Jean was snoring gently under the tarp at the rear of the wagon. “Not what I’d call a scenic tour, but you’ve brought us through without a scratch.”

“When the crop of bandits is thin, it’s a restful little walk. Now it’s back to dodging carriages, breathing smoke, and paying rent for the beds you sleep in, eh?”

“Gods be praised,” said Locke.

“City creatures are the strangest of all,” said Vireska with a friendly shake of his head. He moved off to visit the rest of the wagons.

All the Gentlemen Bastards, more or less as footsore, ass-sore, unwashed, and drained of blood as Sabetha had predicted, had given up on walking this morning. Calo and Galdo leaned against each other, watching the landscape roll by at its strolling pace, while Sabetha was absorbed in the copy of The Republic of Thieves she’d picked up before they’d left Camorr.

“Is the play any good?” said Galdo.

“I think so,” said Sabetha, “except the final act has been torn out of this folio, and half the pages have stains blotting out some of the lines. I keep imagining that every scene ends with the characters hurling cups of coffee at one another.”

“Sounds like my kind of play,” said Calo.

“Are there any decent roles?” said Galdo.

“They’re all decent,” said Sabetha. “Better than decent. I think they’re very romantic. We should have names like this, like all the heroes in these plays, all the famous bandits and sorcerers and emperors.”

“Most people could give half a dry shit for having an emperor’s name,” said Galdo. “It’s the wealth and power they’d want.”

“What I mean,” said Sabetha, “is that we should have aliases like out of the old stories. Big, grand titles like the Ten Honest Turncoats, you know? Red Jessa, the Duke of Knaves. Amadine, the Queen of Shadows.”

“I think Verena Gallante’s a fine alias,” said Locke.

“No, I mean big and important, and uncommon. Not something you get called to your face. The sort of alias that people whisper when something unbelievable happens. ‘Oh, gods, this can only be the work of the Duke of Knaves!’ ”

“Heavens,” said Galdo in a deep, dramatic voice, “only one man living could have squeezed forth such a gleaming brown jewel—this is the work of Squatting Calo, the Midnight Shitter!”

“You two want for imagination,” said Sabetha.

“Not at all,” said Galdo. “The lower the enterprise, the hotter the fire of our invention burns.”

“Are you going a bit stir-crazy, Sabetha?” said Locke, secretly pleased to hear the energy in her voice after so many days of brooding tedium.

“Maybe I am. I’ve been stuck in this wagon counting Sanza farts for a week; maybe I’m due a little flight of fancy. I mean, wouldn’t it be grand, to have a legend that grew while you were alive to enjoy it? To sit in a tavern and hear all the people around you speaking of what you’d done, with no notion that you were among them as flesh and blood?”

“I can sit in a tavern and be ignored anytime I please,” muttered Calo.

“I want to see the Kingdom of the Marrows someday,” said Sabetha. “Game my way from city to city … on the arms of nobles, emptying their pockets as I go, charming them witless. I’d be like a force of nature. They’d come up with some elegant title for their shared affliction. ‘It was her … it was … it was the Rose.’ ”

Sabetha rolled this off her tongue, obviously savoring it.

“The Rose of the Marrows, they’ll say. ‘The Rose of the Marrows has been my ruin!’ And they’ll tear their hair out explaining everything to their wives and bankers, while I ride on to the next city.”

“Are we all going to need stupid nicknames, then?” said Calo. “We could be … the Shrubs of the North.”

“The Weeds of Vintila,” said Galdo.

“And if you’re a rose,” said Calo, “Locke’s going to need something as well.”

“He can be a tulip,” said Galdo. “Delicate little tulip.”

“Nah, if she’s the rose, he can be her thorn.” Calo snapped his fingers. “The Thorn of Camorr! Now, that’s got some shine to it!”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard,” said Locke.

“We can do it as soon as we get home,” said Calo. “Disguise ourselves. Drop hints in bars. Tell stories here and there. Give us a month and everyone will be talking about the Thorn of Camorr. Even the ones that don’t know shit will just tell more lies, so they can sound like they’re clued in on the latest.”

“If you ever do anything like that,” said Locke, “I swear to all the gods, I will murder you.”

4

JUST AFTER the fourth hour of the afternoon, with the faintest warm drizzle sweating out of the graying sky, their wagon rolled through the mud beneath the stone arch of the Jalaan River Gate on the east side of Espara. Jean was back at the reins, and he bade their horses to halt for a squad of armed men in cloaks.

“What goes, Vireska?” said the evident leader, one of those graceful hulking types, the sort that gave every impression of being able to dance a minuet despite possession of a belly fit for carving into ham steaks. “We could set a water-clock by you. Dull trip, eh?”

“Just the way it ought to be,” said the caravan master as he shook hands with the watchman. The gratuity that instantly vanished into the heavy fellow’s pocket was generous; Vireska had discussed it back in Camorr and collected an equal portion from each wagon owner. “Now, when you’re poking through everything, watch-sergeant, just be especially delicate with the drugs and the hidden weapons, eh?”

“I promise not to keep you more than ten hours this time,” laughed the big Esparan. His men made an extremely cursory examination of the wagons, clearly more for the benefit of anyone watching than for the enforcement of the city’s customs laws.

“Welcome,” said one of the guards to Sabetha, who’d once again donned all her more modest clothing. “First time in Espara?”

“Actually, yes,” she said.

“Might we help you find anything?” said the big watch-sergeant, edging in next to his man.

“Oh, that would be so very kind of you,” she said, bubbling with girlish charm. Locke bit his tongue to stifle a snicker. “We’re looking for a man called Jasmer Moncraine. The Moncraine Company, the actors.”

“Why?” said the watch-sergeant. “You creditors?”

All the men behind him burst into laughter.

“Ah, no,” she said. “We’re players, from Camorr, come to join his troupe.”

“They got theaters in Camorr, miss?” said one of the guards. “I thought you was all more about, like, sharks bitin’ women in half.”

“I’d like to see that,” mumbled another watchman.

“There is an awful lot of that where we come from,” said Sabetha. “In fact, we spend more time touring than at home. Moncraine’s engaging us for the rest of the summer.”

“Well,” said the watch-sergeant, “in that case, best of luck. You can find some of the Moncraine Company at, uh, what’s that place with the olive tree torn out of its courtyard?”

“Gloriano’s Rooms,” said another guard.

“Right, right. Gloriano’s,” said the sergeant. “Look, you follow this lane straight down to the Temple of Venaportha, and just past it turn left, hear? Take that lane across the river, you’re in a place we call Solace Hill. Gloriano’s Rooms would be on your right. If you find gravestones on three sides, you’ve gone too far.”

“We’re obliged to you,” said Locke, while nursing a faint premonition that that might not, in the grand scheme of things, turn out to be entirely true.

They parted company with Vireska’s caravan and made their way into Espara, hewing to the watch-sergeant’s directions. It seemed to Locke that they all perked up considerably at finding themselves back in the familiar world of high stone walls, rain-dampened smoke, junk-strewn alleys, and people crammed elbow-to-elbow on the dry portions of the boulevards.

“Three cheers for a proper ale,” said Galdo wistfully. “In a proper tavern, that doesn’t have a fucking palisade built round it to keep out the bloody bog monster.”

“I think this is Solace Hill,” said Jean, as they entered a neighborhood that seemed to regress further from prosperity with every turn of the wagon wheels. The buildings grew lower, the windows became dirtier, and the lights grew fewer. “Look, that’s a graveyard, this Gloriano’s has to be close.”

They found it not a block down, the best-lit structure for some distance in any direction, though the illumination was perhaps unwise given the things it revealed about the condition of walls and roofs. A pair of city watchmen, looking soaked behind the misty glow of their lanterns, were standing in the turn to the inn-yard and impeding the passage of the Gentlemen Bastards’ wagon.

“Is there a problem, Constables?” called Jean.

“You don’t actually mean to turn in here?” said one of the men warily, as though he suspected himself the butt of a joke.

“I think we do,” said Jean.

“But this is the way to Gloriano’s inn-yard,” said the constable, even more warily.

“Pleased to hear it.”

“You delivering something?”

“Just ourselves,” said Jean.

“Gods above, you mean it,” said the constable. “I could tell you ain’t from here, even if I never heard your voice.” He and his companion stepped out of the way with exaggerated courtesy and walked on, shaking their heads.

Locke first heard the shouting as Jean brought them in under a sloping canvas awning that was more holes than fabric, next to a dark stable that contained only one horse. The animal looked at them as though in hope of rescue.

“What the hells is that noise?” said Sabetha.

It wasn’t any sort of row that Locke recognized. Fisticuffs, theft, murder, domestic quarrel—all of those things had familiar rhythms and notes, sounds he could have identified in a second. This was something stranger, and it seemed to be coming from just around the right-hand corner of the building.

“Jean, Sabetha, come quietly with me,” he said. “Sanzas, mind the horses. If they have any brains they might try to bolt.”

It didn’t occur to him until his boots hit the mud that he’d again done precisely what Sabetha had railed against: presumed leadership without hesitation. But damn it, this wasn’t a time for putting his life under a magnifying lens; it was a time for making sure they weren’t all about to be murdered.

“I shall break you, joint by joint,” bellowed a man with a deep, attention-seizing voice, “and drink your screams like a fine wine, and burn in brighter ecstasy with every … fading … whimper from your coward’s throat!”

“Holy shit,” said Locke. “No, wait. That’s … that’s from a play.”

“Catalinus, Last Prince of Amor Peth,” whispered Jean.

Side by side, Locke, Jean, and Sabetha moved carefully around the corner. They found themselves facing a courtyard, the interior of three double-storied wings of the inn, with a vast ugly hole in the middle where something had been torn out of the ground.

A man and a woman sat off to one side, out of the light, watching a third man, who stood on the edge of the muddy hole with a bottle in either hand. This man was a prodigious physical specimen, surpassing Father Chains in girth and breadth, with a rain-slick crown of white hair pasted down around his creased face. He wore a loose gray robe and nothing else.

“I shall grind your bones to powder,” he hollered, transfixing the three Gentlemen Bastards with his gleaming eyes. “And with that dust I’ll make cement for paving stones, and for a hundred years to come you’ll have no rest beneath the crush of strange wheels and the tramp of strange boots! Drunkards will make their unclean water upon you, and I shall laugh to think of it, Catalinus! I shall laugh until I die, and I shall die whole in body, wholly revenged upon thee!”

He flung forth his arms, perhaps intentionally, perhaps at random, and when he seemed to realize that he still held bottles in his hands he drank from them.

“Excuse me,” said Locke. Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain grew heavier. “We’re, ah, looking for the Moncraine Company.”

“Moncraine,” yelled the white-haired man, dropping one of his bottles and waving his arms to keep his balance at the edge of the hole. “Moncraine!”

“Are you Jasmer Moncraine?” said Jean.

“I, Jasmer Moncraine?” The man leapt down into the hole, which was about thigh-deep, raising a dark splash of water. He scrambled up the other side and came toward them, now thoroughly be-mucked from the waist down. “I am Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, the greatest actor in a thousand miles, in a thousand years! Jasmer Moncraine wishes … on his best day … that he was worth a single drop … OF MY PISS!”

Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus shambled forward, and put his empty hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Stupid boy,” he said. “I need you to let me have … five royals … just until Penance Day. Oh, gods …”

He went down to one knee and threw up. Jean’s reflexes were sharp enough to save everything except one of his shoes.

“Fuck me!” said Jean.

“Oh no, I assure you, that is quite out of the question,” said Sylvanus. He attempted several times to stumble back to his feet, then once again noticed the remaining bottle in his hand, and began to suckle at it contentedly.

“Look, sorry about this,” said the woman who’d been watching, as she emerged from the shadows. She was tall, dark-skinned, and wearing a shawl over her hair. Her fellow spectator was a thin young Therin man just a few years older than the Gentlemen Bastards. “Sylvanus has what you might call rare ambition in the field of self-degradation.”

“Are you the Moncraine Company?” said Locke.

“Who wants to know?” said the woman hesitantly.

“I’m Lucaza de Barra,” said Locke. “This is my cousin, Jovanno de Barra. And this is our friend Verena Gallante.” When this elicited no response, Locke cleared his throat. “We’re Moncraine’s new players. The ones from Camorr.”

“Oh, sweet gods above,” said the woman. “You’re real.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “And, uh, wet and confused.”

“We thought— Well, look, we didn’t think you existed. We thought Moncraine was making you up!”

“Took ten slow days in a wagon to get here,” said Jean. “Let me assure you, nobody made us up.”

“I’m Jenora,” said the woman. “And this is Alondo—”

“Alondo Razi,” said the young man. “Weren’t there supposed to be more of you?”

“The Asino brothers are minding the wagon, back around the corner,” said Locke. “So, we’re flesh and blood. I guess the next question is, does Jasmer Moncraine exist?”

“Moncraine,” muttered Sylvanus. “Wouldn’t shit on his head to give him … shade from the sun.”

“Moncraine,” said Jenora, “is why Sylvanus is … um … making a clean break from sobriety at the moment.”

“Moncraine’s in the Weeping Tower,” said Alondo.

“What’s that?” said Jean.

“The most secure prison in Espara. It’s Countess’ Dragoons on the doors, not city watch.”

“Aw, hell’s blistered balls,” said Locke. “He already got taken up for debt?”

“Debt?” said Jenora. “No, he never got the chance to be hauled in for all that mess. He decked some pissant lordling across the jaw this morning. He’s up for assaulting someone of noble blood.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: CHANGE OF VENUE

1

“FOURTHSON VIDALOS,” SAID Josten. “Would that your parents had stopped at their third! How many nights have you spent leaning against my bar, eh? How many times have I brought you in out of the rain for a glass? You two-faced son of a—”

“For the gods’ sakes,” said Vidalos, “do you think I wanted this? It’s my duty!”

“In front of half the Konseil and the entire Deep Roots—”

“Josten,” said Locke, stepping between the innkeeper and Vidalos, “let’s talk. Herald, how do you do? I’m Lazari, an advisor.”

“Whose advisor?”

“Everyone’s advisor. I’m a solicitor from Lashain, retained in a broad capacity. I require a moment in private with Master Josten, to discuss his options.”

“I don’t see that he has any,” said Vidalos.

“Do you have orders to refuse us a few minutes for reflection?” said Locke.

“Of course not.”

“Then I’ll thank you not to enforce orders you haven’t been given.” Locke put an arm firmly around Josten’s shoulders, turned the sputtering innkeeper away from the herald, and whispered, “Josten, one thing. Are you absolutely certain your license is truly paid up?”

“I have a signed receipt in my papers. I could fetch it now and shove it up this powder-blue pimp’s ass! Until tonight, I would’ve called the bastard a good friend, on my honor. I never would’ve thought—”

“Don’t think,” said Locke. “I’m paid to do that for you. Herald Vidalos isn’t your enemy. It’s whoever summoned him to work and gave him a warrant that somehow urgently needed to be served at half past the tenth hour of the evening, do you follow?”

“Ah,” said Josten. “Ahhhhhhh.”

“We shouldn’t abuse the poor bastard whose boots are on the pavement,” said Locke. “Our troubles come from higher offices. Nikoros, get over here! Look at this seal and signature.”

“Capability Peralis,” said Nikoros. Sweat ran down his forehead in glistening lines. “Second Clerk, Magistrates’ Court. I’ve heard of her.”

“She wouldn’t need an actual magistrate to sign this?” said Locke.

“No,” said Nikoros, “magistrates only sign off on, uh, arrests.”

“And this,” said Locke, “is just a little sting in the ass. Is she Black Iris? Or any of her superiors?”

“Not according to my lists,” said Nikoros. “Most of the people at the court make a point of not, uh, not declaring for either party.”

“Well, someone got her to perform a favor.” Locke suddenly became aware that most of the party, rank on tipsy rank, were watching closely to see if their mountain of fine liquor was really to be severed from them on the word of a single nervous functionary. “I don’t suppose Konseil members can just order Vidalos to make himself scarce?”

“Magistrates are, ah, co-equal with the Konseil,” said Nikoros. “Their heralds don’t have t-to take orders from anyone else.”

“Well, our drunk friends are going to hang this poor bastard from the rafters if I let this go through.” Locke turned back to Herald Vidalos, grinning broadly. “Everything seems to be perfectly in order!”

“It gives me little satisfaction,” said Vidalos.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy,” said Locke, “since there’s absolutely no need for you to shut down the party.”

“Having delivered the warrant,” said Vidalos, “it pains me to report that I’m bound to carry out my directions therein; I have to observe that Master Josten has ended this affair and sealed his doors to new customers.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’re not allowed to do anything of the sort,” said Locke. “That’s premature restraint of trade, which is forbidden under the Articles of Karthain. Whoever signed this warrant should have known that Josten is entitled, by law, to verification of these charges before a magistrate—”

“But—”

“Prior to interruption of commerce!” continued Locke. “Look, this is fairly basic stuff from that amendment business about, what—twenty years ago.”

“I … really?” Vidalos’ face lost some of its plum color. “Are you quite sure? I’m not entirely familiar with that. And I have served a number of similar—”

“I’m fully bonded for practice in Karthain. Imposition of penalty without proper verification of these charges would expose you to censure for negligence, the penalties for which could be … well, of course you know what they could be. Let’s not dwell on them.”

“Um …” said Vidalos. “Uh, of course.”

“So, you’ve served your warrant in front of the most credible body of witnesses the city could hope to produce. I accept the warrant on Josten’s behalf and formally request a magistrate’s verification of its charges. Since we can’t possibly have that until at least tomorrow morning, the party must continue.”

“Ha! That’s served you out,” shouted someone within the crowd. “Shuffle off, tipstaff!”

“None of that!” yelled Locke. “For shame! This man is a good friend to this house, given the awful task of serving this warrant against his will. And did he flinch? No! Obedient to duty, he stepped into the lion’s den!”

“Hear him,” cried Firstson Epitalus. Whether he realized the stupidity of needlessly making an enemy of Vidalos or merely wished his own voice to ring loudest in any acclamation, Locke blessed him. “Karthain should be proud to have such an honest and fearless fellow in its service!”

People immediately followed Epitalus’ lead. Catcalls that had barely started up were replaced with a rising swell of applause.

“I regret my harsh words,” said Diligence Josten, propelled toward Vidalos by a subtle elbow from Locke, and fully taking the hint. “Give me your pardon, and have a glass with us.”

“Oh, but …” Vidalos seemed pleased, relieved, and embarrassed all at once. “I’m on duty—”

“Surely not,” said Josten. “The warrant is served, so your duties are finished.”

“Well, if you put it that way—”

Josten and several accomplices enfolded the herald into the crowd and shuffled him toward the liquor supply.

“Oh, thank the gods,” muttered Nikoros. “I had no idea you’d picked up such a knowledge of Karthani law, Lazari.”

“I haven’t,” said Locke. “When the sky’s falling, I take shelter under bullshit. Someone’s going to figure that out soon enough tomorrow.”

“Then there’s no such statute?”

“Fake as a man with three cocks.”

“Really? Damn! It sounded so r-reasonable. Lying to an officer of the court is an offense they could—”

“That’s not worth worrying about. If pressed I’ll use the never-fail universal apology.”

“What’s the n-never-fail universal apology?”

“ ‘I was badly misinformed, I deeply regret the error, go fuck yourself with this bag of money.’ But it shouldn’t come to that. First thing tomorrow, we need to reach this Capability Peralis. If Josten’s papers are magically found to have been ‘misplaced,’ then the whole affair dries up before it can call further attention to itself.”

“And if she won’t roll over for us?” said Jean, who’d been hovering nearby.

“We get someone else. First Clerk, maybe, or an actual magistrate. We’re buying ourselves a little corner of the Magistrates’ Court tomorrow, come hell or Eldren-fire. When do the courts open?”

“Ninth hour of the morning.”

“Be outside our door at eight.”

“Oh, uh—”

“At eight,” said Locke, reducing his voice to a cold whisper. “So don’t stuff any more of that shit down your throat tonight.”

“Oh, I, uh, I don’t have any idea what you—”

“Yes. You do. I don’t care if you’re totally out of your head on Akkadris, I’ll put a damn leash around your neck and drag you by it. We’re all going together to put this fire out before it spreads.”

2

“NIKOROS,” MUTTERED Locke, bleary-eyed and fog-brained, as he swung the apartment door open in response to a frenzied pounding. “What the hell are you about, man? It can’t be anywhere near eight yet.”

“It’s just after five.” Nikoros looked as though he’d been boot-stomped by a gang of hangover fairies. His hair was undone, his clothes haphazard, and the bags under his eyes could have been used for coin pouches. “They’ve got my office, Lazari. Just like you said.”

“What?” Locke blinked the glue from his eyes and ushered Nikoros inside. “Someone burned your office down?”

“No, it’s not arson.” Nikoros nodded to Jean, who’d come in through the connecting door from his side of the suite. Jean wore a black silk dressing gown and was carrying his hatchets casually in his right hand. “The Master Ratfinder’s office cordoned off my whole bloody building for a suckle-spider infestation. Sheer luck I wasn’t there when they showed up, otherwise I’d be getting an alchemical bath in quarantine.”

“Your scribe?”

“He dodged them too. Almost everything was copied or removed in time, but now they’ll be fumigating with brimstone for three days. Can’t use the place until they’re done.”

“I don’t suppose you’d ever seen so much as one hair on a suckle-spider’s ass?”

“The building’s two years old! Clean as an infant’s soul.”

“Another how-do-you-do from our friends across town. How many people work for this ratfinder?”

“A dozen or so. Alchemists, sewer-stalkers, corpse-hunters. They handle all things pestilent and sanitary.”

“How are they regarded?”

“Master Bilezzo’s a hero! Hells, I mostly think so, too. Keeps the city damned clean, compared to a lot of other places. Forty years without a plague in Karthain, not even cholera. People notice that sort of thing.”

“This is touchy, then,” said Jean. “We can’t be heavy-handed dealing with this or it’ll snap right back at us. Sa … someone in the opposition keeps choosing delicate instruments to poke us with.”

“We need some delicate instruments of our own,” said Locke. “We’re not going to have any time to deal with the election if we have to run around pissing on these distractions.”

“Do you think you can get my office back?”

“Hmmm.” Locke scratched his stubble. “No. Look, Nikoros, no offense, but if we’ve got you and your files, we don’t need your office. Let them smoke it out. Our job as far as this Master Bilezzo is concerned is to make sure Josten’s isn’t closed down for similar treatment.”

“Very well,” said Nikoros. “But I, uh, my rooms—I suppose I’ll have to board here for a few days.”

“That might not be a bad thing. This place is our castle, and the siege has started. Speaking of which, after we deal with the Magistrates’ Court, get me some actual solicitors. Trustworthy sorts. I presume the party has a few?”

“Of course.”

“Have them join the menagerie here, in the best suites Josten has left. Next time someone walks in with writs or warrants or gods know what, I want real paper-pushers on hand to spin authentic nonsense.”

“We seem to be off to a bad start,” said Nikoros.

“We are.”

“And I must apologize … for my, uh, you know. It’s just an occasional thing, you understand. Keeps me working through the long nights. I can … stop, if you—”

“Do. Throw that shit away. We need you steady and reliable. Dustheads are neither.”

“I’m not a dusthead—”

“Save it. I’ve seen more dustheads, gazers, pissers, burners, and stonelickers than you can imagine. I’ve even crawled into a bottle myself, once or twice. Don’t try to placate me; just do us all a favor and stay off it. Get pickled on booze like an ordinary Deep Roots man.”

“I can … as you say. I can do it.”

“And don’t sweat our situation. By tonight, we’ll be walled in with brutes and solicitors, most of the locks will be changed, Josten will secure his staff.… You’ll feel better once our basic defenses are in place. Now get a room, get what sleep you can. Master Callas and I will fetch you at eight. And hey. Tell whoever’s on duty we want enough coffee to kill a horse.”

When the coffee came a few minutes later, the maid delivering it wore a gleaming brass chain around her neck.

“That was quick work on Josten’s part,” said Jean, pouring two steaming cups. “The chains, I mean. You don’t believe it’ll keep out real mischief, though? Wouldn’t stop either of us, I should think.”

“It’s not meant to,” said Locke. “It’s a simple obstacle for the witless and unlucky. The less time we have to waste on idiots, the more we can devote to everything else Sabetha does.”

3

IT WAS a cool, mist-haunted morning. Water trickled down every window, and the pavements were slick. A few minutes before eight, Locke and Jean hustled Nikoros, who looked as though sleep had been scarce, into a carriage. Locke gnawed indelicately at half a loaf of bread stuffed with cold meat from the party. This breakfast was disposed of by the time they made their first stop of the morning, at Tivoli’s, to reinforce the coins in their purses with a few hundred comrades.

Next, they rattled north to the Casta Gravina, the old citadel of Karthain, whose interior walls and gates had been knocked down years before to make more room for a government that didn’t have to fear anything so mundane as a hostile army at its doorstep. The plazas and gardens were so beautifully laid out that the fog might have been just one more decoration, artfully conjured and shaped by crews of overambitious groundskeepers.

“Magistrates’ Court,” said Nikoros, leading the way out of the carriage. “I know the place. If you want to make any money in my business, you’ll end up party or witness in your share of lawsuits.”

Locke and Jean followed him across a circular plaza, into the clammy silver mist that opened a few paces ahead of them and swallowed their carriage an equal distance behind. The fog echoed faintly with the sounds of the city coming to life—doors opening, horses and wheels clattering, people shouting to one another.

“Clerks’ office is just over here,” said Nikoros.

“OOF!” A woman came out of the fog to Locke’s left before he could react. She collided with Locke, steadied herself against him, and was then snatched away rather ignominiously by Jean.

“Gods above!” she cried. The voice was creaky, middle-aged, Karthani.

“It’s fine, Master Callas, it’s fine,” said Locke. He patted his purse and papers, verifying their undisturbed state. The collision might or might not be innocent, but the woman seemed to be no pickpocket.

“A thousand apologies. You startled us, madam,” said Jean, releasing the woman. She was a few inches shorter than Locke, broad and heavy, dressed in a dull but expensive fashion. Her gray-dusted brown hair was pinned up under an elegant four-cornered cap, and her face was lined with whatever cares had chased her through life. Locke prayed silently that they hadn’t just upset one of the very clerks they might want to suborn.

“It’s you who startled me, looming out of the fog like a pack of highwaymen!”

“I wouldn’t call it looming, madam. Some of us simply aren’t built for looming,” said Locke.

“You, perhaps not, but I could plant your big friend in the street to shade the roof of my house.” She readjusted her coat with a sharp tug and went on her way, scowling. “Good day, oafs.”

“Nikoros,” said Jean, “was that anyone important?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Well, let’s get inside before we trip over someone we can’t afford to offend,” said Locke.

The office of the clerks wasn’t particularly large, but it was comfortably appointed. The purgatory of quiet halls and empty chairs outside the clerical chambers looked like a decent place to fall asleep in. Capability Peralis, a round and attractive woman on the kinder side of forty, was scratching away at papers behind her desk when Locke, Jean, and Nikoros entered her chamber.

“I’m sorry,” she said, irritably tossing thick dark ringlets out of her eyes as she looked up. “No appointments before half ten. Where’s the hall secretary?”

“The secretary has been taken advantage of by my excessive natural and financial charms,” said Locke, who’d been charming to the tune of a month’s salary. “I’m sure you can sympathize.”

Locke settled smoothly into one of the chairs before Peralis’ desk, and Jean casually drew the door shut. Nikoros stood off to one side and pretended to admire the walls.

“I’ve no idea who you think you are, sir—”

“Last night,” said Locke, “a warrant was signed and sent out from this office, a warrant concerning Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations.”

“If you’re Josten’s counsel, you know bloody well when Public Proceedings are held!”

“What I know,” said Locke, “is that some miracle caused the records for the payment of Josten’s ardent spirits license, which is perfectly sound, to be misplaced. I’d like that miracle reversed. I do understand that miracles are expensive.”

Sighing inwardly at the artlessness of this approach (there was no time to waste on subtlety), Locke swept a hand across the desktop, leaving a comet-like trail of gold coins.

“Is that meant to impress me?” said Peralis softly, fiercely. Oh, her version of Offended Honest Public Functionary deserved applause! “Attempted bribery of a civic official. You’ll shed your boldness when you’re chained to an interrogation cell wall.”

“Good gods, that’s lovely,” said Locke. “I’m really sorry that I simply don’t have time to play this game with you. That’s your annual salary right there on the desktop. I propose to give you six more payments just like it, one per week until this election is over. All I ask is that no further complications to Deep Roots party business be specially conjured by you or your staff. Nothing more.”

“Well,” she said, dropping her façade of outrage, “what if another benefactor is willing to provide additional funds in a contrary direction?”

“Notify us,” said Locke. “We’ll match anything you’re offered. I don’t even want you to take action against that other benefactor; merely refrain from taking action against us. Make up excuses. Imply that you’re under scrutiny, that further accommodations are temporarily impossible. Surely you can see it’s a sweet arrangement where you’re concerned.”

“It’s not without its temptations,” she mused.

“Quit being coy. Just say yes and earn a fortune.”

“Well, then—yes.”

“I have your word this warrant concerning Josten is a misunderstanding, and the record in question is going to be found, by the happiest happenstance, as soon as I leave this office?”

“You may safely consider the matter settled.”

“Good. If it remains settled next week, I’ll call again with more decorations for your desk. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a tight schedule of pushing boulders up hills.”

“You know,” said Nikoros quietly as they left the Second Clerk’s office, “not to criticize, but if no particular tact is required in these matters, I’ve a hundred Deep Roots men and women who can make these calls in their official capacities—”

“No,” said Locke. “When it comes to just laying out money, leave our official friends out of it. Save them for areas in which their authority is needed. There’s no point in blunting our tools in the wrong applications.”

“Well,” said Nikoros, “you’re damned impossible to argue with, Master Lazari.”

“Not impossible,” said Jean placidly. “About as intractable as a tortoise with its ass on fire, though.”

“If we’re going to catch up to the opposition,” said Locke, “we’ve got to step boldly at every—”

“There he is! There’s the man who stole my purse!” cried a familiar voice as Locke emerged once again onto the fog-shrouded plaza.

The middle-aged woman stood there, flanked by two men in pale blue coats reminiscent of the one worn by Vidalos. These men wore studded leather vests beneath them, however, and had clubs hanging from their belts.

Gods. So it hadn’t been an innocent collision after all.

“Your pardon, sir,” said one of the guards, stepping forward, “but I must ask to see your pockets.”

“A black silk purse,” said the woman, “with the initials ‘G.B.’ in red in one of the corners. Seven ducats in it. Or at least there were!”

Locke patted himself down hurriedly. Yes, there was a slender new weight in the lower left inside pocket of his rather excellent new coat. He hadn’t noticed the addition; he’d been so satisfied with verifying that nothing had been removed. Stupid, clumsy, amateurish—

“I say,” he sputtered, “this is an intolerable accusation! How dare you, madam, how dare you! And how dare you, sir, suggest that a gentleman might be turned upside-down and shaken like a common cutpurse!”

“Be reasonable, sir,” said the guard. “The lady has a precise description of what was taken, and surely proving that you don’t have it is worth a moment of your time—”

“It is a liberty beyond comprehension! This is Karthain, not the lawless wilds!” Into his furious gesticulations, Locke worked a number of quick hand signals for Jean’s benefit. “I take great … I take the most … I take take take … arrrrr​ggggg​gggh!”

Locke spasmed and sputtered. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he stumbled forward moaning, clutching at the approaching guard. Alarmed, the man reached for his club. While Nikoros watched in mute bewilderment, Jean sprang between Locke and the guard.

“For pity’s sake!” Jean hissed. “Don’t pull that cudgel, he’s having a fit!”

“Nnnnn​ggggg​ggggh​hhhh,” said Locke, spraying flecks of spittle and waving his head about furiously.

“He’s cursed,” said the other guard, making a gesture against evil with both of his hands. “He’s got a spirit influence on him!”

“He’s not cursed, you damned simpleton, it’s an illness,” said Jean. “Whenever his emotions run high, there’s a chance he’ll have a fit, and I dare say you, madam, have brought him to this state!”

In a manner that seemed perfectly accidental and natural (Jean’s interference was nothing less than expert), Locke broke away from Jean and the guard. Lurching like a marionette whose puppeteer was dying of some convulsive poison, he tumbled sobbing against the woman, who shrieked and pushed him away. Locke wound up on his back with Jean crouching protectively over him as he babbled, twitched, and kicked at the air.

“Stand back,” said Jean. “Give him some air. The fit will pass. In a moment he’ll be calm.”

Locke, taking the hint, gradually reduced the severity of his symptoms until he was only gently shuddering and mumbling.

“If you really must render such low treatment to a gentleman,” said Jean, “I suggest you examine his pockets now, while he’s not entirely himself.”

The guard Locke had initially stumbled against knelt down beside him and, carefully, as though Locke might leap back up at any moment, went through Locke’s coat.

“Private papers and a purse not matching your description,” he said, standing up. “Madam, I’m afraid it’s just not there.”

“He must have discarded it inside,” she cried. “Search the building!”

“Now, this is beyond all propriety,” said Jean. “My friend is a gentleman and a solicitor, and you insult him with these ridiculous accusations!”

“He’s a pickpocket,” said the woman. “He ran into me to steal my purse!”

“This man is a convulsive,” Jean bellowed. “He has fits half a dozen times a day! What the hell kind of pickpocket do you think he’d make? Twitching and trembling and falling over? Gods!”

“Madam,” said the guard standing over Locke, “he doesn’t have your purse, and you must admit a gentleman with, ah, twitching fever hardly seems a likely cutpurse.”

“Check his friend,” she said. “Check the big one.”

“I’ll gladly hand my coat over,” said Jean, slowly and coldly, pretending to come to a realization. “Yet I must insist that you do the same, madam.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” said Jean. “I understand what’s going on now. I marvel that I didn’t grasp it before. There is a pickpocket at work, sirs, but one wearing a lady’s dress rather than a gentleman’s breeches.”

“You foreign slime!” shouted the woman.

“Constables, no doubt you’ve been in the company of this woman since she approached you with her complaint. I’d check, if I were you, to make sure of your own purses.”

The guards patted themselves down, and the one standing over Locke gasped.

“My coin bag!” he said. “It was right here in my belt!”

“You may examine me at length,” said Jean, extending his arms with his empty palms up. “But I must insist that your more fruitful course of action would be to examine my accuser.”

The guard nearest the woman put a hand on her shoulder, mumbled apologies, and gingerly sifted her coat pockets while she screeched and struggled. After a moment, he held up a small leather coin bag and a black silk purse.

“Stitched with the initials ‘G.B.’!” he said.

“But it was missing!” she cried. “It was nowhere to be found!”

“What about my coin bag, eh?” The first guard snatched the leather purse from his partner and shook it at her. “What’s this doing in your pocket?”

“I’m bloody confused,” muttered the other guard.

“You’re meant to be,” said Jean. “Forgive me for saying so. I’ve seen this act before. Our harmless-looking friend here has been plucking purses. Clearly she meant to frame my friend for her deeds, even while plying her trade on you, sirs. Thus, when you and any other victims discovered your light pockets, you’d have a culprit already in hand, ready to soak up all the blame. I can only imagine she tried and failed to plant her purse on my friend. Perhaps age is catching up with you, madam?”

“Lying bastard,” she shouted, trying and failing to fight off the firm grip of a guard. “Lying, thieving, pocket-picking foreigner!”

“Right, you,” said the first guard, taking her other arm. “I don’t like being taken advantage of. Gentlemen, would you like to come inside with us and register your complaint as well?”

“Actually,” said Jean, “I’d like to get my friend home, if not to a physiker. I daresay this woman’s in enough trouble for having lifted your purse. I can be content with that.”

“And if you should need anything else from us,” said Nikoros, handing one of the guards a small white card, “I’m Nikoros Via Lupa, Isas Salvierro. These men are my guests.”

“Very good, sir,” said the first guard, pocketing Nikoros’ card. “Sorry for the trouble. I hope the gentleman recovers.”

“Time and fresh lake air,” said Jean, swinging Locke up and supporting him under his right arm.

“Time’s the one thing he doesn’t have,” yelled the woman as the guards dragged her toward the court offices. “And you two know it! You know it! Be seeing you, gentlemen!”

Once all three men were safely ensconced in their carriage and it was clattering away down the street, Locke returned to life and burst out laughing. “Thank you, Nikoros,” he said, wiping flecks of spittle from his chin. “That last note of respectability at the end was just what the scene needed to bring everything back down to earth.”

“I bloody well rejoice to hear it,” said Nikoros, “but what the hell just happened?”

“That woman slipped a purse into my coat when she stumbled into me. Obviously she meant to get me snared for pickpocketing,” said Locke. “I checked to see if anything was missing, but like a dolt I didn’t think to feel around for unexpected gifts. She nearly had me.”

“Who was she?”

“No idea,” said Locke. “She works for our counterpart, obviously. And she’s a jewel.… Anyone who can live to that age charming coats for a living knows their business. We’ll see her again.”

“She’ll be in a cold dark cell.”

“Oh, she’ll slip those idiots in about five minutes,” said Jean. “There’ll be arrangements. Trust us.”

“I’m ashamed to admit that I actually thought for a moment that you, uh, were genuinely ill, Lazari,” said Nikoros.

“We didn’t have any time to warn you. Pitching a fit’s a crude bit of theater, but it’s surprising how often it works.”

“How did you guess she’d lifted that guard’s purse?”

“I didn’t guess,” said Locke with an indulgent chuckle. “I borrowed it when I stumbled against him.”

“Then he passed it on to our lady friend, along with her own purse, when he stumbled against her,” said Jean.

“Gods above,” said Nikoros.

“And don’t think she didn’t realize it,” added Jean. “But there’s only so many ways you can arrange to bump tits with strangers before it starts to look fishy.”

“Ain’t we clever?” said Locke, idly examining his own pockets again. “And I’m pretty sure I still have … everything. Holy hells!”

There was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, in his left inner pocket. He drew it out and stared at it.

“This wasn’t in my pocket when I came out the door,” he said. “She … she stuck me with it while I was slipping her the two purses!”

Jean gave a low whistle as Locke popped the seal and flipped the parchment open in haste. He read the contents aloud:

Messrs. Lazari and Callas

Sirs—

I trust you will excuse the unorthodox means by which this letter finds its way into your hands. Karthani post-masters, enterprising as they are, rarely deliver directly to the interior pocket of a gentleman’s coat. I present my compliments, and desire that you should call upon me at the seventh hour of this evening, at the Sign of the Black Iris, in the Vel Vespala.

Your most affectionate servant—

“Verena Gallante,” said Locke in a harsh whisper. His heart seemed to expand and fill his entire chest with its beating. “She wants to … she wants to see … oh, gods—”

He looked out the window, craning his neck furiously to see behind them, into the swirling silvery fog, where of course there was nothing meaningful to be found.

“What is it?” said Nikoros.

“That was no middle-aged stranger,” said Locke. “That was her.”

“Who?”

“The opposition,” said Locke, settling back into his seat, feeling dazed. “Our counterpart. The woman we spoke of.”

“Verena Gallante?”

“It seems that’s her present alias.”

“Oh my,” said Jean. “The initials on the silk purse … now, that was cheeky.”

“Only if we weren’t too dense to notice it right away,” said Locke.

“I fail to see how ‘Verena Gallante’ yields ‘G.B.’,” said Nikoros.

“A private matter,” said Locke. “I have … we have a history with this woman.”

“What must we do now?” said Nikoros.

“Now,” said Locke, “you can direct our driver to wherever this Master Ratfinder keeps his office, and after we’ve persuaded him to quit being a nuisance, you and Master Callas can go scrounge up the brutes we discussed yesterday.”

“And what about you?”

“I, well …” said Locke, running one hand over his stubble, “I’ll need to go find a barber.”

4

THEIR UNANNOUNCED appointment with Master Ratfinder Bilezzo took less time than their protracted encounter at the court offices. After the initial exchange of greetings and the sudden appearance of a pile of ducats on Bilezzo’s desk, it rapidly became clear to Locke and Jean that Bilezzo was a fatuous, contrary, self-satisfied fellow who was deeply amused at the chance to have a bit of harmless mischief with his far-ranging civic powers.

The two Gentlemen Bastards decided to correct his attitude in a traditional Camorri fashion. Locke doubled the amount of his proposed bribe while Jean picked Bilezzo up by his lapels, scraped the ceiling with his head, and cheerfully offered to nail his tongue to the back of a carriage and whip the horses around the city.

No middle-aged civil servant in a comfortable position could easily refuse such entreaties, and they parted with a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Bilezzo’s men would continue (for appearance’s sake) to carry out the pointless fumigation of Nikoros’ building, Locke would conjure piles of gold to ensure it didn’t happen there again, or anywhere else of value to the Deep Roots party, and Jean would spare Bilezzo the unwanted carriage ride.

Nikoros came away from the meeting having learned several new words, as well as some novel hyphenations of familiar ones, and a fascinating twist to the art of negotiation that his education had previously neglected.

5

LOCKE RETURNED alone to Josten’s just before the second hour of the afternoon with the autumn air cool against his freshly shaved face, chewing on the last of the half-dozen sweet cakes he’d picked up for lunch.

The place was in a fine state of near-pandemonium, with locksmiths performing surgery on at least three visible doors, while the customary crowd of businessfolk bustled about eating, shouting, negotiating, or simply trying to maintain airs of importance. At the same time, the ordinary and legitimate business of the Deep Roots party went on. Locke and Jean had agreed that there was no need for them to oversee every last detail of the Committee’s business, lest they go mad while driving everyone around them mad into the bargain.

Unusual events and setbacks, however, were very much their business, and Locke hadn’t taken five steps past the front doors before a small pack of Nikoros’ messengers and assistants descended on him waving scraps of paper. Locke flipped through them as he walked through the crowd and made his way up toward the party’s private gallery.

Constables had detained several important party supporters for public drunkenness. A district organizer had dumped his life’s savings into a bag and fled the city just before dawn for reasons unknown. A candidate for the seat in the Isas Vadrasta was going to fight a duel tomorrow, and there was no quality replacement if he ended up full of holes. Locke sighed. Casualty reports, by all the gods, like some captain on a battlefield! Sabetha’s hand could be in any of it, or none of it. No doubt the lists of complications would only get longer as the weeks wore on.

“Here’s Master Lazari now,” said Jean as Locke ascended the final step to the private gallery. Jean and Nikoros were standing before a group of eight men. Most of them looked capable to Locke’s eye—city bruisers, obvious ex-constables, and a few with the deep tans and weather-worn faces of caravan guards. They all nodded or muttered greetings.

“We’ve got a lead on some women, too,” said Jean, whispering into Locke’s ear. “Bodyguards. Nikoros found them; he’ll bring them in tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Locke. He waved the slips of paper at Jean. “Seen these?”

“If those are the notes on today’s pains in the ass, yes. You got anything to tell our new friends?”

“We want you content,” said Locke, addressing the men. “We want you to feel that you’re being treated fairly. If you’re not, bring it to us. If anyone threatens you, or makes you an offer—you know the sort of thing I’m talking about—bring it to us. Quietly. I guarantee we’ll come up with a better deal.”

There was no point in mentioning consequences or making threats; gods, no. Doing that in public was a sure sign of insecurity. Threats, when needed, would be a private affair. If these men had real quality they would appreciate not being treated like idiots.

“Go find Josten,” said Jean. “Have yourselves a bite. I’ll have shift assignments once you’ve eaten.”

As the men left the gallery, Jean turned to Locke. “Where’d you go to get your shave, back to Lashain?”

“I didn’t mean to be out so long. I, uh, just thought I’d have my driver take me around some of the Black Iris places Nikoros listed for us. See if there was anything interesting going on.”

“You were looking for her, weren’t you?”

“Uh … yes. Didn’t spot her on any street, though.” Locke ran a hand over his chin for the twentieth time. “How does it look?”

“What?”

“The shave.”

“Like a shave. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“For Perelandro’s sake. You got peach fuzz scraped off with a razor; you didn’t commission a bust of yourself in marble.”

Locke crumpled the notes he’d been handed and put them in a coat pocket. “Well, look, if you’ve got the new bruisers in hand and you’ve already heard the news, I’m, uh, going up to the room … to get ready.”

“You’ve got at least four hours before we have to leave.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t start my nervous pacing now, I’ll never have it all done in time.”

6

“HOW’S IT look?”

Almost precisely four hours later, Locke was standing before a full-length mirror in their suite, showing off a slight variation in the tying of his black neck-cloth.

“It looks like clothing,” said Jean, who’d been dressed for the better part of an hour and was now lounging in a high-backed chair, ominously juggling a hatchet in one hand.

“Too prissy? Too eastern?”

“You do realize you’ve pushed that damn thing around at least a dozen times now?”

“Just doesn’t seem right.”

“You do realize that you didn’t even own any of these outfits until yesterday? Why are you fretting about the deeper meaning of clothes that are newer than some of the crap digesting in that meager gut of yours?”

“Because,” said Locke, “I can’t help myself, and I know I can’t help myself, and it doesn’t help, you get it?”

“I do get it,” said Jean softly. “All too well. But I can’t be of service by patting you on the back for being nervous. You’ve got to stick your chin out and call yourself ready sometime.”

“Nervous,” said Locke. “I wish I was nervous! Nervous is when armed people try to kill me. This is something else. Gods, it’s been five years. She could … I just … I don’t even …” He closed his eyes and leaned against the mirror’s frame.

“You might as well practice finishing your sentences,” said Jean. “I hear that women find it irresistible.”

“Five years,” said Locke. He looked up, and the haunted expression in the mirror seemed like a self-accusation. “I’m going to have to tell her about Calo and Galdo.”

“She may already know.”

“I doubt it,” said Locke. “She was playing with us this morning. I just don’t think … that she would have done so. I wouldn’t have, in her place.”

“Five years apart, and you imagine that the two of you match moods so closely? Did you even do that when you were together?”

“Well—”

“You and I are lucky to be alive to even see her,” said Jean. “Remember that. As for what happened while she was gone, it was as much her decision to leave as it was ours to stay.”

“I know,” said Locke. “In my head. The message hasn’t reached my gut just yet. There seems to be a tiny man in there attacking me with feathers. Now … jewelry. I should—”

“Gods above,” said Jean, rising from his chair. “Do you think she’s going to fling herself out a window if your shoes have too many buckles?”

“Her fashion sense might have grown more extreme since we last met.”

“Quit making such a yammering twit out of yourself. Find your way to the door.”

Step by step out of the room, into the main hall, past the bar and the tables full of Nikoros’ people with their lists and plans and dull assignments. Gods, he was really on his way! His knees seemed to be made of wet cotton; his pulse was like the sound of the ocean in his ears.

New solicitors watched from the Deep Roots gallery; new bruisers studied him from the front doors; new chains gleamed around the necks of all the waiters. So many cordons of security drawn tight against every possibility, and here he and Jean were planning a social call to the heart of Sabetha’s power.

Out loud he would have been careful to say, ‘the opposition’ or ‘his counterpart,’ but in the privacy of his own thoughts there was no hiding from her.

Nikoros met them and saw them to the door. “You were right about the guards and solicitors,” he whispered. “I do feel better!”

“Uh … good, good,” said Locke, ashamed at his own distraction.

“Now that we have some security,” said Jean, immediately taking the weight of confidence and authority that Locke had let slip, “it’s time we started reaching out and handing our friends some difficulties of their own. Think on it for us, would you? Weaknesses we can exploit, fast and easy ones.”

“My pleasure,” said Nikoros. “You know, two days in, this has already been more interesting than anything that happened last time. I’ll wait up for you, shall I? I’d love to find out what sort of woman our, ah, opposition is.”

“So would we,” said Jean.

7

THE CARRIAGE ride through the wet curtains of evening fog was no help for Locke’s nerves, but as the minutes passed he mastered himself well enough, he thought, to be able to handle simple sentences and walking.

The Vel Vespala, the Evening Terrace, was one of Karthain’s more fashionable quarters, its plazas dotted with taverns, chance houses, coffee bars, and bordellos. All of these places were so many blurry amber and aquamarine lights in the mist as Locke and Jean’s carriage pulled up before the Sign of the Black Iris, the place Nikoros and his friends referred to as the Enemy Tavern.

“Well, then,” said Locke. “So here we—”

“I’m not taking a quarter of an hour to get out of the carriage,” said Jean. “It’s out the door on your feet or out the window on your head. Think fast.”

Locke managed the former.

The Sign of the Black Iris was a comfortably appointed place, not as large as Josten’s Comprehensive but perhaps slightly more luxurious, the wood paneling a touch richer, the marble of the exterior facings a trifle shinier. No doubt the rivalry between the two inns kept the pockets of many Karthani craftsfolk admirably lined.

Locke’s nervous distraction abated as his old street instincts kicked to life. The porter at the door was nothing special, but the two men at the rear of the darkened foyer were interesting. They were not at ease in their fine clothes, and what a coincidence that two lean fellows with such scars and crooked noses should be passing the time together! Muscle for sure. Sabetha, too, had set alley hounds to guard her lair.

“Ahh, sirs.” Another sort of creature entirely entered the foyer to greet them. This man was silver-haired, thin as a scabbard, with a drooping black flower pinned to the right lapel of his coat. “Firstson Vordratha. I’m Mistress Gallante’s confidential secretary. You gentlemen do move at a relaxed pace. She’s been expecting the two of you for some time now, yes, some time indeed.”

“I would point out,” said Jean, gesturing to a mechanical clock on the foyer wall, “that it’s not yet five minutes to seven.”

“Of course. I made no reflection upon the accuracy of the clock, mmmm?” The lines at the edges of Vordratha’s mouth moved up a fraction of an inch. So he was that sort of fellow, supercilious and needling, unable to resist amusing himself with lame little digs. Locke’s concentration came into even sharper focus as the urge rose to slam Vordratha’s head against the door. “Come now, she wishes to see you directly. In private.”

Locke and Jean followed him up to a hallway on the second floor. They brushed past a surprising number of men and women for a direct route to a private audience … ah, but of course, they were all studying Locke and Jean while feigning indifference. Stealing a glimpse of faces and builds and manners in case the two of them ever attempted another visit without an invitation. It was flattering, really.

At the end of the hall, Vordratha held a door open. The space beyond was dim, lit by the golden glow of small lamps on a number of tables. A private dining space, with high windows looking out into the evening fog.

A woman stood alone at the far end of the room, her long hair unbound, a cascade of dark copper falling to the middle of her back. She turned slowly, and before Locke knew what was happening he and Jean were through the door, the door fell closed with a click, and Sabetha was coming toward them down the shadowed passage between the rows of lamplight.

8

SHE WORE a velvet jacket the color of blood, a shade darker than her hair. Her outfit had the dash of a riding habit, narrowing to emphasize her slender waist, and beneath the long dark skirt she wore seasoned leather boots. A scarf, white as dove’s feathers, was wrapped tightly around her neck. Other than a single lapel iris matching that of Vordratha, she had no ornaments but contrast—the harmony of skin, scarf, hair, and coat. She’d made an artist’s palette of herself, emphasizing a beauty that had bloomed in the five years they’d been apart.

Locke stepped out in front of Jean and removed his leather gloves with shaking hands. Five years of dreaming and planning for this moment deserted him in an instant, leaving him with nothing but a halfwit’s hypnotized stare and the air in his throat.

“H-hello,” he said.

“Hello, Locke.”

“Yes. Sabetha. Hello. Uh.”

“Meant to say something grander and wittier, didn’t you?”

“Well …” The sound of her voice, her ordinary voice, unaffected, undisguised, unaccented, was like a glass of brandy gulped on an empty stomach. “Whatever it was it seems to have business elsewhere.”

“It’ll come back to you when you least expect it.” She smiled. “Write it down then and have it sent to me. I’ll give it a favorable hearing.”

They were just a few feet apart now, and in her face he could see time’s peculiar alchemy—every line was where it ought to be, but all the softness and reediness of the girl was gone. Her figure and features were fuller. Her eyes had changed, moving from a lively hazel to a truer, darker brown, a shade that was faintly reflected in her hair.

“Take my hands,” she said, and gently redirected his fingers when he tried to entwine them with hers. Palm against palm they stood while she returned his stare; her touch was soft and dry. For a moment of pure anticipation Locke thought she might pull him into an embrace, but she maintained the respectable distance between them. “You’re too gods-damned thin,” she said, losing some of her dominating composure.

“I’ve been ill.”

“They told me you were poisoned.”

“Who’s they?”

“You know,” she said. “And you’ve been out of the sun. Your Vadran is showing.”

“We both seem to have gone back to our roots.”

“Ah, the hair?”

“No, the backs of your knees. Of course the hair.”

“It’s strange. I’ve been every shade of black, brown, and blonde these past few years, so I can disguise myself best now by going back to what’s natural. Does it please you?”

“You know it distracts the hell out of me.” Locke felt himself blushing. “Puts me at the most severe disadvantage.”

“I know,” she said, again allowing a touch of a smile. “Perhaps I wanted us on familiar ground for the evening.”

She released his hands, gave a playful half-bow, and moved around him.

“Hello, Jean,” she said. “You’ve lost at the belly and gained at the shoulders, I think.”

“Hello, Sabetha.” He extended his left hand. “You’ve gained a great deal and lost nothing I can see.”

“Dear heart.” She met his hand with her own, and her eyebrows rose when he took her by the forearm and shook politely. “What’s this? Five years apart and suddenly I’m just a business associate?”

Locke bit the inside of his lip as she put her arms around Jean and set her head against the lapels of his jacket. After the tiniest pause, Jean returned the embrace, his own arms easily folding around her and overlapping in the middle of her back.

“I’ll just need a moment to make sure everything’s still in my pockets,” he said as they parted. She laughed.

“What, you don’t think I’m serious?” Jean examined his jacket carefully. He didn’t bother grinning to lighten the moment.

“Ahh,” Sabetha said, stepping away from both of them and folding her hands in front of her. “So how long did it take you to figure it out?”

“About a minute,” said Locke.

“Not bad.”

“A minute too long. The initials on that purse were cheeky as hell. But that getup was excellent.”

“You liked it? Good. It wasn’t easy, taking a few inches off my regular height.”

“One of the hardest things in false-facing,” said Locke with a nod. “You were showing off.”

“No more than you, before we were done. Still feigning illness in public.”

“It worked,” said Locke. “After a fashion. But you’d seen it before; surely that’s why you weren’t caught too off guard.”

“That,” she said, “and you two should remember I can still read most of your hand signals.”

Locke exchanged a glance with Jean; the fact that he hadn’t been alone in neglecting this point was little comfort.

“You get that one for free,” she said.

“So why’d you do it?” said Locke.

“I wanted to see you both,” she said, glancing away. “I found that I was impatient. But I wasn’t ready for … for this, just yet.”

“We might have been a little late for this appointment if they’d thrown us in a hole,” said Jean.

“Tsk,” she said. “You’re insulting us all. As if you couldn’t have clever-dicked your way clear of those imbeciles before lunch. After all, your friend Josten still has his ardent spirits license. Clearly you two haven’t forgotten how to stay on your toes.”

“That was cute,” said Locke.

“As was your riposte. It’s a wonder to me, how many people are so willing to believe the best of the laws that they live under.”

“They haven’t had our advantages. Anyway, you shouldn’t have sent a fat, good-natured fellow for that sort of work,” said Locke. “You should have arranged to put the warrant in the hands of some shriveled tent-peg like your Vordratha.”

“Isn’t he a treasure? Such a smirking dry bitch of a man. He can’t have spent more than a minute with you, and you’d crawl over broken glass to kick him in the precious bits, I’d wager.”

“Point me to the glass,” muttered Jean.

“Perhaps … once he’s given me a good six weeks of work.” She tossed her hair back and matched gazes with Jean. “Jean, may I ask you to … allow Locke and myself a few moments alone? I told Vordratha to have a chair set up just outside the door.”

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“Don’t sit in it, then.”

Jean’s only response was to clear his throat.

“May I beg to point out,” said Sabetha, “that the last reasonable chance you had to be cautious was when you stepped out of your carriage? I could have twenty armed people crouched in the next room. If I did, why would I bother to ask for privacy?”

“Well,” said Jean with a sigh. “I suppose I can feign civility with the best of them.”

He was gone in a moment. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Locke and Sabetha alone with four feet of darkened floor between them.

“Have I offended him?” said Sabetha.

“No.”

“He seemed pleased to see me for a moment, and now he’s sour.”

“Jean had … Jean met someone. And lost her, in the worst way. So don’t think … it’s just that he can’t be terribly at ease, concerning the matters that lie between me and you.”

“What matters could you be referring to?”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Invite me to name my troubles as though they were somehow unknown to you.”

“The device you’re mistaking me for is called a mirror, Locke. I don’t reflect your feelings as well as you seem to imagine, so I’m afraid you may have to name them for everyone’s benefit.”

“Five years, Sabetha! Five years!”

“I can count! And so what? I’m not leaping into your arms? I’m not tearing your clothes off under one of these tables? You may have noticed that I passed those five years without crawling back to Camorr in search of you. Nor did I find you exactly dogging my heels!”

“I meant … I meant to—”

“You meant,” she said. “There’s a worthless coin, Locke. The past isn’t something we can negotiate. I might not have come back for you, but you certainly didn’t strike out after me.”

“There were difficulties.”

“Oh,” she said, “so you’re the man whose life develops complications! I’ve so longed to meet you; the rest of us here in this world have it much too easy, I’m afraid.”

“Calo and Galdo are dead,” said Locke.

Sabetha leaned back against the nearest table, folded her arms, and stared out the windows for some time. “I had my suspicions,” she said at last.

“When Jean and I came alone to Karthain?”

“I passed through Camorr about a year ago,” she said. “I thought it best not to announce myself. It’s like it was in the old days, before Barsavi. Thirty capas and no Secret Peace. I heard some confusing things … You’d been cast out by Barsavi’s usurper, and no one had seen you since the mess.”

“The hammer came down on everyone,” said Locke. “Capa Raza used us, then betrayed us. We were all meant to die, but they only got the Sanzas. The Sanzas, and a younger friend.… We had a new apprentice. You’d have liked him.”

“Well,” she said, “whoever he was, you certainly did him a grand turn as a garrista, didn’t you?”

“I’d have died, Sabetha, I’d have died if it would have saved them! I didn’t have a fucking chance. And some help you were, wherever the hell you’d gone off to—”

“How could I stay?” she said. “How could I help you pretend to keep house? You wanted everything the same—same glass burrow, same temple, same schemes, and now I learn that you even started taking apprentices. Boys, of course.”

“Of all the damned unfair—”

“Roots are for vegetables, Locke, not criminals. Chains had enough blind spots of his own, thank you very much. The last thing I ever could have done was prance along hand in hand to your pale imitation!

“I might have been able to live with you as a partner,” she continued. “As priest, garrista, father figure, no. Not for an instant! Gods, that fucking pile of money Chains left us was the biggest curse he could have dreamed up if he’d spent his whole life planning it. I wish he’d thrown it into the sea. I wish we’d burned that temple ourselves.”

“We did burn it ourselves,” said Locke. “And I did throw the money in the sea.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had the whole mess of it sunk in Camorr’s Old Harbor. As Calo and Galdo’s death-offering.”

“It’s really all gone?”

“To the sharks and the gods, every last copper.”

“Thank you for that,” she whispered, and she reached out to set the back of her right hand against his cheek.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, reached up, and felt the heat surge in his blood when she didn’t draw away from the pressure of his hand on hers.

“For losing everything?” he said.

“For the Sanzas.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve grown some lines since I saw you last,” she said.

“It was a bad poisoning,” said Locke. “And it wasn’t my first.”

“I can’t imagine how anyone as charming and easy to get along with as yourself could ever incite someone to poison you,” she said. “I am sorry about Calo and Galdo. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help. For what it’s worth.”

“I suppose I’m sorry I was such a shitty garrista,” said Locke.

“Maybe in a better life I could have stayed to watch these lines grow on you. Perhaps put them there myself,” she said with a thin smile. “But it’s not as though I didn’t arm you with the clearest possible expression of my feelings before I chose to go.”

“Frankly, sometimes, I was surprised you stayed with us as long as you did.”

“I didn’t nerve myself up to leave overnight.” She lowered her hand and slipped it out of his grasp. “When Chains died, you thought you had to preserve everything the way it had been. Freeze our lives in amber. Maybe that was your way of mourning. It couldn’t be mine.”

“Well, I, uh … did trace you as far as Ashmere,” Locke said. “I never told anyone but Jean. I had someone up there that owed me a favor. After that …”

“Come here,” she said, pulling out the nearest chair. “Sit down. We’re pacing like servants.”

“Is that the chair with the trapdoor beneath it?”

“Oh, don’t be an ass. Choose any one you like.”

Locke pulled a chair away from a table on his side of the aisle and set it down next to the one Sabetha had offered. He gestured for her to go first, and when she was seated he eased into his, facing the door to the room. They were not quite facing one another, but turned inward at an angle with their knees almost touching.

“I did what I’d planned,” said Sabetha. “I circulated in the Kingdom of the Marrows. Started in Emberlain and moved west, hitting rich bachelors and the occasional married lord with a wandering eye.”

“Did they come up with a legendary name for you?”

“I’m sure they came up with a lot of names for me.” She smirked. “But once I was in the thick of things I decided it was better to stay anonymous than to build a myth.”

“You know I didn’t start that Thorn of Camorr bullshit—”

“Peace, Locke, it wasn’t a rebuke.”

“So why’d you leave the Marrows? Get bored?”

“The Marrows are getting dangerous. Emberlain means to break from the rest of them. All the cantons are buckling on their swords. It seemed a good time to be elsewhere.”

“I’ve been hearing this for years,” said Locke. “Emberlain is always about to secede. The king is always about to fall over in his tracks. I even used this nonsense as the basis for a scheme. Hells, I fully expect the peace in the Marrows to outlive me.”

“Then you must be planning to die in the next month or two,” she said. “Trust someone who’s been up there, Locke. The old king is heirless and out of his wits. It’s an open secret that he’s ordered his privy council to choose his successor when he finally dies.”

“How does that guarantee a war?”

“It means that there are about ten noble families that would get a vote, and a hundred that wouldn’t. Do you think they won’t prefer to just pull steel and get to work? They’ll be hip-deep in corpses once they start really trading opinions.”

“I see. So, you were dodging that, and you got a job offer for a sojourn here in Karthain?”

“I was leaving Vintila,” she said. “One moment I was alone in my carriage; the next I was having a conversation with a Bondsmage.”

“I know what that’s like.” Locke took a deep breath before asking the next question. “And … they told you about Jean and me before you took the job? That you’d be set against us, I mean.”

“I was told.”

“Before—”

“Yes, before. And I agreed to the job anyway. Do you want a moment to think very, very hard before proceeding on this point?”

“I … You’re right, I have no cause to say anything.”

“We’re not enemies, Locke; we’re rivals. Surely we’re both accustomed to the situation. And tell me, how would you have answered if our positions were reversed?”

“If I hadn’t said yes, I’d be dead.”

“Well, if I hadn’t said yes, I’d still be somewhere in the Marrows with Graf kul Daros’ agents one step behind me. I have to confess I didn’t manage to get out with as much money or anonymity as I might have hoped. In fact, I’ve … understated the mess I left behind me. I’m sorry.”

“Jean and I … weren’t coming off one of our more lucrative exploits, either.”

“So neither of us had any sensible reason to refuse this engagement.” Sabetha leaned forward. “The magi offered to get me out. To erase my tracks, help me disappear in complete safety. That was their end of the bargain. And for my part, the chance to see you and Jean again was agreeable.”

“Agreeable?”

“No doubt you find it a mild term. But this conversation’s too young to go back on our steps just yet. I’ve given you my facts; now give me yours. Tell me what happened in Camorr.”

“Ah. Well.” Locke found himself trying to scratch at the stubble that was no longer present on his chin. “We had a scheme going. A good one, that would have added a fair sum to that pile of treasure you detested.”

“This was when the Gray King was abroad in the city?”

“Gray King, Capa Raza, same man. Yes, we were chosen for the dubious honor of assisting the bastard in his war against the Barsavis. He had a Bondsmage working for him.”

“My … principals told me about him,” said Sabetha.

“The murdering shit-stain was no credit to your principals, whatever they think. Anyhow, he must have spied us out along with the money in our vault. I’ve had a long time to think about the situation, and it’s the only explanation that makes sense.

“We did our job,” he continued, “and then it turned out that the Gray King coveted our good fortune. He had a lot of bills to pay. So we got the chop. It was—”

Every fiber of his being, already unhinged by his more recent illness, revolted at the recollection of those moments drowning in a cask of warm, soupy filth.

“… it was a near thing.”

“Did any of the Barsavis survive?”

“None. Nazca was murdered to put her father’s nerves on edge. With our help, the Gray King tricked Barsavi into thinking he’d avenged her. He threw a party at the Floating Grave, and that’s where he and his sons were taken apart. Hell of a spectacle. Remember the Berangias sisters?”

“How could I forget?”

“They were in on it. Turns out they were actually the sisters of the Gray King. They served Barsavi all those years, waiting for the moment to strike.”

“Gods, what happened to them?”

“Jean happened.”

“And this Gray King?”

“Ah.” Locke cleared his throat. “He was my affair. We crossed swords.”

“Now, to that I must admit some pleasant surprise,” said Sabetha, and Locke felt a fresh warmth around his heart at the sparkle of interest in her eyes. “Did you finally start paying attention to your bladework?”

“Ah, don’t be misled. I’m afraid he opened me up like a physiker. I had to trick him into letting me sheath a dagger in his back.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “I’m pleased you killed him. Still a pity you never amended your clumsiness with long steel.”

“Well, Sabetha, unlike some, I’m afraid I’ve just never had it in me to instantly presume a flawless expertise in every last sphere of human endeavor.”

“There was nothing instant about it. You might have thrown yourself into training as vigorously as I did, if you hadn’t lived with the expectation of having Jean Tannen at your back for the rest of your life.”

“No. Gods damn it, I would gladly listen to you berate me until the sun comes up, but not on this subject. Jean isn’t some dog I tricked into a leash. He’s my true and particular friend. He’s still your true and particular friend, though both of you may need some time to recall it.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “I had your best interests at heart.”

“For someone whose primary insistence in life has always been that she must be taken true and unalloyed, unbending to the whims of those around her, you have a curious interest in the correction of my condition!”

“Ouch,” she said softly.

“Fuck.” Locke slammed his fists down on his legs. “Forgive me. I know you mean well—”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I’m an extraordinarily accomplished hypocrite. Anything that displeased you is unsaid. Please go on with your story.”

“Ahhh … all right. Well. Not much more to say about Camorr. We took ship for Vel Virazzo the night the Gray King died. Oh! I met the Spider.”

“What? How did that happen?”

“When the Gray King business reached its conclusion, the duke’s people had no choice but to get involved. After an initial misunderstanding, the Spider and I worked together. Very briefly.”

“Sweet gods, were you pardoned for your crimes?”

“Oh, hells, no. Once the Gray King was dead, Jean and I bolted like rabbits.”

“And did you learn the actual identity of the Spider?”

“Yes, she and I had words on several occasions.”

“So it was a woman! As I’d always thought.”

“How did you know?”

“All those years of rumors,” said Sabetha, “and the one detail that emerged with absolute clarity from the fog was that the Spider was a man. Everyone was certain. Now, if this person could maintain total control over every other shred of their identity, why was such a fundamental truth allowed to slip? It had to be misdirection.”

“Heh. So it was.”

“And who was she, then?”

“Ahhh,” said Locke. “I see I’ve got something that genuinely intrigues you. I think I’ll hold on to it for a while.”

“Oh? I’ll remember this, Master Lamora. On that you have my word. So you took ship. What next?”

Warmed to the subject, Locke spent about ten minutes summarizing the two years spent in and around Tal Verrar—the nature of the scheme for Requin’s Sinspire, the interference of Maxilan Stragos, the time in the Ghostwinds, the battles at sea, the loss of Ezri, the loss of nearly everything.

“Incredible,” Sabetha said when he drew his story to a close. “I’d heard about the trouble in Tal Verrar. You caused all that. You brought the gods-damned Archon down! You silly, stupid, lucky little wretches!”

“And for our genius, we left Tal Verrar without Jean’s love, without a fortune, and without an antidote.”

“I’m sorry for all of that. Especially for Jean.”

“I’d say something comforting, like how he’ll get over it in time, but I know he won’t.” Locke paused, and lowered his voice. “I know I didn’t.”

“Ah,” said Sabetha. It was a completely noncommittal noise. “And here we are, then.”

“Here we are,” said Locke. “Stories told.”

“I have … instructions from my principals,” she said. “We’re not forbidden from talking to one another, but in the matter of the election … Look, we’ve got to fight it out to the last. Sincerely. All of our tricks, all of our skills. The consequences for holding back would be severe. So severe, I could never—”

“I understand,” he said. “I have similar directions from my … uh, principals.”

“Gods, I wish we could talk all night.”

“Then why don’t we?”

“Because I didn’t expect to get this much honesty out of you.” She rose. “And if I don’t do what I really brought you here for, I might lose my nerve.”

“Wait, what do you mean—”

She answered him by pulling him out of the chair and into her arms. Reflexively, he fought back for a moment, but the intensity of the embrace subdued him.

“I am glad you’re alive,” she whispered. “Please believe me, whatever else happens, I’m so glad to see you.”

“I can’t believe I have two reasons to be grateful to the Bondsmagi,” said Locke. Gods, she was warm and strong, and her scent so instantly familiar beneath the slightest sweet-apple scent of perfume. He ran a hand through the gentle curls of her hair and sighed. “Assholes. I’d work for free for any chance to be near you. They’re offering a fortune, and I’d throw it in the Amathel for this. I—”

“Locke,” she whispered. “Indulge me.”

“Oh?”

“Kiss me.”

“With every—”

“No, not like that. My preferred way. You know what I mean. From back when we were—”

“Ahhh,” he said, laughing. “Your servant, madam.”

Sabetha had always had a peculiar ticklish weakness, something he’d discovered by accident when they’d first become lovers so many years before. He gently placed his left hand beneath her chin and tilted her head back, then planted his lips high up the side of her neck, beneath her ear.

The way she moved in his arms instantly folded his better judgment up and hid it away in a deep, dark place.

“So this is what you really brought me here for?”

“Keep going,” she said breathlessly, “and we’ll find out.”

He kissed her several more times, and when he felt he’d teased her enough, ran his tongue up and down those same few inches of warm skin. She actually gasped, and clutched him more tightly still.

“Oh, dear,” he said, laughing and smacking his lips. He swallowed several times to clear a curious dry taste from his tongue. “Your perfume. I seem to have removed some of it. I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

“A special formulation, just for you,” she whispered. She continued to cling to him, digging her hands into his shoulders, and for one more moment Locke was at peace with the entire world.

The numbness began at the edge of his tongue, and in a few seconds it spread, tingling, around his mouth and up to the tip of his nose.

“No,” he whispered, hit as hard by shock as he was by whatever he’d just swallowed. He tried to pull away, but she was too strong for him; his limbs were already taking on a curious foggy dissociation. “No, no … Jnnnn … Jnnnn!”

“Shhhhhh,” Sabetha whispered, no longer shuddering, no longer breathless with shared anticipation. “A special formulation. Throat and voice go first. Just relax. Jean can’t hear you.”

“Whhhh … whhhhy?”

“Forgive me,” she said. She cradled him as his legs turned to jelly. She knelt slowly, bringing him down with her, laying him across her knees. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d really do it or not. If it’s any consolation, your story about Tal Verrar was the convincer. You’re not as good as I am, Locke, but you’re too damn good to let you run around fighting fairly. I have to beat you, for both our sakes.”

“Nnngh—”

“Don’t talk. Just listen; you don’t have much time left. There’s a second reason. I can see now how ill you’ve been, and how you’ll have to push yourself to keep up with me. I can’t let you do it, Locke. I can’t watch you do it. You’ll kill yourself trying to best me, and you can’t ask me to permit that. Not when I could stop it. I once cared for you a great deal. I care for you now. Remember that.”

She kissed him gently on the forehead, and he barely felt it.

“Remember that, and forgive me.”

9

“NNNNGH,” SAID Locke, coming up from layers of blackness that seemed draped over him like burial shrouds. “Nnngh—Sab … no, please!”

He gasped, with the disbelieving gratitude of someone finally fighting back to wakefulness after an interminable nightmare of suffocation. He smelled his own sweat, and the familiar odors of wet wood and fresh lake air.

His eyes slid grudgingly open. He was lying on his back in yet another ship’s great cabin, this one more luxuriously appointed than any he’d ever seen, even Zamira Drakasha’s. Soft orange alchemical globes cast the fixtures and finery in an inviting light. Gulls cried somewhere nearby, and the world creaked gently around him.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” muttered Locke, reveling in the full recovery of his powers of speech. He sat up, and instantly became aware of the fierce gnawing hunger in his belly. “Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid—”

“You can’t blame yourself,” said Jean.

Locke turned to see him sitting against the opposite wall on a hanging bed furnished with embroidered sheets. Jean had fresh bruises on his bare forearms and around his eyes.

“Gods,” said Locke. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Remember how she joked about twenty armed people in the next room?” said Jean with a sigh. He set down the book he’d been reading. “There were twenty armed men in the next room.”

“Fuck me sideways with hot peppers and a pinch of salt,” said Locke. “How long have I been out?”

“Half a day.”

“Where are we?”

“On the Amathel, headed west. Bound for the sea.”

“Are you kidding?”

Jean pointed at something behind Locke, and Locke turned. The rear windows of the cabin, which were open to let in a view of a gray morning over blue water, were girded with a network of thick iron bars on their outer surface. The gaps in the bars were too small for even Locke to contemplate wiggling through.

“She’s put us on quite a luxurious prison ship,” said Jean. “We’re the only passengers. And we’re chartered for a nice, slow voyage out to sea and around the continent.”

“Are you fucking kidding?”

“If all goes as she planned, we’ll get back to Karthain a week or two after all the votes have been counted.”

INTERSECT (II)

TINDER

I HAVE TO tell you, we’re not terribly impressed with your boys so far.

We thought they did very well, up to their meeting with your exemplar.

It’s that meeting with our exemplar that inspires a certain lack of foreboding on our part.

They’ll be back soon enough.

They’re headed out to sea in irons.

You know who else thought lightly of them, once? The Falconer.

Very amusing.

Interesting things are going to be happening around Lamora, my friend. Just keep your attention focused very closely on him at all times.

INTERLUDE

THE MONCRAINE COMPANY

1

“HE’S BEEN ARRESTED for punching a nobleman?” said Locke.

“Hauled off in irons,” said Jenora.

“Of all the gods-damned … how bad is that here? They’re not going to hang him, are they?”

“Dungeon for a year and a day,” said Alondo. “Then he loses the offending hand.”

“I suppose Moncraine’s lucky he didn’t kick the fellow,” said Jean.

“Certainly, he’s lucky,” said Sylvanus, looking up from his bottle. “He’s in the one place in the city where his creditors can’t skin his balls and salt them! They should let us keep the hand when they chop it off … embalm it with tar … make a damn fine prop, especially when I play a thaumata … thaumur … magic person.”

“How do we get him back?” said Sabetha.

“Back?” said a woman who appeared out of the shadows behind Alondo and Jenora. Approaching middle age, she was well muscled and stout, with mahogany skin and hair gray as wood ash. “Why would anyone want Jasmer Moncraine back, having so easily gotten rid of him? And why are there strangers in my inn-yard?”

“I imagine they’re called customers, Auntie,” said Jenora. “You do remember when they used to come voluntarily?”

“Yes, I’m an attentive student of ancient history,” said the older woman. “Alizana Gloriano, proprietor and semiprofessional martyr, at your service. Are you really looking for Jasmer Moncraine?”

“He’s our employer,” said Sabetha. “Or at least he’s meant to be.”

“My gods above,” said Mistress Gloriano, putting her arms around the shoulders of Alondo and Jenora. “The Camorri. They’re real!”

“We’re as shocked as you, Auntie,” said Jenora.

“It’s pleasant to be thought of as such freakish wonders,” said Locke, “but we need to reach Moncraine.”

“Well, then,” said Mistress Gloriano, “all you need to do is wait for his conviction, the day after tomorrow. Then wait another year and a day, and then stand outside the Weeping Tower. He’ll be the one coming out with his right hand missing.”

“What about a solicitor?”

“We don’t exactly retain one,” said Alondo.

“Tell us what we can do, then,” said Locke. “Can we see him?”

“Oh yes, dear boy,” said Sylvanus. “Enquire after the nearest gentleman or lady of high birth and smash ’em across the teeth. You could end up sharing Jasmer’s cell.”

“Damn it,” said Locke. “No offense, but the four of you sound like you’d just as soon slit Moncraine’s throat as give him the time of day.… Is there a Moncraine Company at all? Are you putting on a play this summer? Our situation requires that we be employed, so for Perelandro’s sake be clear.”

“We’re still a company,” said Jenora, “though we’ve had some defections. Alondo, Sylvanus, and Jasmer are the remaining full players. One or two more might come back if Jasmer could show his face in public.”

“You’re not an actress?” said Jean.

“Stage-mistress,” said Jenora. “Costumes, scenery, props. If it doesn’t walk around on its own legs, it’s my business.”

“And assuming,” said Locke, “that a miracle occurred, and the gods themselves transported Moncraine out of gaol, would we have work for the summer?”

“We’ve lost some rehearsal time,” said Sylvanus, easing himself onto his back with a sigh.

“That sounds like a hint at a yes,” said Locke.

“The real problem is money,” said Mistress Gloriano. “I invested in Moncraine two years ago for my niece’s sake, and he’s still down to me for twelve royals. And I’m the least troublesome of those he’s bound to—”

“Money troubles can be finessed,” said Locke.

“There’s no credit to be had,” said Alondo. “None of us can buy so much as a grain of rice on a promise. We can find scut-work to stay fed, or even do morality plays in the streets, but the company has no funds … for scribing, for costumes, masks, lights—”

“And we have no venue, nor transport to it,” said Jenora. “There’s two rooms of old props and clothes we can work with, all stored here, but we’ll make a laughingstock of ourselves if we’re seen hauling it around on foot.”

“More of a laughingstock,” muttered Alondo.

“We have a wagon,” said Locke. “Give us a moment.” He pulled Jean and Sabetha away from the tattered remnants of the Moncraine Company.

“That’s a lot of our money sewn up in the wagon and horses,” said Jean.

“I know,” said Locke. “What if we sold two horses and kept the other pair?”

“Taking care of them is going to use up more time and money we hadn’t planned on spending,” said Sabetha.

“Yeah,” said Locke, “but if we can’t get this troupe back to work, we might as well turn around and roll straight back to Camorr. If that’s the plan, I’m sure as hell going to develop a speech impediment when we explain things to Chains.”

“Hardly our fault Moncraine punched a swell,” said Jean.

“Chains will expect more from us than a quick sniff around before we give up,” said Sabetha. “We were sent here expressly to restore Moncraine’s fortunes. We’ve got to pry him out of this mess somehow.”

“And what if we can’t?” said Jean softly.

“Then at least we tried,” said Locke. “Sabetha’s right. It’s one thing to go home with our options exhausted; it’s another to fold at the first sign of trouble.”

“We’ll need more money,” said Sabetha. “I don’t see much chance of any thoughtful schemes just yet, but pockets are pockets and purses are purses. If we—”

“No,” said Locke. “We can’t be thieves, remember? We’ve got more trouble than we bargained for just pretending to be actors.”

The expression on Sabetha’s face was so dangerous that Locke became aware of it, like the heat from an oil lamp, before he even turned to see it. He put his hands up, palms out.

“Sabetha, I know what you’re thinking.… I’ve been dwelling on what you said, believe me. I can’t insist that you follow my orders. But I am asking you to consider my points, and let me convince you.”

Her expression softened. “Maybe there’s hope for you after all,” she said. “So make your case.”

“We don’t know this place,” said Locke. “We don’t know the constables, the gangs, or the hiding places. What would we think of some asshole from the outlands trying to come it the slick coat-teaser back in Camorr? We’d laugh at the yokel and watch him hang. Well, in Espara we’re the yokels. And if we make a mistake, there’s no Secret Peace to fall back on.

“It’s not that we might not need to clutch and tease a bit,” he continued. “Just not yet. Not until we’ve learned our way around.”

“I see your point,” she said. “In fact, I’m sure you’re right. Maybe I’m a little too used to the conveniences of home.”

She put out her hand, and Locke, after a moment, smiled and shook it firmly.

“Who the hell are you people,” said Jean, “and where did you get those excellent Locke and Sabetha disguises?”

“Quit gaping, Jean. Let’s move fast,” said Sabetha sweetly. “We need horses sold, horses stabled, Moncraine freed, money changed, and rooms. And that’s just off the top of my head.”

“Mistress Gloriano,” Locke yelled, turning back toward her, “we don’t mean to put you to any trouble, but we need rooms in a hurry so we can unload our wagon.”

“You’re really staying, then?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “And keep a tab separate from the rest of the company. We’ll pay actual money.”

For a few days at least, he thought.

“Well,” said Mistress Gloriano, as though coming out of a trance. “I’ve no shortage of rooms.”

“Giacomo,” shouted Sabetha, “Castellano!”

Calo and Galdo came at a near-run and skidded to a halt in front of Sylvanus.

“These are the Asino brothers,” said Sabetha. “You two, find out where Mistress Gloriano’s putting us, and get our things heaved out of the wagon as quick as you can.”

“What, first we’re the bloody wagon guards, now we’re fuckin’ stevedores?” said Calo. “You want a foot massage and some chilled wine while you watch us work?”

“We’ve all got jobs,” said Sabetha, “and if you touch my feet I’ll cut your ears off. Move!”

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of activity for everyone except Sylvanus, for whom they were merely a blur. Jean took a moment to pitch a little tent over the prostrate actor using the wagon tarp and some sticks, and then the Gentlemen Bastards heaved their possessions into two rooms selected by Mistress Gloriano. These were fine examples of how middle age, while charming in some humans, is less endearing in wood-panel construction and unpreserved wall tapestries. The twins claimed one room, Locke and Jean the other, and Sabetha accepted Jenora’s invitation to share her room down the corridor.

Once the wagon was emptied, Jean selected the less healthy pair of horses and with Jenora’s aid got them stabled. Alondo claimed to have a cousin working as a hostler near the Jalaan Gate, so Jean enlisted the young actor to help walk the best two horses back to the caravan staging area for resale.

“Now,” Locke said to Mistress Gloriano, “we need Jasmer back. For that I think we’ll need a solicitor.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ve given Jasmer so much slack these past few years in the hope my investment might find its way home again.”

“Let him have a bit more,” said Locke. “We’re here now, for what it’s worth. And we need a Moncraine play. There’s no work for us back home.”

“I had wondered at the nature of your devotion. Jasmer’s a Syresti, you know. Capricious and moody. Barely reliable! Not an even-tempered Okanti like myself or Jenora. Let me tell you, boy, if I knew then what a hole I’d be throwing my money down—”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re quite right,” said Locke in a placating tone of voice. “But a solicitor …?”

“There is a fellow,” said Mistress Gloriano, “back up the avenue the way you came. Stay-Awake Salvard, he’s called, on account of his peculiar hours. He’s done papers for me. I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse him of being a gentleman. Works for a lot of … colorful sorts.”

“That’s good,” said Locke. “That’s great. We’re colorful sorts.”

2

“ETIENNE DELANCARRE Domingo Salvard,” said Sabetha, reading out loud from the lantern-lit plaque beside the building’s street entrance. “Master solicitor, bonded law-scribe, authorized notary, executor of wills and estates, Vadran translator and transcriber. Fortunes assured, justice delivered, enemies confounded. Reasonable rates.”

Locke and Sabetha alone had come on this errand, after washing the smell of the road from their more accessible parts and swapping their filthy caravan clothes for less offensive outfits. Salvard’s office was perched on the edge of the increasing desolation that led to Solace Hill, a way station between the couth and uncouth districts of the city.

The comfortless wooden furniture and empty walls inside seemed, to Locke’s eye, to indicate a certain desire to avoid giving rowdy clientele any objects for vandalism. A thin man with slicked-back hair sat behind a little podium, and near the stairs on the far side of the room lounged an uncommonly large woman. Her quilted black tunic had obvious armor panels behind the facing.

“Evening,” said the thin man. “Appointment?”

“Do we really need one?” said Sabetha. “We’re on urgent business.”

“Two coppins consultation fee,” said the thin man, “plus one for expedited consideration.”

“We’re just in from Camorr,” said Locke. “We haven’t changed our money yet.”

“Camorri barons accepted,” said the thin man. “One-for-one basis, plus one for changing fee.”

Locke shook four copper coins out of his purse. The clerk inked a quill and began scrawling on a card.

“Names?”

“Verena Gallante,” said Sabetha, “and Lucaza de Barra.”

“Camorri subjects?”

“Yes.”

The clerk set down his quill, slid open a hatch in the wall behind him, placed the card within this compartment, and turned a hand crank. A miniature dumbwaiter went up, and a minute later the muffled jingling of a bell could be heard from within the shaft.

“Weapons not allowed upstairs,” said the clerk, rapping his knuckles on the surface of his podium. “Cheerfully guarded here. Arms out for search.”

The big woman gave them both a thorough pat-down. A garrote or a fruit-paring blade might have slipped through, but Etienne Delancarre Domingo Salvard clearly had strong feelings about allowing anything more conveniently deadly into his presence.

“They’re clean,” said the woman, with a half-smile. “Of weapons, that is.”

“Proceed,” said the clerk, pointing to the stairs. “Pleasant consultation.”

Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office, ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.

“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse. His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk, framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage, perhaps?”

“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”

“Supply the details.”

“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.

“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”

“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.

“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”

“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.

“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”

“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”

“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”

“Our friend is … next to penniless.”

“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are quite elastic. Anything else?”

“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”

Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha. Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”

“You know him?” said Locke.

“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s your interest in his cause?”

“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived in the city.”

“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”

“Anything,” said Sabetha.

“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case, his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and—”

“We need him back now,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody.”

“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now, now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have heard of Amilio Basanti.”

“Actually, no,” said Locke.

“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn Salvard.”

“Oh,” said Sabetha.

“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could only be … chilling.”

“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.

“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it for pleasure. I enjoy annoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”

“But those excuses you just came up with—”

“Could mitigate the situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors. I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last about as long as this conversation.”

“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.

“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”

Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”

“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”

“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”

“What else?” said Locke.

“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even talk to Moncraine?”

“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”

“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”

“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”

3

A THOUSAND dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.

The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years, wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.

Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion, and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard arc of the stairs.

“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.

“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.

“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps of a pittance won’t be easy.”

“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”

“Yes,” said Locke. “I won’t do it, though.”

“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.

“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.

“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to live like this.”

What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more of a gaping jagged-sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.

Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying. They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward employment.

“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide. “Name your business.”

“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was assertive but not imperious. Locke had seen her use it before. “We’re here to speak with Jasmer Moncraine.”

“Moncraine’s not going to be entertaining for a long time,” said the guard. “What does a Camorri have to say to him?”

“We’re members of the Moncraine Company, and we need to make business arrangements now that he’s indisposed. Our solicitor advised us that we’re entitled to one audience before his trial.”

Gods, as far as Locke was concerned, watching Sabetha handle people was as good as watching any other girl in the world take off her clothes. The way she chose her words—“entitled,” not something meeker like “allowed.” And the specific mention of one audience—a signal to the guard that the rules had been researched, would be obeyed. Sabetha had asserted all their wants while giving the firmest support to the notion that she and Locke were completely enfolded in the power of the law and these guards that served it.

It turned out the woman was quite pleased to let them in. Not, of course, without an embarrassing full-body search, or their marks on parchment, or an inventory of their purses, or a forty-minute wait. But that was all for the best, Locke thought. Only prisoners were ever granted easy passage into a prison.

4

FOR THE second time that day Locke and Sabetha found themselves in a chamber cut in half by a physical barrier, but now it was bars of black iron. The audience room of the Weeping Tower had smooth stone walls and a rough stone floor, with no windows, no decorations, no furniture. The guards locked the door behind them and remained at attention in front of it.

They were made to wait another few minutes before the door on the opposite side of the room slid open. Two more guards brought in a man, manacled at hands and feet, and clipped a chain to a bolt in the floor. They attached this to the prisoner’s leg irons, giving him a range of movement that ended about two feet from the iron bars. The prisoner’s guards withdrew to a position mirroring that of the ones on Locke and Sabetha’s side of the room.

The man in chains was tall, with skin like polished boot leather and hair scraped down to a gray shadow. He was heavyset but not ponderous. The weight of his years and appetites seemed to have spread evenly, settled in all his joints and crevices, and there was still a hint of dangerous vitality to him. His eyes were wide and bright against the darkness of his face, and he fixed them hard on Locke and Sabetha as though blinking were somehow beneath his interest.

“An opportunity to walk down two flights of stairs and be chained up again,” he said. “Hooray. Who the hell are you?”

“Your new actors,” said Locke. “Your very surprised new actors.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” Moncraine’s seamed jowls moved as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Weren’t there supposed to be five of you?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be at liberty?” said Sabetha. “The other three are trying to hold your troupe together at Gloriano’s.”

“Too bad you didn’t come sooner,” said Moncraine. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to look forward to but packing for your return. Tell your master I appreciate the gesture.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Locke. “We were sent here to go on stage. We were sent here to learn from you!”

“You want a lesson, boy? If you find yourself being born, climb back in as quick as you can, because life’s a bottomless feast of shit.”

“We can get you out of here,” said Sabetha.

“If you cooperate,” said Locke.

“Oh, you can spring me, can you?” Moncraine knelt and ran one manacled hand across the floor. “You have an army of about a thousand men hidden outside the city? Let me know when they’re storming the tower, so I can be sure to have my breeches on.”

“You know our master,” said Locke, lowering his voice. “You can surely guess the nature of his students.”

“I knew your master,” said Moncraine. “Years ago. And I thought he was sending me actors. Is that what you are? Is that where the gods have reached down and touched your little Camorri souls, eh? Given you the gift of silver tongues?”

“We can act,” said Sabetha.

“Can you? But are you lions? There’s no room for any but lions in my company!” He turned his head to the guards at his door. “Lions, aren’t we boys?”

“Only if you don’t lower your fucking voice,” said one of them.

“You see? Lions! Can you roar, children?”

“Onstage and off,” said Sabetha coolly.

“Hmmm. That’s fascinating, because from where I’m sitting, you look about what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ve certainly never been wet for anything but dreams in the night, have you? Well, you might pass onstage, love … let your hair down and fly your tits like flags—you could certainly keep the groundlings awake. But you,” he said, turning to Locke. “Who are you fooling? Small-boned sparrow of a lad. Got fig seeds in your sack where men should have the full fruit, eh? Do you even shave? What the hell do you mean by coming in here and trying to shove good cheer up my ass?”

“We’re your only chance to go free,” said Locke, fuming, considering saying a number of less productive things.

“Go free? Why? I like it here. I’m fed, and my creditors can’t reach me for at least the next year. The state of Espara will stop at one hand. Hells, that’s a bargain compared to what I might get when my markers are called in on the street.”

“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” said Sabetha.

“Why do you care?” said Moncraine. “How can it possibly be of aid to you as you SCURRY BACK WHERE YOU FUCKING CAME FROM?”

“Keep your voice down,” said one of the guards. “Or you’ll have to be carried into court tomorrow.”

“You know, that might be pleasant,” said Moncraine. “Can we give that a try?”

“Jasmer,” said Sabetha sharply. “Look at me, you stupid ass.”

Jasmer did indeed look at her.

“I don’t care what you think of us,” she whispered. “You know what kind of person our master is. What kind of organization we come from. And if you don’t stop braying like a jackass, this is what’s going to happen. We’ll leave.”

“I love this plan,” said Moncraine. “Take this plan all the way!”

“You’ll spend your year and a day inside this tower. Then they’ll cut your gods-damned hand off and throw you out the door. And do you know who’ll be standing there? More Camorri than you’ve ever seen in your fucking life. Not just us, or the other three currently toiling on your behalf on the other side of this pimple of a city. I mean big, unreasonable, cross-eyed motherfuckers straight out of the wombs of hell, and they’ll take you for a ride. Locked in a box, ten days, all the way to Camorr sloshing in your own piss.”

“Now, wait a minute,” said Moncraine.

“You don’t have any other fucking creditors, get it? We’re the front of the line now. We’re all you need to worry about. You made a deal with our garrista. You know what that word means?”

“Of course—”

“Obviously you don’t! Our master sent you five of us, free and clear, ready to get your troupe back on its feet. All you had to do was teach us about your trade. You’d rather break the deal and insult a garrista. So, you have a comfortable year, you stupid clown. As soon as it’s over you’ll see us again. Come on, Lucaza.”

She turned sharply, and Locke, supporting her act wholeheartedly, favored Moncraine with a sour smirk before he did the same.

“Wait,” Jasmer hissed.

“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” Sabetha didn’t give him any more time to think or plead or stew; she whirled on him just as quickly as she’d pretended to leave.

“Boulidazi,” said Moncraine. “Baron Boulidazi of Palazzo Corsala.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I was drinking,” said Moncraine. “He wanted … he came down to Gloriano’s. He wanted to buy out my debts, install himself as the company’s patron.”

“For this you punched him in the teeth?” said Locke. “What are you going to do if we get you out of here, try to cut our hearts out?”

“Boulidazi’s an ass! A stuck-up little ass! He’s barely older than you, and he thinks he can buy and sell me like gods-damned furniture. A theatrical company with his name on everything, wouldn’t that be sweet! It took me twenty years to build my own troupe. I won’t be anyone’s hired man again. I’ll take the Weeping Tower to that, any day, any year.”

“How was assaulting him preferable to letting him save your troupe?” said Sabetha. She sounded as incredulous as Locke felt. “He doesn’t care about the troupe,” said Moncraine. “He wants it mounted on his wall like a fucking hunting trophy! He wants some charity project he can dangle at whatever gilded cunt he’s chasing to show what a sensitive and artistic fellow he is. I refuse to sell my good name to help rich puppies dip their wicks!”

“What good name?” said Locke. “Even the members of your own company want to see you get eaten by a bear.”

“And I’d be glad to supply one,” said Sabetha. “Unfortunately for everyone, we’re still going to rescue you. So I want you to sit quietly in your cell and bite your tongue.”

“Tomorrow,” said Locke, “this Baron Boulidazi will forgive your insult and decline to make charges.”

“What?” said Moncraine. “Boy, listen to me. Even if Boulidazi had a thousand cocks in his breeches and you blew every last one like a flute from sunrise to sunset—”

“He’ll forgive your insult,” said Sabetha through gritted teeth, “because that is the only possible salvation we can arrange for you. Understand? We have no other cards to play. So this is how it’ll be. Once you’re out, we’ll discuss what you need to get your Republic of Thieves back into production.”

“The trouble with this fantasy, girl, is that it requires both of us to not be mad,” said Moncraine softly.

“All it requires is that you shut up and behave,” said Sabetha. “And my name isn’t ‘girl.’ Most times you can call me Verena Gallante. But when I’m onstage, you’ll call me ‘Amadine.’ ”

“Will I?” Moncraine laughed. “That’s a presumption a few steps ahead of my grasp. You show me your mythical thread of kindness in Boulidazi. Then we’ll chat on the matter of plays.”

“Go back to your cell,” said Sabetha. “I guarantee we’ll speak again tomorrow.”

5

“EVEN IF we get him out,” said Locke, “we’ll need to put that man on a leash.”

“He’s a menace to himself and the rest of us,” said Sabetha. “When we spring him, we should crowd him. Make it clear that he’s being watched and judged at all times.”

“By the way, who’s Amadine?”

“The best role in The Republic of Thieves,” said Sabetha, grinning. “I haven’t read any of it yet.”

“You should, before all the good parts get snapped up.”

“Someone kept it to herself all the way here!”

“Moncraine’s got to have more copies of it somewhere in his troupe’s mess. Jenora might know. But first, we’ve got our miracle to deliver on.”

“Miracle indeed,” said Locke. They were moving back down the Legion Steps, through the still ranks of the marble soldiers. The drizzle had let up, but there were soft rumbles of thunder from above. “We need to reach this Boulidazi, more or less as we are, and convince him to forgive one of the craziest assholes I’ve ever met for a completely unjustified drunken assault.”

“Any ideas?”

“Uh … maybe.”

“Spit them out. I managed to shut Jasmer up long enough to make our point; I’ve earned my day’s pay.”

“And you were a pleasure to watch, too,” said Locke. “But then, you’re always—”

“You do not have the time to be charming,” said Sabetha, giving him a mild punch to the shoulder. “And I certainly don’t have time to be charmed.”

“Right. Sure,” said Locke. “We need an angle of approach. Why should he open his door for us? Hey, what if we were Camorri nobles going incognito?”

“Hiding in Espara,” she said, clearly liking the notion. “Trouble at home?”

“Hmmm. No. No, if we’re not in favor at home we can’t offer him anything. We might actually be a risk to him.”

“You’re right. Okay. You and I … are cousins,” said Sabetha. “First cousins.”

“Cousins,” said Locke. “So many gods-damned imaginary cousins. You and I are cousins.… If we have to show Jean and the Sanzas, they’re family retainers. We are, uh, grandchildren of … an old count that doesn’t get out much.”

“Blackspear,” said Sabetha. “Enrico Botallio, Count Blackspear. I was a scullery maid in his house a few years ago, that summer you spent on the farm.”

“A Five Towers family,” said Locke. “Would we live in the tower ourselves?”

“Yeah, most of his family does. And he hasn’t been out of the city in twenty years; he’s as old as Duke Nicovante. I’ll be the daughter of his oldest son … and you’re the son of his youngest. He has no other children. Oh, your father’s dead, by the way. Fell off a horse two years ago.”

“Good to know. If we need any real details of the household, I’ll pass the game to you whenever I can.” Locke snapped his fingers. “We’re in Espara because you want to indulge your wish to be onstage—”

“—which could never be allowed under my real name in Camorr!”

Sabetha had never finished one of his thoughts before, in the way that Jean did all the time. Locke felt a flush of warmth.

“That’s great,” she went on, heedless. “So we’re incognito, but with our family’s permission.”

“Thus whoever helps us makes himself a powerful and wealthy friend in Camorr.” Locke couldn’t help smiling at the improbable thought that they might have found a way out after all. “Sabetha, this is great. It’s also the thinnest line of bullshit we’ve ever hung ourselves on.”

“And we haven’t even been here a full day yet.”

“We need given names.”

“There we can be lazy. I’m Verena Botallio, you’re Lucaza Botallio.”

“Hells, yes.” Locke glanced around, affirming that they were still within the limited corridor of Espara he’d managed to half familiarize himself with. “We should head back to Gloriano’s and see how they did with the horses. Then we can go visit this Boulidazi and beg him not to think too hard about where we’ve come from.”

6

“ALONDO’S COUSIN was as good as promised,” said Jean. He waved at a young man, a bearded and heavier version of Alondo, who was sitting against the wall at the back of Gloriano’s common room, accompanied by Alondo, Sylvanus, the Sanzas, and several half-empty bottles. Nobody else new or unknown was in the room. “He got us just over a royal apiece for the horses. All it cost us was a couple bottles of wine. And, ah, I promised we’d give him a part in the play.”

“What?”

“No lines. He just wants to dress up and get stabbed, he says.”

“Just as long as he doesn’t expect to get paid,” said Sabetha.

“Not in anything except hangovers,” said Jean. “I do notice you haven’t dragged a large Syresti impresario back with you.”

“That game’s afoot,” said Locke. “Come spill your purse. Asino brothers! On your feet a moment, we’d have a word concerning finance.”

“Oh let them stay,” said Sylvanus. “This is the fun side of the room, and our young hostler was about to take hoof for more wine.”

“You’re not finished with the three bottles you have,” said Locke.

“They’re writing farewell notes to their families,” said Sylvanus. “Their holes are already dug in the ground. Oh, I suppose I really must get up before I piss, mustn’t I?” He rolled sideways in the vague direction of the door that led back to the soaked inn-yard. “Give us a hand, hostler, give us a hand. I shall go on all fours to make use of your expertise.”

“Marvelous,” said Locke, pulling Calo and Galdo to their feet. “Lovely. Are you two following Sylvanus down the vomit-strewn path?”

“We may be sociably fuzzed,” said Calo.

“A little blurry at the edges,” said Galdo.

“That’s probably for the best. I need you to come over here and dump out your purses.”

“You need us to do what now?”

“We need a flash bag,” said Sabetha.

“What the hell’s a flash bag?” said Jenora, wandering by at a moment precisely calculated to overhear what the huddled Gentlemen Bastards were up to.

“Since you ask,” said Jean, “it’s a purse of coins you throw together to make it look like you’re used to carrying around big fat sums.”

“Oh,” she said. “That must be a nice thing to have.”

Using a spare table, the five Camorri dumped out their personal funds, to which Jean added the take from the horses and Locke mixed in the remnants of the purse Chains had given them. Camorri barons, tyrins, and solons clattered against Esparan fifths and coppins.

“Get all the coppers out of the pile,” said Locke. “They’re as useless as an Asino brother.”

“Suck vinegar from my ass-crack,” said Calo.

Five pairs of hands sifted through the coins, pulling coppers aside, leaving a diminished but gleaming mass in the center.

“Copper gets split five ways so everyone’s got something,” said Locke. “Gold and silver goes in the purse.”

“Do you want Auntie to change any of that Camorri stuff for you?” said Jenora, peering over Jean’s right shoulder.

“No,” said Locke. “For the moment, it’s actually a point in our favor. What’s the flash count?”

“Five crowns, two tyrins,” said Sabetha. “And two royals, one fifth.”

“That’s more money than any of Auntie’s customers have seen in a long time,” said Jenora.

“It’s shy of what I want,” said Locke. “But it might be convincing. No journeyman actor carries around a year and a half’s pay.”

“Unless they’re not getting paid a damn thing,” said Jenora.

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow,” said Locke as he cinched the flash bag tightly closed. “Hopefully with Moncraine listening very attentively.”

“Where are you going now?” said Jean.

“To see Moncraine’s punching bag,” said Sabetha. “And if that Syresti son of a bitch can teach us better acting than what we’ll need to pull this off, he’ll actually deserve this rescue.”

“Want an escort?” said Jean.

“Based on what you’ve seen tonight,” muttered Locke, “who needs it more, Sabetha and me or the twins?”

“Good point.” Jean polished his optics against the collar of his tunic and readjusted them on his nose. “I’ll keep them out of trouble, and see if I can trick Sylvanus into sleeping indoors.”

“Where’s Palazzo Corsala?” said Sabetha to Jenora.

“That’s on the north side, the swell district. Can’t miss it. Clean streets, beautiful houses, people like Sylvanus and Jasmer beaten on sight.”

“We’ll spring for a hired coach,” said Locke. “We won’t look respectable enough without one.”

“Shall we go call on Baron Boulidazi, then?” said Sabetha.

“Yes,” said Locke. “No. Wait. We’ve forgotten one terribly important thing. Let’s run back up to Stay-Awake Salvard and hope he’s still feeling sympathetic.”

7

“TRADESFOLK ENTRANCE is around back,” growled the tree trunk of a man who opened Boulidazi’s front door. “Tradesfolk hours are—”

“What kind of tradesman hires a coach-and-four to make his rounds?” said Locke, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Their hired carriage was waiting beyond the rows of alchemically miniaturized olive trees that screened Boulidazi’s manor from the street. The driver hadn’t liked their clothes, but their silver had vouched for them quite adequately.

“Pray give your master this,” said Sabetha, holding out a small white card. This had been scrounged from the office of Stay-Awake Salvard, who had bemusedly agreed to charge them a few coppins for it and some ink.

The servant glanced at the card, glared at them, then glanced at the card again. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.

Several minutes went by. The slow drip of water from the canvas awning above their head became a soft, steady drumbeat as the rain picked up again. At last, the door creaked open and a rectangle of golden light from inside the house fell over them.

“Come,” said the bulky servant. Two more men waited behind him, and for an instant Locke feared an ambush. However, these servants wielded nothing more threatening than towels, which they used to wipe Locke and Sabetha’s shoes dry.

Baron Boulidazi’s house was unexceptional, among those of its type that Locke had seen. It was comfortable enough, furnished to show off disposable wealth, but there was no grand and special something, no “hall-piece” as they were often called, to evoke wonder from freshly arrived guests.

The servant took them out of the foyer, through a sitting hall, and into a warmly lit room with felt-padded walls. A blandly handsome man of about twenty, with neck-length black hair and close-set dark eyes, was leaning against a billiards table with a stick in his hands. The white card was on the table.

“The Honorable Verena Botallio and companion,” said the servant without enthusiasm. He left the room immediately.

“Of the Isla Zantara?” said Boulidazi, more warmly. “I’ve just read your card. Isn’t that part of the Alcegrante?”

“It is, Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, giving the slight nod and half-curtsy that was usual in Camorr for an informal noble reception. “Have you ever been there?”

“To Camorr? No, no. I’ve always wanted to visit, but I’ve never had the privilege.”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, “may I present my cousin, the Honorable Lucaza Botallio?”

“Your cousin, eh?” said Boulidazi, nodding as Locke bowed his head. The Esparan lord offered his hand. As they shook, Locke noted that Boulidazi was solidly built, much the same size as Alondo’s hostler cousin, and he didn’t hold back the strength in his grip.

“Thank you for receiving us,” said Locke. “We would have both sent our cards, but only Verena is carrying one, I’m afraid.”

“Oh? You weren’t robbed or anything, I suppose? Is that why you’ve come dressed as you are? Forgive my mentioning it.”

“No, we haven’t been mistreated,” said Sabetha. “And there’s nothing to forgive; we’re not traveling in our usual capacity. We’re incognito, with just a bodyguard and a pair of servants, though we’ve left them behind for the moment.”

“Incognito,” said Boulidazi. “Are you in some sort of danger?”

“Not in the slightest,” said Sabetha with a laugh. She then turned and feigned surprise (Locke was confident that only long familiarity allowed him to spot the fact that it was a willful change) at the sight of a saber resting in its scabbard on a witchwood display shelf. “Is that what I think it is?”

“What, exactly, do you think it is?” said Boulidazi, and it seemed to Locke that he was a touch more curt than before.

“Surely it’s a DiVorus? The seal on the hilt—”

“It is,” said Boulidazi, instantly losing his tone of impatience. “One of his later blades, but still—”

“I trained with a DiVorus,” said Sabetha, poising one hand above the hilt of the saber. “The Voillantebona rapier. Don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t mine. My instructor’s. I still remember the balance, and the patterns in the steel … your hilt looks honorably stained. I assume you practice with it?”

“Often,” said Boulidazi. “This one’s called Drakovelus. It’s been in my family for three generations. It suits my style—not the fastest on the floor, but when I do move I can put a bit of strength behind it.”

“The saber rewards a sturdy handler,” said Sabetha.

“We’re neglecting your cousin,” said Boulidazi. “Forgive me, Lucaza, please don’t allow my enthusiasms to shove you aside from the conversation.”

“Not at all, Lord Boulidazi. I’ve had my years with the fencing masters, of course, but Verena’s the connoisseur in the family.”

Boulidazi’s heavy servant returned and whispered into the baron’s ear. Locke silently counted to ten before the servant finished. The big man withdrew again, and the baron stared at Locke.

“You know, I just now recall,” he said. “Botallio … isn’t that one of the Five Towers clans?”

“Of course,” said Sabetha.

“And yet you give your address as the Isla Zantara,” said Boulidazi.

“I’m fond of Grandfather,” said Sabetha. “But surely you can understand how someone my age might prefer a little manor of her own.”

“And your grandfather …” said Boulidazi expectantly.

“Don Enrico Botallio.”

“Better known as Count Blackspear?” said Boulidazi, still cautiously.

“Verena’s father is Blackspear’s eldest son,” said Locke. “I’m the son of his youngest.”

“Oh? I believe I might have heard something of your father, Lucaza,” said the baron. “I do hope that he’s well?”

Locke felt a surge of relief that they’d pretended to be from a family Sabetha had knowledge of. Boulidazi obviously had access to some sort of directory of Camorri peers. Locke allowed himself to look crestfallen for just an instant, and then put on an obviously forced smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”

“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when you—”

“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin, “the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances, as guests in your house?”

“Oh—vulgar, oh no, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state. We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”

“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”

The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.

“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a while. Let’s have some chairs.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating aspect as easily as removing a hat.

“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” said Boulidazi. “My parents … well, it was just last year. I can’t really think of the study as my room quite yet.”

“I know how it is,” said Locke. “You inherit the memories of a house as well as its stones. I didn’t touch anything in my father’s library for months.”

“I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.

“Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.

“While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir, is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair of Honorables.”

Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set down next to the billiards table.

Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper, guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training had given them a remarkable freedom of action.

Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.

“Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants—damn!”

Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.

“Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up, and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.

“Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your game.”

“It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair. “And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Well, we’re obliged to you,” said Locke, relieved that he could escape without surrendering any of the flash bag funds. All Boulidazi had to do was believe that money was no real object to them.

“Now,” said Sabetha, “I suppose you’d like to find out why we’ve come to you.”

“Of course,” said Boulidazi. “But first, why not tell me what it would please you to be called, if not Dona Botallio?”

“That’s easy,” said Sabetha, flashing a smile that hit Locke like a boot to the chest even though he wasn’t positioned to catch its full effect. “You should call me Verena.”

“Verena,” said the baron. “Then I beg that you’ll call me Gennaro, and let no more ‘Lord Boulidazis’ clutter the air between us.”

“With pleasure,” said Sabetha.

“Gennaro,” said Locke, “we’re here to discuss the situation of a man named Jasmer Moncraine.”

“What?”

“To put it even more plainly,” said Sabetha, “we’ve come to ask that you decline to state your charges against him.”

“You want me to forgive him?”

“Or appear to,” said Sabetha sweetly.

“That arrogant pissant struck me before witnesses,” said Boulidazi. “With the back of his hand! You can’t expect me to believe that a Camorri would bear such a thing, were either of you in my place!”

“If I had nothing to win by a display of mercy,” said Locke, “I’d have whipped the stupid bastard’s face into bloody mince. And if none of us stood to gain right now, I’d go to court with you merely for the pleasure of hearing the sentence read.”

“We’re not strangers to Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “We’ve been to see him at the Weeping Tower—”

“Why?”

“Please,” said Sabetha, “just listen. We know what a fool he is. We’re not here to discuss the brighter facets of his character, because we know he doesn’t have any, and we’re not asking for mercy for its own sake. We’d like to propose a mutually profitable arrangement.”

“How could I possibly profit,” said Boulidazi, “by accepting disgrace in front of the entire city?”

“First, tell us: Were you serious about wanting to fund Moncraine’s troupe and buy out his debts?” said Locke.

“I was,” said the baron. “I certainly was, until he decided to thank me by lunging at me like an ape.”

“Why did you make the offer?”

“I grew up attending his plays,” said Boulidazi. “Mother loved the theater. Moncraine really used to be something, back before … well, years ago.”

“And you wanted to be a patron,” said Locke.

“All my family money is sitting safe in vaults, gathering dust and shitting interest. I thought I’d do something meaningful for a change. Pick Moncraine up, run things properly, associate my name with something.” Boulidazi drummed his fingers against one arm of his chair. “What the hell can Moncraine possibly mean to you?”

“I came here to be part of his troupe for the summer,” said Sabetha. “I, ah, I have a certain inclination. It’s awkward to talk about myself, though. Lucaza, would you?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Cousin Verena has always loved the theater, as much of it as she could get in Camorr. Grandfather’s hired players a dozen times for her. But she’s always wanted to be on stage. To act. And that’s just not done.”

“If I’d taken up alchemy,” said Sabetha, “or gardening, or painting, or investment, that’d be fine. I could even ride off to war, if we had ever had any. But noble heirs don’t go onstage, not in Camorr.”

“Not if they want to inherit,” said Locke. “And grandfather won’t be with us forever. After him it’s uncle, and after uncle it’s Verena.”

“Countess Blackspear, eh?” said Boulidazi.

“Whether or not we keep Blackspear is up to the duke; the Five Towers are his to dispose of. But our lands wouldn’t go anywhere. If Blackspear was rescinded, I’d be countess of the old family estates.”

“So you’ve come here posing as an actress to avoid a scandal in Camorr.”

“You understand perfectly,” said Sabetha. “Verena Gallante can have a summer or two onstage in Espara, and then Verena Botallio can go back to being respectable back home. That’s the bargain I struck with Father, also provided Lucaza and a few trusted men came along to keep an eye on me.”

“And that’s the understanding we had with Moncraine,” said Locke. “We’d furnish several actors, and he’d make use of us in a play. Imagine our surprise when we arrived this afternoon to discover the situation.”

“Imagine my surprise when Moncraine attacked me!” said Boulidazi. “You’re putting me between two fires, my friends. I can protect my dignity according to the laws and customs of Espara, or I can grant this request, to which I would normally be very happily disposed. I can’t do both.”

“If you withdrew from chastising Moncraine out of cowardice or indifference,” said Sabetha, “then I agree, your behavior would be improper. But what if your peers could see that you had forgiven him for the sake of a greater design?”

“Mercy,” said Locke, bringing his hands slowly together as though squeezing his words into one mass as he spoke them, “ambition, artistry, and good old-fashioned financial sense. All at once.”

“Moncraine wants nothing to do with me,” said Boulidazi, “and I’m pleased to return the sentiment. Let the bastard rot for a year and a day. Maybe he’ll grow some discretion when he loses his hand.”

“I don’t have a year and a day, Gennaro,” said Sabetha.

“Then why not see Basanti? He’s the success. Built his own theater, even. I’m sure he’d put you onstage in a heartbeat. You’re certainly, uh …”

“Yes?”

“You’d certainly have a great many eyes following you attentively, if you’ll pardon my boldness.”

“Pardon gladly extended. But if Basanti’s really the thing, why didn’t you approach him about a partnership rather than Moncraine?”

“Basanti has no need of a bandage on his finances. Besides, there’s nothing to build where he’s concerned. It’s hard to take credit for something already achieved.”

“Believe it or not, we feel much the same about Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “He’s a means to an end. Forgive him. Let him go free, and I guarantee he’ll accept your patronage.”

“What makes you assume I’m still willing to offer it?”

“Come now, Gennaro,” said Sabetha, deepening her voice a little, adopting a slightly teasing tone. “Don’t punish yourself for Moncraine’s stupidity. Your plan was a good one.”

“If you help us in this,” said Locke, “you’ll have him entirely in your power. Financial debt and moral debt, and you’ll have us to keep him in line.”

“The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company,” said Sabetha.

“Or the Boulidazi-Moncraine Company,” said Locke.

“I’ll look weak,” said the baron, but his voice had the wavering quality of a man nearly ready to go over the edge of the precipice they were nudging him toward.

“You’ll look clever,” Locke said. “Hells, you’ll look like you might have planned the whole thing all along to stir up notice!”

“That’s marvelous!” said Sabetha. “At the end of the summer, after we’ve whipped satisfaction out of Moncraine, you let slip that the whole affair was just a ploy for attention. That’s the payoff for a little bit of pain in court tomorrow! Basanti will be forgotten in a moment, and all the city’s admiration will settle on what you’ve done.”

“You’ll look like a bloody genius,” said Locke, immensely pleased with himself.

“The Boulidazi-Moncraine company,” said the baron. “It does have a certain … weight. A certain noble ring to it.”

“Help me have a season or two in the lights,” said Sabetha. “Then bring the company touring to Camorr. We’ll introduce you to Grandfather, all the counts and countesses, the duke …”

“They could play all the Five Towers in turn,” said Locke. “The rooftop gardens. Verena and I would have to disappear as actors, of course, but we’d be delighted to attend the shows as your hosts.”

“Isn’t that worth temporary inconvenience?” said Sabetha with a smile that could have coaxed steam out of ice.

“I will require … a moment to reflect,” said Boulidazi.

“Shall we leave you alone?” said Sabetha, rising partway from her chair.

“Yes, for but a moment. Tymon will fetch you anything you desire in the reception hall.”

Locke rose as well, but Boulidazi held up a hand.

“Not you, Lucaza, if you please. I’d appreciate a word.”

Locke sank back into his chair, stole a brief glance at Sabetha, and caught the slightest hint of a nod from her. She withdrew the way she and Locke had come.

“Lucaza,” said the baron, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “I hope that I might be forgiven this liberty; I know that Camorri are not to be trifled with in matters touching family honor, and I mean no offense.”

“Truly, Gennaro, we’ve asked for a favor tomorrow in exchange for promises that will take months or years to fully play out. I doubt you could find two people in Espara more difficult to offend than Verena or myself at this moment.”

“You’re both so well spoken,” said Boulidazi. “I can see why you’d want to dabble on the stage. But now let me have your confidence. Your cousin … has an aspect that blossoms upon consideration. When she entered this room she was merely pretty, but after watching her, listening to her … I feel as though the air has been taken straight out of my lungs.”

Locke felt as though the air had been taken straight out of his lungs.

“Tell me, please,” said Boulidazi, clearly noticing the change in Locke’s demeanor as Locke fought for self-control. “Does she really love the theater? And bladework?”

“She, uh, lives for them,” said Locke.

“Are you betrothed to her?”

Locke was overwhelmed by a flurry of immediate reactions; the urge to stand up, say yes, slap Boulidazi across the face, grab him by his hair, and dig wide furrows in the felt of his billiards table using his teeth … Then came the secondary calculations like a bucket of cold water: Boulidazi would kill him, Sabetha would gladly help, the intrusion of his personal jealousy into his professional character would doom the Gentlemen Bastards to utter failure.

“No,” he said, almost calmly, “no, I’ve been meant for someone else … since I was barely old enough to walk. We’ll wed when she comes of age.”

“And Verena?” said Boulidazi.

(Another less than helpful flash from Locke’s imagination, protesting what his higher reasoning knew to be unavoidable. Jean Tannen smashing in through a back door, hoisting Boulidazi over his head, slamming him down across the billiards table … Why were all his fantasies so calamitous for that table, which had done him no injury? And gods damn it anyway, it was never going to happen!)

“Unattached,” said Locke, hating the word even as he brought it forth. “Father and Grandfather have always felt that Verena … is a fruit best left hanging, uh, until they know how she might be most advantageously … plucked.”

“Thank you,” said the baron. “Thank you! That’s … welcome news. I hope you won’t think of me as, as grasping beyond my station, Lucaza. I come from a long and honorable line. I hold several estates with secure incomes. I’ve much to offer by way of … of a match.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Locke slowly. “Were she pleased, and with Count Blackspear’s consent.”

“Yes, yes. With the family’s blessing … and were she pleased.” Boulidazi ran a hand through his hair and made nervous, meaningless adjustments to his white silk neck-cloth. “I’ll do it, Lucaza. I’ll forgive Moncraine, and trust you to keep him under my thumb. I’ll provide whatever you need to settle his debts and tame his troupe. All I ask …”

“Yes?”

“Help me,” said Boulidazi. “Help me show Verena my quality. My honorable intentions. Teach me how I might better please her. Advise her favorably on my behalf.”

“If Moncraine goes free …”

“He will,” said Boulidazi. “He won’t be at the Weeping Tower a moment longer than he has to be.”

“Then I am your man,” said Locke softly, fighting back further visions of Gennaro Boulidazi spitting up fragments of his billiards table. “I am for you, my friend.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: COUNTERMOVE

1

“WHAT THE HELL’S the matter with us, Jean?” Locke rubbed his eyes and noticed certain discomforts in his gut and around his ankles, in that order. “She’s rolled us up like a couple of old tents. And what the fuck are these things on my legs?”

Just above his feet, his thin, pale ankles were encircled by bands of iron. The manacles were loose enough to let blood flow, but weighed about five pounds apiece.

“I imagine they’re to discourage us from swimming,” said Jean. “Aren’t they thoughtful? They match your eyes.”

“The bars across the windows aren’t enough, eh? Gods above, my stomach feels like it’s trying to eat the rest of me.”

Locke made a more thorough examination of their surroundings. Cushions, shelves, silks, and lanterns—the cabin was fit for the duke of Camorr. There was even a little rack of books and scrolls next to Jean.

“Look what she left sitting out for us,” said Jean. He tossed Locke the leather-bound book he’d been reading. It was an aged quarto with gold leaf alchemically embossed into three lines on the cover:

THE REPUBLIC OF THIEVES

A TRUE AND TRAGIC HISTORY

CAELLIUS LUCARNO

“Ohhh,” said Locke softly, setting the book aside. “That beauty has a bitch streak as wide as ten rivers.”

“How’d she drug you?” said Jean.

“Quite embarrassingly.”

There was a knock at the cabin door. It opened a moment later, and down the steps came a spry, long-legged fellow with the tan of many active years sunk into his lean features.

“Hello, boys,” said the stranger. He had a faint Verrari accent. “Welcome aboard the Volantyne’s Resolve. Solus Volantyne, at your service. And I do mean that! You boys are our first and only business on this trip.”

“Whatever you’re being paid,” said Locke, “we can double it if you turn this ship around right now.”

“Our mutual friend told me that was probably the first thing you’d say, Master Lazari.”

Locke cracked his knuckles and glared. He had to give Sabetha credit for at least preserving their false identities, but he didn’t want to have any kind thoughts toward her at the moment.

“I’m inclined to agree with her suggestion,” continued Volantyne, “that I’m rather more likely to enjoy success and fair compensation in partnership with the woman who’s still at liberty, rather than the two men she brought to me in chains.”

“We can triple her payment,” said Locke.

“A man who’d trade a sure fortune for the promises of an angry prisoner is far too stupid to be the captain of his own ship,” said Volantyne.

“Well, hells,” said Locke. “If you won’t turn coat, can you at least get me some ship’s biscuit or something?”

“Our mutual friend said that food would be the second thing on your mind.” Volantyne folded his arms and smiled. “But we’re not eating ship’s biscuit on this leg of the trip. We’re eating fresh-baked pepper bread, and goose stuffed with honey-glazed olives, and boiled lake frogs in brandy and cream.”

“I got hit on the head somehow,” said Locke. “This is the stupidest dream I’ve had in years, isn’t it?”

“No dream, my friend. We’ve been set up with a cook so good I’d fuck him six days a week just to keep him aboard, if only I liked men. But he’s another gift paid for by our mutual friend. Come on deck and let me explain the conditions of your passage. You lucky, lucky sons of bitches!”

On deck, Locke could see that the Volantyne’s Resolve was a two-masted brig with her rigging in good order; her sails were neither straight from the yard nor frayed to threads. About two dozen men and women had been formed up to watch Locke and Jean emerge from the great cabin. Most of them had the tan, rangy look of sailors, but a few of the heavier ones, big-boned land animals for sure, looked like freshly hired muscle.

“This is the easiest cruise we’ve ever been given,” said Volantyne. “We’re headed west, up the Cavendria and out to sea. We’ll have an autumn excursion for a month, then we’ll turn round and take it slow and easy back to Karthain. You gentlemen will enjoy a luxurious cabin, books to read, fine meals. The wines we’ve laid in for the voyage will make you think you’re royalty. All this, on one condition only—good behavior.”

“I can pay,” said Locke, raising his voice to a shout, “three times what each of you is receiving now! You would have it merely for getting us back to Karthain! Two days’ work, rather than two months!”

“Now, sir,” said Volantyne, looking cross for the first time, “that’s not good behavior at all. Any further talk in that vein will get you sent down to the hold. There’s two ways to make this trip—with free limbs and full stomachs, or cinched up tight in darkness, let out once a day to eat and piss. I’m to take the tenderest care with your lives, but your liberty can go straight overboard if you give us trouble.”

“What about these things around our ankles?” said Locke.

“Shields from temptation,” said Volantyne.

“Gah,” Locke muttered. “Also, where’s this food—”

“Sirs, the thousand apologies,” cried a man in a stained brown robe who came stumbling up from below via the main deck hatch. He was pale, with grayish-blond hair, and carried a silver tray set with a plain iron tureen and several loaves of bread. “I have the foods!”

“This famous cook of yours is a Vadran?” said Jean.

“Yes, I know,” said Volantyne, “but you must trust me. Adalric was trained in Talisham, and he knows his business.”

“The oysters, in sauce from ale has I boiled,” said the cook.

He held the tray out to Locke, and the scents of fresh food were as good as a fist to the jaw.

“Um, discussion of the situation,” said Locke, “can recommence in about half an hour.”

“So long as you quit trying to bribe my crew, you may speak as you please, honored passengers,” said Volantyne.

2

AS THE first day passed, and the second, it became clear that their situation was both the most comfortable and the most vexing imprisonment Locke could have imagined.

Their meals were plentiful and magnificent, the wine better even than promised, the ale fresh and sweet, and their requests were taken up without hesitation or complaint.

“These bastards have made their fortunes on this venture,” said Jean, over the remnants of lunch on the second day. “Isn’t that right, shipmates? It’s the only possible explanation for our treatment. A pile of gold in every pocket.”

Every meal was eaten in the presence of at least four attendants, silent and polite and utterly vigilant. Every knife and fork was counted, every scrap and bone was collected. Locke could have palmed any number of useful items, but there was no point to it, not until the other difficulties of their situation could be surmounted.

Their bedding was turned out and replaced each day, and they were kept on deck while it happened. Locke could see just enough of the activity within the cabin to depress his spirits. All of their books were given a shake, their chests were opened and searched, their hammocks scoured, the floor planks examined in minute detail. By the time they were let back in, everything was restored to its proper place and the cabin was as fresh as if it had never been used, but it was useless to hide anything.

They were searched several times each day, and weren’t even permitted to wear shoes. The only extraneous object they possessed, in fact, was Jean’s tightly bound lock of Ezri’s hair. Locke was surprised to see it on the morning of their third day.

“I had a few words with Sabetha, after her people finally knocked me down.” Jean lay in his hammock, idly turning the hair over and over in his hands. “She said that some courtesies were not to be refused.”

“Did she say anything else? About me, or for me?”

“I think she’s said everything she means to say, Locke. This ship’s as good as a farewell note.”

“She must have given Volantyne and his crew ten pages of directions concerning us.”

“Even their little boat is lashed tighter than usual, as though some god might reach down and snatch it off the deck,” said Jean casually.

“Oh really?” Locke slipped out of his hammock, crept over to Jean’s side of the cabin, and lowered his voice. “On the larboard side of the main deck? You think we could make something of it?”

“We’d never have time to hoist it properly. But if we could weaken the ropes, and if the deck was pitching …”

“Shit,” said Locke. “Once we hit the Cavendria, we’ll be steady as a cup of tea until we’re out the other side. How many of our friends do you figure we could handle at once?”

“How many could I handle at once? Let’s be pragmatic and say three. I’m pretty sure I could club the whole crew down one or two at a time if nobody raised an alarm, but you’ve seen their habits. They never work alone. I’m not sure the brute force approach will get us very far.”

“You know, it certainly would be nice to receive an unannounced visit from our benefactor Patience,” said Locke. “Or anyone associated with her. Right about now. Or … now!”

“I think we’re on our own,” said Jean. “I’m sure someone or something is watching us, but Sabetha put us here. It seems within the rules as Patience explained them.”

“I wonder if her Bondsmagi would be so sporting.”

“Well, there is a bright side. We’re eating well enough. You’re not looking like such a wrenched-out noodle anymore.”

“That’s great, Jean. I’m not just exiled; I’m being plumped up for slaughter. Suppose there’s any chance we might run into Zamira if we reach the Sea of Brass?”

“What the hell would she be doing back up here so soon after everything that happened?” Jean yawned and stretched. “The Poison Orchid’s as likely to come over the horizon and save us as I am to give birth to a live albatross.”

“It was just an idle thought,” said Locke. “A damned pleasing idle thought. So, I suppose we pray for heavy weather.”

“And worry about cutting some ropes,” said Jean. “Ideas?”

“I could have a makeshift knife on an hour’s notice. So long as I knew it would be used before they turned our cabin over the next day.”

“Good. And what about our ankle manacles? You’ve always been better with that sort of thing than I have.”

“The mechanisms are delicate. I could come up with bone splinters small enough to fit, but those are brittle. One snap and they’d jam up the locks for good.”

“Then we might just have to bear them until we can hit land,” said Jean. “Well, first things first. We need to be within reasonable distance of a beach, and we need a rolling deck, and we need to not be tied up in the hold when our chance comes.”

3

THE SKY turned gray again that night, and ominous clouds boiled on the horizons, but the gentle rolling of the Amathel barely tilted the deck of the Resolve in one direction or another. Locke spent several hours leaning against the main deck rails, feigning placidity, straining secretly for any glimpse of a bolt of lightning or an oncoming thunderhead. The only lights to be seen, however, were the ghostly flickerings from within the black depths of the lake, twinkling like constellations of fire.

Their progress was slow. The strange autumn winds were against them much of the time, and with no mages to shape the weather to their taste, they had to move by tack after long, slow tack to the southwest. Volantyne and his crew seemed to care not a whit. Whether they sailed half the world or half a mile, their pay would be the same.

On the night of their fourth day, Locke caught flashes of whitish yellow illuminating the southern horizon, but his excitement died when he realized that he was looking at Lashain.

On the fifth day they picked up speed, and the capricious winds grew stronger. The whole sky bruised over with promising clouds, and just after noon the first drops of cool rain began to fall. Locke and Jean retreated to their cabin, trying to look innocent. They buried themselves in books and idle conversation, glancing out the cabin window every few moments, watching in mutual satisfaction as the troughs between the waves deepened and the strands of foam thickened at their crests.

At the third hour of the afternoon, with the rain steady and the lake rolling at four or five feet, Adalric came to their door to receive instructions for dinner.

“Perhaps the soup of the veal, masters?”

“By all means,” said Locke. If any chance to escape was coming, he wanted to face it with at least one more of the Vadran prodigy’s feasts shoved down his gullet.

“And how about chicken?” said Jean.

“I’ll do one the murder right away.”

“Dessert too,” said Locke. “Let’s have a big one tonight. Storms make me hungry.”

“I have a cake of the honey and ginger,” said Adalric.

“Good man,” said Jean. “And let’s have some wine. Two bottles of sparkling apple, eh?”

“Two bottles,” said the cook. “I has it brung to you.”

“Decent fellow, for all that he tramples the language,” said Locke when the door had closed behind the cook. “I hate to take advantage of him.”

“He won’t miss us if we slip away,” said Jean. “He’s got the whole crew to appreciate him. You know what sort of slop they’d be gagging down if he wasn’t aboard.”

Locke went on deck a few minutes later, letting the rain soak him as he stood by the foremast, feigning indifference as the deck rolled slowly from side to side. It was a gentle motion as yet, but if the weather continued to pick up it was a very promising trend indeed.

“Master Lazari!” Solus Volantyne came down from the quarterdeck, oilcloak fluttering. “Surely you’d be more comfortable in your cabin?”

“Perhaps our mutual friend neglected to tell you, Captain Volantyne, that Master Callas and myself have been at sea. Compared to what we endured down in the Ghostwinds, this is invigorating.”

“I do know something of your history, Lazari, but I’m also charged with your safety.”

“Well, until someone takes these damned bracelets off my ankles I can’t exactly swim to land, can I?”

“And what if you catch cold?”

“With Adalric aboard? He must have possets that would drive back death itself.”

“Will you at least consent to an oilcloak, so you look like less of a crazy landsman?”

“That’d be fine.”

Volantyne summoned a sailor with a spare cloak, and Locke resumed talking as he fastened it over his shoulders. “Now, pardon my ignorance, but where the hell are we, anyway?”

“Forty miles due west of Lashain, give or take a hair in any direction.”

“Ah. I thought I spotted the city last night.”

“We’re not making good westward progress. If I had a schedule to keep I’d be in a black mood, but thanks to you, we’re in no hurry, are we?”

“Quite. Are those heavier storms to the south?”

“That shadow? That’s a lee shore, Master Lazari. A damned lee shore. We’re eight or nine miles off the southern coast of the Amathel, and fighting to get no closer. If we can punch through this mess and claw another twenty or thirty miles west-nor’west, we should be clear straight to the Cavendria, and from there it’s like a wading pond all the way to the Sea of Brass.”

“Well, that’s good to hear,” said Locke. “Rest assured, I’ve got absolutely no interest in drowning.”

4

DINNER WAS excellent and productive. Four of Volantyne’s sailors watched from the corners of the cabin while Locke and Jean packed away soup, chicken, bread, cake, and sparkling apple wine. Just after opening the second bottle, however, Locke signaled Jean that he was about to have a clumsy moment.

Timing himself to the sway of the ship, Locke swept the new bottle off the table. It landed awkwardly and broke open, spilling cold frothing wine across his bare feet. Realizing that the bottle hadn’t shattered into the selection of knife-like shards he’d hoped for, he managed to drop his wineglass as well, with more satisfactory results.

“Ah, shit, that was good stuff,” he said loudly, slipping off his chair and crouching above the mess. He waved his hands over it, as though unsure of what to do, and in an instant a long, sturdy piece of glass was shifted from his palm to his tunic-sleeve. It was delicate work; a red stain beneath the cloth would surely draw attention.

“Don’t,” said one of the sailors, waving for one of his companions to go on deck. “Don’t touch anything. We’ll get it for you.”

Locke put his hands up and took several careful steps back.

“I’d call for more wine,” said Jean, hoisting his own glass teasingly, “but it’s possible you’ve had enough.”

“That was the motion of the ship,” said Locke.

The missing guard returned with a brush and a metal pan. He quickly swept up all the fragments.

“We’ll scrub the deck when we give the cabin a turn tomorrow, sir,” said one of the sailors.

“At least it smells nice,” said Locke.

The guards didn’t search him. Locke admired the deepening darkness through the cabin window and allowed himself the luxury of a faint smirk.

When the remains of dinner were cleared (every knife and fork and spoon accounted for) and the cabin was his and Jean’s again, Locke carefully drew out the shard of glass and set it on the table.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Jean.

“It needs some binding,” said Locke. “And I know just where to get it.”

While Jean leaned against the cabin door, Locke used the glass shard to carefully worry the inside front cover of the copy of The Republic of Thieves. After a few minutes of slicing and peeling, he produced an irregular patch of the binding leather and a quantity of the cord that had gone into the spine of the volume. He nestled the glass fragment inside the leather and wrapped it tightly around the edges, creating something like a tiny handsaw. The leather-bound side could be safely nestled against the palm of a hand, and the cutting edge of the shard could be worked against whatever needed slicing.

“Now,” said Locke softly, holding his handiwork up to the lantern-light and examining it with a mixture of pride and trepidation, “shall we take a turn on deck and enjoy the weather?”

The weather had worsened agreeably to a hard-driving autumn rain. The Amathel was whipped up to waves of six or seven feet, and lightning flashed behind the ever-moving clouds.

Locke and Jean, both wearing oilcloaks, settled down against the inner side of the jolly boat lashed upside-down to the main deck. It was about fifteen feet long, of the sort usually hung at a ship’s stern. Locke supposed that the urgent need to put the iron bars around the windows of the great cabin had forced the crew to shift the boat. It was secured to the deck via lines and ring-bolts; nothing that a crew of sailors couldn’t deal with in just a few minutes, but if he and Jean tried to free the boat conventionally it would take far too long to escape notice. Cutting was the answer—weaken the critical lines, wait for a fortuitous roll of the ship, heave the jolly boat loose, and then somehow join it after it pitched over the side.

Jean sat placidly while Locke worked with the all-important glass shard—five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes. Locke’s oilcloak was a blessing, making it possible to conceal the activity, but the need to hold the arm and shoulder still put all the burden on wrist and forearm. Locke worked until he ached, then carefully passed the shard to Jean.

“You two seem strangely heedless of the weather,” shouted Volantyne, moving past with a lantern. He studied them, his eyes flicking here and there for anything out of place. Eventually he relaxed, and Locke’s heart resumed its usual duties.

“We’re still warm from dinner, Captain,” said Jean. “And we’ve lived through storms on the Sea of Brass. This is a fine diversion from the monotony of our cabin.”

“Monotony, perhaps, but also security. You may remain for now, so long as you continue to stay out of the way. We’ll have business with the sails soon enough. If we find ourselves much closer to shore, I shall require you to go below.”

“Having problems?” said Locke.

“Damned nuisance of a wind from the north and the northwest—seems to veer however’s least convenient. We’re five miles off the beach where we should be ten.”

“We are your most loyal and devoted articles of ballast, Captain,” said Locke. “Let us digest a bit longer and maybe we’ll scuttle back inside.”

As soon as Volantyne stepped away, Locke felt Jean get back to work.

“We don’t have much time,” muttered Jean. “And one or two uncut lines are as good as twenty; some things don’t break for any man’s strength.”

“I’ve done some real damage to my side,” said Locke. “All we can do is keep it up as long as possible.”

The minutes passed; sailors came and went on deck, checking for faults everywhere but directly behind the two men working desperately to cause one. The ship rolled steadily from side to side, lightning flared on every horizon, and Locke found himself growing more and more tense as the minutes passed. If this failed, he had no doubt that Volantyne’s threat to seal them up in one of the holds would be carried out immediately.

“Oh, hells,” muttered Jean. “Feel that?”

“Feel what? Oh, damn.” The ship had tilted to starboard, and the weight of the jolly boat was pressing more firmly against Locke’s back and shoulders. The lines holding it down were starting to give way sooner than he’d expected. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Hold on,” muttered Jean. The ship tilted to larboard, and there was the faintest scraping noise against the deck. Locke prayed that the tumult of the weather would drown it out for anyone not sitting directly against the boat.

Like a pendulum, the ship swung to starboard again, and this time the scraping noise rose to a screech. The press against Locke’s back became ominous, and something snapped loudly just behind him.

“Shit,” whispered Jean, “up and over!”

The two Gentlemen Bastards turned and scrambled over the back of the jolly boat at the moment its restraints completely gave way. Locke and Jean rolled off the boat with an embarrassing want of smoothness, landed hard, and the jolly boat took off across the deck, screeching and sliding toward the starboard rail.

“Ha-ha!” Locke yelled, unable to contain himself. “We’re off!”

The jolly boat slammed against the starboard rail and came to a dead stop.

“Balls,” said Locke, not quite as loudly. An instant later, the ship heeled to larboard, and Locke realized that he and Jean were directly in the only path the jolly boat could take when it slid back down the tilting deck. He gave Jean a hard shove to the left, and rolled clear the other way. A moment later the boat scraped and scudded across the deck between them, gathering momentum as it went. Locke turned, certain that it should go over the side this time—

With a creaking thump, the boat landed hard against the larboard rail. Although the rail bent, it didn’t give way completely, and the upside-down boat remained very much out of the water.

“Perelandro’s dangling cock!” Locke yelled, lurching to his feet.

“What the hells do you two think you’re doing?” Solus Volantyne came leaping adroitly across the main deck, lantern still in hand.

“Your boat’s come free! Help us!” yelled Jean. A moment later he seemed to think better of subterfuge, walloped Volantyne across the jaw with a right hook, and grabbed the lantern as the captain went down.

“Jean! Behind you!” Locke yelled, dodging the boat for a second time as the deck tilted yet again.

A crewman had come up behind Jean with a belaying pin in hand. Jean sidestepped the man’s first attack and cracked the lantern across the top of his head. Glass shattered, and glowing white alchemical slime sprayed across the poor fellow from forehead to waist. It was generally harmless stuff, but nothing you wanted in your eyes. Moaning and glowing like a ghost out of some fairy story, the man fell against the foremast.

In front of Locke, the jolly boat slid to starboard, hit the rail at speed, crashed through with a terrible splintering noise, and went over the side.

“Thank the gods,” Locke muttered as he ran to the gap in the rail just in time to see the boat plunge bow-first into the water, like an arrowhead, and get immediately swallowed beneath a crashing wave. “Oh, COME ON!”

“Jump,” hollered Jean, ducking a swing from a crewman who came at him with an oar. Jean slammed two punches into the unfortunate sailor’s ribs, and the man did a convincing imitation of a marionette with its strings cut. “Get the hell in the water!”

“The boat sank!” Locke cried, scanning the darkness in vain for a glimpse of it. Whistles were sounding from the quarterdeck and from within the ship. The whole crew would be roused against them presently. “I don’t see it!”

“Can’t hear you. Jump!” Jean dashed across the deck and gave Locke a well-meaning shove through the gap in the railing. There was no time to do anything but gasp in a surprised breath; Locke’s oilcloth fluttered around him as he fell like a wounded bat into the dark water of the Amathel.

The cold hit like a shock. He whirled within the churning blackness, fighting against his cloak and the weight of his ankle manacles. They weren’t dragging him straight down, but they would sharply increase the rate at which he would exhaust himself by kicking to keep his head up.

His face broke the surface; he choked in a breath of air and freshwater spray. The Volantyne’s Resolve loomed over him like a monstrous shadow, lit by the shuddering light of a dozen jumping, bobbing lanterns. A familiar dark shape detached itself from some sort of fight against the near rail, and fell toward the water.

“Jean,” Locke sputtered, “there’s no—”

The lost boat resurfaced like a broaching shark, spat up in a gushing white torrent. Jean landed on it facefirst with a ghastly thump and splashed heavily into the water beside it.

“Jean,” Locke screamed, grabbing hold of one of the jolly boat’s gunwales and desperately scanning the water for any sign of his friend. The bigger man had already sunk beneath the surface. A wave crashed over Locke’s head and tore at his hold on the boat. He spat water and searched desperately … there! A dim shape drifted six or seven feet beneath Locke’s toes, lit from below by an eerie blue-white light. Locke dove just as another breaking wave hammered the boat.

Locke grabbed Jean by the collar and felt cold dismay at the feeble response. For a moment it seemed that the two of them hung suspended in a gray netherworld between lurching wave tops and ghostly light, and Locke suddenly realized the source of the illumination around them. Not lightning or lanterns, but the unknown fires that burned at the very bottom of the Amathel.

Glimpsed underwater, they lost their comforting jewel-like character, and seemed to roil and pulse and blur. They stung Locke’s eyes, and his skin crawled with the unreasonable, instinctive sensation that something utterly hostile was nearby—nearby and drawing closer. He hooked his hands under Jean’s arms and kicked mightily, heaving the two of them back toward the surface and the storm.

He scraped his cheek against the jolly boat as he came up, sucked in a deep breath, and heaved at Jean again to get the larger man’s head above water. The cold was like a physical pressure, numbing Locke’s fingers and slowly turning his limbs to lead.

“Come back to me, Jean,” Locke spat. “I know your brains are jarred, but Crooked Warden, come back!” He yanked at Jean, holding on to the gunwale of the wave-tossed boat with his other hand, and for all his pains succeeded only in nearly capsizing it again. “Shit!”

Locke needed to get in first, but if he let Jean go Jean would probably sink again. He spotted the rowing lock, the U-shaped piece of cast iron set into the gunwale to hold an oar. It had been smashed by the boat’s slides across the deck, but it might serve a new purpose. Locke seized Jean’s oilcloak and twisted one end into a crude knot around the bent rowing lock, so that Jean hung from the boat by his neck and chest. Not a sensible way to leave him, but it would keep him from drifting away while Locke got aboard.

A fresh wave knocked the side of the boat against Locke’s head. Black spots danced before his eyes, but the pain goaded him to furious action. He plunged into the blackness beneath the boat, then clawed his way up to the gunwale on the opposite side. Another wave struck, and out of its froth Locke scrabbled and strained until he was over the edge. He bounced painfully off a rowing bench and flopped into the ankle-deep water sloshing around the bottom.

Locke reached over the side and grabbed Jean. His heaving was desperate, unbalanced, and useless. The little boat bobbled and shook with every effort, rising and falling on the waves like a piston in some nightmarish machine. At last Locke’s wits punched through the walls of his exhaustion and panic. He turned Jean sideways and hauled him in a foot and an arm at a time, using his oilcloak for added leverage. Once he was safely in, the bigger man coughed and mumbled and flopped around.

“Oh, I hate the Eldren, Jean,” Locke gasped as they lay in the bottom of the tossing boat, lashed by waves and rain. “I hate ’em. I hate whatever they did, I hate the shit they left behind, I hate the way none of their mysteries ever turn out to be pleasant and fucking good-neighborly!”

“Pretty lights,” muttered Jean.

“Yeah, pretty lights,” Locke spat. “Friendly sailors, the Amathel has it all.”

Locke nudged Jean aside and sat up. They were bobbing around like a wine cork in a cauldron set to boil, but now that their weight was in the center of the little boat, it seemed better able to bear the tossing. They had drifted astern and inshore of the Volantyne’s Resolve, which was now more than fifty yards away. Confused shouts could be heard, but the ship didn’t seem to be putting about to come after them. Locke could only hope that Jean’s cold-cocking of Volantyne would prevent the rest of the crew from getting things together until it was too late.

“Holy hells,” said Jean, “how’d I geddhere?”

“Never mind that. You see any oars?”

“Uh, I thing I bead the crap out of the guy that had them.” Jean reached up and gingerly prodded his face. “Aw, gods, I thing I broge my node again!”

“You used it to break your fall when you hit the boat.”

“Is thad whad hid me?”

“Yeah, scared me shitless.”

“You saved me!”

“It’s my turn every couple of years,” said Locke with a thin smile.

“Thang you.”

“All I did was save my own ass four or five times down the line,” said Locke. “And cut you in on a hell of a landing. If the waves keep taking us south, we should hit the beach in just a few miles, but without any oars to keep ourselves under control, it might be a hard way to leave the water.”

The waves did their part, bearing their little boat south at a frightful clip, and when the beach finally came into sight their arrival went as hard as Locke had guessed. The Amathel flung them against the black volcanic sand like some monster vomiting up a plaything that had outlasted its interest.

5

THE COASTAL road west of Lashain was called the Darksands Stretch, and it was a lonely place to be traveling this windy autumn morning. A single coach, pulled by a team of eight horses, trundled along the centuries-old stones raising spurts of wet gravel in its wake rather than the clouds of dust more common in drier seasons.

The secure coach service from Salon Corbeau and points farther south was for rich travelers unable to bear the thought of setting foot aboard a ship. With iron-bound doors, shuttered windows, and interior locks, the carriage was a little fortress for passengers afraid of highwaymen.

The driver wore an armored doublet, as did the guard that sat beside him atop the carriage, cradling a crossbow that looked as though it could put a hole the size of a temple window into whatever it was loosed at.

“Hey there!” cried a thin man beside the road. He wore an oilcloak flung back from his shoulders, and there was a larger man on the ground beside him. “Help us, please!”

Ordinarily, the driver would have whipped his team forward and raced past anyone attempting to stop them, but everything seemed wrong for an ambush. The ground here was flat for hundreds of yards around, and if these men were decoys, they couldn’t have any allies within half a mile. And their aspect seemed genuinely bedraggled: no armor, no weapons, none of the cocksure bravado of the true marauder. The driver pulled on the reins.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said the crossbowman.

“Don’t get your cock tied in a knot,” said the driver. “You’re here to watch my back, aren’t you? Stranger! What goes?”

“Shipwreck,” cried the thin man. He was scruffy-looking, of middle height, with light brown hair pulled loosely back at the neck. “Last night. We got washed ashore.”

“What ship?”

“Volantyne’s Resolve, out of Karthain.”

“Is your friend hurt?”

“He’s out cold. Are you bound for Lashain?”

“Aye, twenty-six miles by road. Be there tomorrow. What would you have of us?”

“Carry us, on horses or on your tailboard. Our master’s syndicate has a shipping agent in Lashain. He can pay for your trouble.”

“Driver,” came a sharp, reedy voice from within the carriage, “it’s not my business to supply rescue to those witless enough to meet disaster on the Amathel, of all places. Pray for their good health if you must, but move on.”

“Sir,” said the driver, “the fellow on the ground looks in a bad way. His nose is as purple as grapes.”

“That’s not my concern.”

“There are certain rules,” said the driver, “to how we behave out here, sir, and I’m sorry to have to refuse your command, but we’ll be on our way again soon.”

“I won’t pay to feed them! And I won’t pay for the time we’re losing by sitting here!”

“Sorry again, sir. It’s got to be done.”

“You’re right,” said the crossbowman with a sigh. “These fellows ain’t no highwaymen.”

The driver and the guard climbed down from their seat and walked over to where Locke stood over Jean.

“If you could just help me haul him to his feet,” said Locke to the crossbowman, “we can try and bring him around.”

“Beg pardon, stranger,” said the crossbowman, “it’s plain foolishness to set a loaded piece down. Takes nothing to set one off by accident. One nudge from a false step—”

“Well, just point it away from us,” muttered the driver.

“Are you drunk? This one time in Tamalek I saw a fellow set a crossbow down for just a—”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said the driver testily. “Never, ever set that weapon down for as long as you live. You might accidentally hit some fellow in Tamalek.”

The guard sputtered, sighed, and carefully pointed the weapon at a patch of roadside sand. There was a loud, flat crack, and the quarrel was safely embedded in the ground up to its feathers.

Thus, it was accomplished. Jean miraculously returned to life, and with a few quick swings of his fists he eloquently convinced the two guards to lie down and be unconscious for a while.

“I am really, really sorry about this,” said Locke. “And you should know, that’s not how it normally goes with us.”

“Well, how now, tenderhearts?” shouted the man within the carriage. “Shows what you know, eh? If you had any gods-damned brains you’d be inside one of these things, not driving it!”

“They can’t hear you,” said Locke.

“Marauders! Sons of filth! Motherless bastards!” The man inside the box cackled. “It’s all one to me, though. You can’t break in here. Steal whatever you like from my gutless hirelings, sirrahs, but you’ll not have anything of mine!”

“Gods above,” said Locke. “Listen up, you heartless fucking weasel. Your fortress has wheels on it. About a mile to the east there are cliffs above the Amathel. We’ll unhitch you there and give your box a good shove over the edge.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Then you’d better practice flying.” Locke hopped up into the driver’s seat and took the reins. “Come on, let’s take shit-sauce here for the shortest trip of his life.”

Jean climbed up beside Locke. Locke urged the well-trained horses forward, and the coach began to roll.

“Now wait a minute,” their suddenly unwilling passenger bellowed. “Stop, stop, stop!”

Locke let him scream for about a hundred yards before he slowed the team back down.

“If you want to live,” said Locke, “go ahead and open the—”

The door banged open. The man who came out was about sixty, short and oval-bellied, with the eyes of a startled rabbit. His hat and dressing gown were crimson silk studded with gold buttons. Locke jumped down and glowered at him.

“Take that ludicrous thing off,” he growled.

The man quickly stripped to his undertunic. Locke gathered his finery, which reeked of sweat, and threw it into the carriage.

“Where’s the food and water?”

The man pointed to a storage compartment built into the outside rear of the carriage, just above the tailboard. Locke opened it, selected a few things for himself, then threw some of the neatly wrapped ration packages onto the dirt beside the road.

“Go wake your friends up and enjoy the walk,” said Locke as he climbed back up beside Jean. “Shouldn’t be more than a day or so until you reach the outer hamlets of Lashain. Or maybe someone will come along and take pity on you.”

“You bastards,” shouted the de-robed, de-carriaged man. “Thieving bastards! You’ll hang for this! I’ll see it done!”

“That’s a remote possibility,” said Locke. “But you know what’s a certainty? Next fire I need to start, I’m using your clothes to do it, asshole.”

He gave a cheery wave, and then the armored coach service was gathering speed along the road, bound not for Lashain but Karthain, the long way around the Amathel.

III

FATAL HONESTY

I never knew any more beautiful than you:

I have hunted you under my thoughts,

I have broken down under the wind

And into the roses looking for you.

I shall never find any

greater than you.

—Carl Sandburg

from “The Great Hunt”

INTERLUDE

AURIN AND AMADINE

1

“WHY IN ALL the hells do you take this abuse?” said Jean as he and Jenora sat together over coffee the second morning after the arrival of the Gentlemen Bastards in Espara. “Dealing with Moncraine, the debts, the bullshit—”

“Those of us left are the stakeholders,” said Jenora. “We own shares in the common property, and shares of the profits, when those miraculously appear. Some of us saved for years to make these investments. If we walk away from Moncraine, we forfeit everything.”

“Ah.”

“Look at Alondo. He had a wild night at cards and he used the take to buy his claim in the troupe. That was three years ago. We were doing Ten Honest Turncoats then, and A Thousand Swords for Therim Pel and The All-Murderers Ball. A dozen full productions a year, masques for Countess Antonia, festival plays, and we were touring out west, where the countryside’s not the gods-damned waste it is between here and Camorr. I mean, we had prospects; we weren’t out of our minds.”

“I never said you were.”

“It’s mostly hired players and the short-timers that evaporated on us. They don’t have any anchors except a weekly wage, and they can make that with Basanti. Hell, they’ll happily take less from him, because at least they’re sure to play.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she said, staring into her mug as though it might conceal new answers. “I guess sometimes there’s just a darkness in someone. You hope it’ll go away.”

“Moncraine, you mean.”

“If you could have seen him back in those days, I think you’d understand. You know about the Forty Corpses?”

“Um … if I say no, do I become the forty-first?”

“If I killed people, glass-eyes, Moncraine wouldn’t have lived long enough to be arrested. The Forty Corpses is what we call the forty famous plays that survived the fall of the empire. The big ones by all the famous Throne Therins … Lucarno, Viscora, that bunch.”

“Oh,” said Jean.

“They’re called corpses because they haven’t changed for four or five centuries. I mean, we love them, most of them, but they do molder a bit. They get recited like temple ritual, dry and lifeless. Except, when Moncraine was on, when Moncraine was good, he made the corpses jump out of their graves. It was like he was a spark and the whole troupe would catch fire from it. And when you’ve seen that, when you’ve been a part of it … I tell you, Jovanno, you’d put up with nearly anything if only you could have it again.”

“I am returned,” boomed a voice from the inn-yard door, “from the exile to which my pride had sentenced me!”

“Oh, gods below, you people actually did it,” said Jenora, leaping out of her chair. A man entered the common room, a big dark Syresti in dirty clothing, and cried out when he saw her.

“Jenora, my dusky vision, I knew that I could—”

Whatever he’d known was lost as Jenora’s open palm slammed into his cheek. Jean blinked; her arm had been a pale brown arc. He made a mental note that she was quick when angered.

“Jasmer,” she hollered, “you stupid, stubborn, bottle-sucking, lard-witted fuck! You nearly ruined us! It wasn’t your damn pride that put you in gaol, it was your fists!”

“Peace, Jenora,” muttered Moncraine. “Ow. I was sort of quoting a play.”

“Aiiii​iaahh​hhhhh​h!” screamed Mistress Gloriano, rushing in from a side hall. “I don’t believe it! The Camorri got you out! And it’s more than you deserve, you lousy wretch! You lousy Syresti drunkard!”

“All’s well, Auntie, I’ve already hit him for both of us,” said Jenora.

“Oh, hell’s hungry kittens,” muttered Sylvanus, wandering in behind Mistress Gloriano. His bloodshot eyes and sleep-swept hair gave him the look of a man who’d been caught in a windstorm. “I see the guards at the Weeping Tower can be bribed after all.”

“Good morning to you too, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “It warms the deep crevices of my heart to hear so many possible explanations for my release except the thought that I might be innocent.”

“You’re as innocent as we convinced Boulidazi to pretend you are,” said Sabetha, entering from the street. She and Locke had left early that morning to hover around the Weeping Tower, ready to snatch Moncraine up as soon as he was released following his appearance in court.

“He did say some unexpected and handsome things,” said Moncraine.

“You going to call the meeting to order,” said Sabetha, “or should I?”

“I can break the news, gir—Verena. Thank you kindly.” Moncraine cleared his throat. “A moment of your time, gentlemen and ladies of the Moncraine Company. And you as well, Andrassus. And our, uh, benefactor and patient creditor, Mistress Gloriano. There are some … changes in the offing.”

“Sweet gods,” said Sylvanus, “you coal-skinned, life-ruining bastard, are you actually suggesting that gainful employment is about to get its hands around our throats again?”

“Sylvanus, I love you as I love my own Syresti blood,” said Moncraine, “but shut your dribbling booze-hole. And yes, Espara will have its production of the Moncraine Company’s The Republic of Thieves.”

Sabetha coughed.

“I am compelled, however, to accept certain arrangements,” continued Moncraine. “Lord Boulidazi’s agreed to reconsider my, er, refusal of his patronage offer. Once Salvard has the papers ready, we’re the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.”

“A patron,” said Mistress Gloriano in disbelief. “Does this mean we might get paid back for our—”

“Yes,” said Locke, strolling in from the inn-yard with several purses in his hands. “And here’s yours.”

“Gandolo’s privates, boy!” She caught the jingling bag Locke threw at her. “I simply don’t believe it.”

“Your countinghouse will believe it for you,” said Locke. “That’s twelve royals to square you. Lord Boulidazi is buying out Master Moncraine’s debts to relieve him of the suffering brought on by their contemplation.”

“To wind a cord about my legs so he can fly me like a kite,” said Moncraine through gritted teeth.

“To keep you from getting knifed in a gods-damned alley!” said Sabetha.

“Not that this isn’t miraculous,” said Jenora, “but those of us with shares in the company have precedence over any arrangement Boulidazi might have proposed. Noble or not, we have papers he can’t just piss on.”

“I realize that,” said Locke. “We’re not here to pry your shares out from under you. Boulidazi is giving Moncraine the funds he needs as an advance against Moncraine’s future share of the company’s profits. Your interest is protected.”

“That’s as may be,” said Jenora, “but if this company is back on a paying basis, I want another set of eyes on the books. No offense, Jasmer, but strange things can happen to profits before they reach the stakeholders.”

“The one for figures is Jovanno,” said Locke. “He’s a genius with them.”

“Hey, thanks for volunteering me,” said Jean. “I was wondering when I could stop doing interesting things and go bury myself in account ledgers.”

“I meant it as a compliment! Besides, given a choice, would you rather trust me, or the Asinos—”

“Dammit,” Jean growled. “I’ll see to the books.”

“Master Moncraine,” said Locke, “this, by the way, is my cousin, Jovanno de Barra.”

“The third of the mysterious Camorri,” said Jasmer. “And where are four and five?”

“The Asino brothers are still asleep,” said Jean. “And when they wake I expect they’ll be hungover. They crossed bottles with that thing.” He gestured at Sylvanus. “It was all I could do to keep them alive.”

“Well, then,” said Moncraine, “let us yet be merciful. I’m for a bath and fresh clothes. Someone hunt down Alondo, and we’ll have our proper meeting about the play after luncheon. How’s that sound?”

“Moncraine!” The street door burst inward, propelled by a kick from an unpleasant-looking man. His expensive clothes were stained with wine, sauces, and ominous dark patches that had nothing to do with food. Half a dozen men and women followed him into the room, clearly assorted species of leg-breakers. The Right People of Espara were on the scene.

“Oh, good morning, Shepherd. Can I offer you some refresh—”

“Moncraine,” said the man called Shepherd, “you sack of dried-up whores’ cunt leather! Did you stop at a countinghouse after your escape from the Weeping Tower?”

“I haven’t had time. But—”

“At some point, Moncraine, compound interest becomes less interesting to my boss than shoving you up a dead horse’s ass and sinking you in a fucking swamp.”

“Excuse me,” said Locke, meekly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was the Children’s Festival this week,” said Shepherd. “You looking for an ass-kicking or what?”

“Can I ask how much Master Moncraine owes your boss?”

“Eighteen royals, four fifths, thirty-six coppins, accurate to this very hour.”

“Thought so. There’s nineteen in this bag,” said Locke, holding out a leather purse. “From Moncraine, of course. He just likes to draw these things out, you know. For dramatic effect.”

“This a fucking joke?”

“Nineteen royals,” said Locke. “No joke.”

Shepherd slipped the purse open, ran his fingers through the coins inside, and gave a startled grunt.

“Strange days are upon us.” He snapped the purse shut. “Signs and wonders. Jasmer Moncraine has paid a debt. I’d say my fucking prayers tonight, I would.”

“Are we square?” said Moncraine.

“Square?” said Shepherd. “Yeah, this matter’s closed. But don’t come crawling back for more, Moncraine. Not for a few months, at least. Let the boss forget what a degenerate ass-chancre you are.”

“Sure,” said Moncraine. “Just as you say.”

“Of course, if you had any brains at all you’d never risk the chance of seeing me again.” Shepherd sketched a salute in the air, turned, and left along with his crew of thugs, most of whom looked disappointed.

“A word,” said Moncraine, leading Locke off to one side of the room. “While I’m pleased as a baby on a breast to have that weight lifted, I begin to wonder if I’m meant to be nothing but a mute witness to my own affairs from now on.”

“If you’d had your way you’d be starting your real prison sentence today,” said Locke. “You can’t blame us for wanting to keep you out of further trouble.”

“I’m not pleased to be treated like I can’t handle simple business. Give me the purses you have left, and I’ll dispense with my own debts.”

“The tailor, the bootmaker, the scrivener, and the actors that left for Basanti’s company? We can hunt them down ourselves, thank you.”

“They’re not your accounts to close, boy!”

“And this isn’t your money to hold,” said Locke.

“Jasmer,” said Sabetha, coming up behind them with Jean in tow, “I’d hate to think that you were trying to corner and intimidate one of us privately.”

“We were merely discussing how I might take responsibility for my own shortcomings,” said Moncraine.

“You can hold to the deal,” said Sabetha. “And remember who got you out of the Weeping Tower, and brought in our new patron. Your job is to give us a play. Where that’s concerned, we’re your subjects, but where your safety is concerned, you’re ours.”

“Well,” said Moncraine, “don’t I feel enfolded in the bosom of love itself.”

“Just try not to screw anything else up,” said Sabetha. “It won’t be that hard a life.”

“I’ll go have my bath, then,” said Moncraine. “Would the three of you care to watch, to make sure I don’t drown myself?”

“If you did that,” said Locke, “you’d never have the satisfaction of bossing us around onstage.”

“True enough.” Moncraine scratched at his dark gray stubble. “See you after luncheon, then. Oh, since these are matters relating to the play … Lucaza, get a dozen chairs from the common room and set them out in the inn-yard. Verena, dig through the common property to find all the copies of The Republic of Thieves we have. Jenora can lend you a hand.”

“Of course,” said Sabetha.

“Good. Now, if I’m wanted for any further business, I’ll be in my room with no clothes on.”

2

JUST BEFORE noon the sun passed behind a thick bank of clouds, and its brain-poaching heat was cut to a more bearable lazy warmth. The mud of the inn-yard, late resting place of the very pickled Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, had dried to a soft crust beneath the feet of the excited and bewildered Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.

All five Gentlemen Bastards had seats, though Calo and Galdo, with dark patches under their eyes, pointedly refused to sit together and so bookended Locke, Jean, and Sabetha.

Alondo flipped idly through a torn and stained copy of The Republic of Thieves. Each volume in the little stack of scripts found by Sabetha was a different size, and no two had been copied in the same hand. Some were marked MONCRAINE COMPANY or SCRIBED FOR J. MONCRAINE, while others were the ex-property of other troupes. One even bore the legend BASANTI on its back cover.

Sylvanus, sober, or at least not actively imbibing, sat next to Jenora. Alondo’s cousin stood against a wall, arms folded.

This, then, was the complete roster of the company. Locke sighed.

“Hello again.” Moncraine appeared, looking almost respectable in a quilted gray doublet and black breeches. “Now, let us discover together which of history’s mighty entities are sitting with us, and which ones we shall have to beg, borrow, or steal. You!”

“Me, sir?” said Alondo’s cousin.

“Yes. Who in all the hells are you? Are you a Camorri?”

“Oh, gods above, no, sir. I’m Alondo’s cousin.”

“Got a name?”

“Djunkhar Kurlin. Everyone calls me Donker.”

“Bad fucking luck. You an actor?”

“No, sir, a hostler.”

“What do you mean by spying on my company’s meeting like this?”

“I just want to get killed onstage, sir.”

“Fuck the stage. Come here and I’ll grant your wish right now.”

“He means,” said Jean, “that we promised him a bit part in exchange for helping us sell off some surplus horseflesh.”

“Oh,” said Moncraine. “An enthusiast. I’d be very pleased to help you die onstage. Stay on my good side and it can even be pretend.”

“Uh, thank you, sir.”

“Now,” said Moncraine. “We need ourselves an Aurin. Aurin is a young man of Therim Pel, basically good-hearted, unsure of himself. He’s also the only son and heir to the emperor. Looks like we’ve got a surplus of young men, so you can all fight it out over the next few days. And we’ll need an Amadine—”

“Hey,” said Calo. “Sorry to interrupt. I was just wondering, before we all get measured for codpieces or whatever, where the hell are we supposed to be giving this play? I hear this Basanti has a theater of his own. What do we have?”

“You’re one of the Asino brothers, right?” said Moncraine.

“Giacomo Asino.”

“Well, being from Camorr, Giacomo, you probably don’t know about the Old Pearl. It’s a public theater, built by some count—”

“Poldaris the Just,” muttered Sylvanus.

“Built by Poldaris the Just,” said Moncraine, “as his perpetual legacy to the people of Espara. Big stone amphitheater, about two hundred years old.”

“One hundred and eighty-eight,” said Sylvanus.

“Apologies, Sylvanus, unlike you I wasn’t there. So you see, Giacomo, we can use it, as long as we pay a little fee to the countess’ envoy of ceremonies.”

“If it’s such a fine place, why did Basanti build his own?”

“The Old Pearl is perfectly adequate,” said Moncraine. “Basanti built to flatter his self-regard, not fatten his pocketbook.”

“Because businessmen like to spend lots of money to replace perfectly adequate structures they can use for nearly nothing, right?”

“Look, boy,” said Moncraine, “it wouldn’t matter if Basanti’s new theater turned dog turds into platinum, while merely setting foot inside the Old Pearl gave people leprosy. The Old Pearl’s it. There’s no time or money for anything else.”

“Does it?” said Calo. “Give people leprosy, I mean?”

“Go lick the stage and find out. Now, let’s talk about Amadine. Amadine is a thief in a time of peace and abundance. Therim Pel has grown a crop of bandits in the ancient catacombs beneath the city. They mock the customs of the upright people, of the emperor and his nobles. Some of them even call their little world a republic. Amadine is their leader.”

“You should be our Amadine, Jasmer,” said Sylvanus. “Think of the pretty skirts Jenora could sew for you!”

“Verena’s our Amadine,” said Moncraine. “There’s a certain deficiency of breasts in the company, and while yours may be larger than hers, Sylvanus, I doubt as many people would pay to see them. No, since our former Amadine abandoned us … she’ll do.”

Sabetha gave a slight, satisfied nod.

“Now, everyone take a copy of the lines. Have them out for consultation. A troupe learns a play like we all learn to screw, stumbling and jostling until everything’s finally in the right place.”

Locke felt his cheeks warm a bit, though the sun was still hidden away behind the high wall of summer clouds.

“So, Aurin falls for Amadine, and they have lots of problems, and it’s all very romantic and tragic and the audience gives us ever so much money to see it,” said Moncraine. “But to get there we’ve got to sharpen things to a fine point … slash some deadweight from the text. I’ll give you full cuts later, but for now I think we can discard all the bits with Marolus the courtier. And we’ll cut Avunculo, and Twitch, the comic relief thieves, for a certainty.”

“Aye, a certainty,” said Sylvanus, “and what a bold decision that is, given that our Marolus, Avunculo, and Twitch all ran across town chasing Basanti’s coin when you took up lèse-majesté as a new hobby.”

“Thank you, Andrassus,” said Moncraine. “You’ll have many weeks to belittle my every choice; don’t spend yourself in one afternoon. Now you, Asino—”

“Castellano,” said Galdo, yawning.

“Castellano. Stand up. Wait, you can read, can’t you? You can all read, I assume?”

“Reading, is that where you draw pictures with chalk or where you bang a stick on a drum?” said Galdo. “I get confused.”

“The first thing that happens,” said Moncraine with a scowl, “the first character the audience meets, is the Chorus. Out comes the Chorus—give us his lines, Castellano.”

“Um,” said Galdo, staring down at his little book.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you, boy?” shouted Moncraine. “Who says ‘um’ when they’ve got the script in their hands? If you say ‘um’ in front of five hundred people, I guarantee that some unwashed, wine-sucking cow down in the penny pit will throw something at you. They wait on any excuse.”

“Sorry,” said Galdo. He cleared his throat, and read:

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,

And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.

What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.”

“No,” said Jasmer.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“You’re reciting, not orating. The Chorus is a character. The Chorus, in his own mind, is flesh and blood. He’s not reading lines out of a little book. He’s on a mission.”

“If you say so,” said Galdo.

“Sit down,” said Moncraine. “Other Asino, stand up. Can you do better than your brother?”

“Just ask the girls he’s been with,” said Calo.

“Give us a Chorus.”

Calo stood up, straightened his back, puffed out his chest, and began to read loudly, clearly, emphasizing words that Galdo had read flatly:

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes,

And hear nothing true, though straining your ears.

What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering—”

“Enough,” said Jasmer. “Better. You’re giving it rhythm, stressing the right words, orating with some little competence. But you’re still just reciting the words as though they were ritual in a book.”

“They are just words in a book,” said Calo.

“They are a man’s words!” said Moncraine. “They are a man’s words. Not some dull formula. Put flesh and blood behind them, else why should anyone pay to see on stage what they could read quietly for themselves?”

“Because they can’t fuckin’ read?” said Galdo.

“Stand up again, Castellano. No, no, Giacomo, don’t sit down. I want you both for this. I’ll show you my point so that even Camorri dullards can take it to heart. Castellano, go over to your brother. Keep your script in hand. You are angry with your brother, Castellano! Angry at what a dunce he is. He doesn’t understand these lines. So now you will show him!” Moncraine steadily raised his voice. “Correct him! Perform them to him as though he is an IDIOT!”

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes!” said Galdo. He gestured disdainfully at his own face with his free hand, and took two threatening steps closer to Calo. “And hear us not at all, though straining your ears!”

He reached out and snapped a finger against one of Calo’s ears. The long-haired twin recoiled, and Galdo moved aggressively toward him once again.

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses,” said Galdo, all but hissing with disdain, “whispering: this stage is wood, these men are dust, and dust their deeds and thousand … dust their ducks … aw, shit, lost myself, sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Moncraine. “You had something there, didn’t you?”

“That was fun,” said Galdo. “I think I see what you mean.”

“Words are dead until you give them a context,” said Moncraine. “Until you put a character behind them, and give him a reason to speak them in a certain fashion.”

“Can I do it back to him like he’s the stupid one?” said Calo.

“No. I’ve made my point,” said Moncraine. “You Camorri do have a certain poise and inventiveness. I just need to awaken you to its proper employment. Now, what’s our Chorus doing here?”

“He’s pleading,” said Jean.

“Pleading. Yes. Exactly. First thing, out comes the Chorus to plead to the crowd. The hot, sweaty, drunk, and skeptical crowd. Listen up, you unworthy fucking mongrels! Look, there’s a play going on, right in front of you! Shut up and give it the attention it deserves!”

Moncraine changed his voice and poise in an instant. Without so much as a glance at the script, he spoke:

“What thieves of wonder are these poor senses, whispering:

This stage is wood, these men are dust—

And dust their deeds, these centuries gone.

For us it is not so.

See now, and conjure with present vigor,

A happy empire! Her foes sleep in ruins of cold ambitions,

And take for law the merest whim of all-conquering Salerius

Second of that name, and most imperial to bear it!

His youth spent in dreary march and stern discipline

Wherein he met the proudest neighbors of his empire—

With trampled fields for his court, red swords for ambassadors,

And granted, to each in turn, his attention most humbling.

Now all who would not bow are hewn at the feet to better help them kneel.”

Moncraine cleared his throat. “There. I have had my plea. I have taken command, shut those slack jaws, turned those gimlet eyes to the stage. I am midwife to wonders. With their attention snared, I give them history. We are back in the time of the Therin Throne, of Salerius II. An emperor who went out and kicked some ass. Just as we shall, perhaps excepting Sylvanus.”

Sylvanus rose and tossed his copy of the script aside. Jenora managed to catch it before it hit the ground.

“Chorus, you call yourself,” he said. “You’ve the presence of a mouse fart in a high wind. Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.”

If Locke had been impressed by the change in Moncraine’s demeanor, he was astounded by the change in Sylvanus. The old man’s perpetually sour, unfocused, liquor-addled disposition vanished, and without warning he was speaking clearly, invitingly, charmingly:

“From war long waged comes peace well lived,

And now, twenty years of blessed interval has set

A final laurel, light upon the brow of bold, deserving Salerius!

Yet heavy sits this peace upon his only son and heir.

Where once the lion roared, now dies the faintest echo of warlike times,

All eyes turn upon the cub, and all men wait

to behold the wrath and majesty

that must spring from such mighty paternity!

Alas, the father, in sparing not the foes of his youth

Has left the son no foe for his inheritance.

Citizens, friends, dutiful and imperial—

Now give us precious indulgence,

see past this fragile artifice!

Let willing hearts rule dullard eyes and ears,

And of this stage you shall make the empire;

From the dust of an undone age hear living words,

on the breath of living men!

Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,

And with us, jointly, devise and receive

the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius.

And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed

Learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made.”

“Well remembered, I’ll give you that,” said Moncraine. “But then, anything more than three lines is well remembered, where you’re concerned.”

“It’s as fresh now as the last time we did it,” said Sylvanus. “Fifteen years ago.”

“That’s you and I that would make a fair Chorus,” sighed Moncraine. “But we need a Salerius, and we need a magician to advise him and do all the threatening parts, or else the plot goes pear-shaped.”

“I’ll be the Chorus!” said Galdo. “I can do this. Wake everyone up at the beginning, then sit back and watch the rest of you in the play. That sounds like a damn good job.”

“The hell you’ll do it,” said Calo. “You and that shaved head, you look like a vulture’s cock. This job calls for some elegance.”

“You see us wrong,” said Galdo, “who are about to get your fuckin’ ass kicked!”

“Shut up, idiots.” Moncraine glowered at the twins until they settled down. “It would be to our advantage to leave Sylvanus and myself free for other parts, so yes, one of you may have the Chorus. But you won’t scrap for it in the dirt; you’ll both learn the part and strive to better one another in it. I don’t have to make a final decision for some time.”

“And what does the loser get?” said Calo.

“The loser will understudy the winner, in case the winner should be carried off by wild hounds. And don’t worry; there’ll be other parts to fill.

“Now,” said Moncraine. “Let’s break ourselves up and put Alondo and our other Camorri through some paces, to see where their alleged strengths lie.”

3

THE SUN moved its way and the clouds moved theirs. Before another hour passed the inn-yard was once again in the full light and heat of day. Moncraine donned a broad-brimmed hat, but otherwise seemed heedless of the temperature. Sylvanus and Jenora clung to the inn walls, while Sabetha and the boys darted in and out of cover as they were required to play scenes.

“Our young prince Aurin lives in his father’s shadow,” said Moncraine.

“He’s probably glad to be out of the gods-damned sun, then!” panted Galdo.

“There’s no glory to be had because Salerius II already went out and had it,” continued Moncraine. “No wars to fight, no lands to claim, and it’s still an emperor or two to go before the Vadrans are going to start kicking things over up north. As if that wasn’t bad enough, Aurin has a best friend named Ferrin. Ferrin’s even hungrier for glory than Aurin is, and he won’t shut up about it. Let’s do … Act one, scene two. Alondo, you do Aurin, and let’s have Jovanno give us a Ferrin.”

Alondo leaned back lazily in a chair. Jean approached him, reading from his copy of the script:

“What’s this, lazy lion cub?

The sands of the morning are half run from the glass!

There’s nothing in your bed ’tis worth such fascination.

The sun rules the sky, your father his kingdom,

And you rule a chamber ten paces by ten!”

Alondo laughed, and answered:

“Why be an emperor’s son, if I must rise

as though to reap the fields?

What profit, then, in my paternity?

What man lives, who, more than I,

has rightful claim to leisure?”

“He that has given you leisure,” said Jean. “Having carved it like rare meat from the bones of his enemies.”

“Enough,” said Moncraine. “Less reciting, Jovanno. Less formula.”

“Uh, sure,” said Jean, obviously feeling out of his depth. “Whatever you say.”

“Alondo, take over Ferrin. Lucaza, let’s have you see what you can make of Aurin.”

Locke had to admit to himself that Jean was the least comfortable of the five of them with what was going on. Although he was always eager to play a role in any crooked scheme that required it of him, he tended to stay within narrower bounds than Locke or Sabetha or even the Sanzas. Jean was a consummate “straight man”—the angry bodyguard, the dutiful clerk, the respectable servant. He was a solid wall for victims of their games to bounce off of, but not the sort to jump back and forth rapidly between roles.

Locke set these thoughts aside, and tried to imagine himself as Aurin. He recalled his own lack of sweet humor each time he was yanked from sleep early, most frequently because of some Sanza mischief. The memory served him well, and he spoke:

“Would you instruct me in the love of my own father?

You push presumption to its limits, Ferrin.

Had I wished to wake to scorn and remonstration,

I would have married by now.”

Alondo assumed a more energetic persona, more confident and forceful in speech:

“Fairly spoken, O prince, O majesty! I cry mercy.

I did not come to rudely trample dozy dreams,

Nor correct you in honoring our lord, your father.

Your perfect love for him is reckoned of a measure

With your devotion to warm, soft beds

And therefore lies beyond all question.”

“Were you not the great friend of my youth,” said Locke, deciding a laugh would be a good thing to add,

“But the unresting spirit of some foe

Slain in Father’s wars,

You could scarce do me more vexation, Ferrin.

Thou art like a marriage,

Lacking only the pretty face and pleasant couplings—

You do so busy my mornings with rebukes

I half-forget which of us is royal.”

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Good enough. Friendly banter, hiding something. Ferrin sees his ticket to glory lazing around, accomplishing nothing. These two need each other, and they resent it while trying to hide it behind their good cheer.”

“Moncraine, for the love of all the gods, there’ll be no play to see and no parts to act if you explain everything at the first chance,” said Sylvanus.

“I don’t mind,” said Alondo.

“Nor I,” said Locke. “I think it’s helping. Me, at least.”

“Moncraine would teach you how to play every part as Moncraine,” chuckled Sylvanus. “Don’t forget that.”

“Not an actor that lives wouldn’t make love to the sound of his own voice,” said Moncraine, “if only he could. You’re no exception, Andrassus. Now, let’s find some swords. Ferrin talks Aurin into practicing in the gardens, and that’s where the plot winds them in its coils.”

Hours passed in sweat and toil. Back and forth in the sun they pretended to fight, with notched wooden blades musty from storage. Locke and Jean and Alondo rotated roles, and Moncraine even swapped in the Sanzas for variety, until it became a sort of whirling pantomime brawl. Stab, parry, recover, deliver lines. Parry, dodge, deliver lines, parry, deliver lines …

Sylvanus procured a bottle of wine and ended his personal drought. He shouted encouragement at the duelists all afternoon, but didn’t move once from his chosen spot in the shade, near Sabetha and Jenora. As the sun drew down toward the west, Moncraine finally called a halt.

“There we are, boys, that’s enough for a mild beginning.”

“Mild?” wheezed Alondo. He’d kept his composure for a respectable length of time, but wilted with the rest of them as the muttering and swordplay had drawn on.

“Aye, mild. You’re out of condition, Alondo. You young pups have all the leaping about to do, and nearly all the speaking. If the audience sees you sucking air like a fish on the bottom of a boat—”

“They’ll throw things, right,” said Alondo. “I’ve been pelted with vegetables before.”

“Not in my company you haven’t,” growled Moncraine. “Right, all of you, sit down before you throw up.”

The admonition came too late for Calo, already wobbling from his hangover. He noisily lost whatever remained in his stomach in a far corner of the inn-yard.

“Music to my ears,” said Moncraine. “See, Andrassus? So long as I can inspire that sort of reaction in our bold young lads, I believe I may claim not to have lost my touch.”

“What do you suppose for us, then?” said Sylvanus.

“The audience might notice, were the emperor of the Therin Throne such a fine rich lovely shade of brown as myself, that his son ought not be a plain pink Therin,” said Moncraine. “And the part of the magician requires more moving about, so I’ll take it. That leaves you to sit the throne.”

“I shall be imperial,” sighed Sylvanus.

“Good,” said Moncraine. “Now, I need an ale before I’m baked like a pie.”

“Emperor, eh?” said Locke, sinking down against the wall next to Sylvanus. “Why so glum? Sounds like a good part.”

“It is,” said Sylvanus, “for the few lines he has. It’s not the father’s play, but the son’s.” The old man took a swig from his bottle and made no effort to pass it around. “I envy you little shits. I do, though no one could accuse you of any deep knowledge of the craft.”

“What’s to envy?” said Alondo. “We’re out there melting in the heat while you get to sit in the shade.”

“Heh,” said Sylvanus. “Spoken like a true lad of none and twenty years. At my age you don’t get to sit in the shade, boy. That’s where you’re sent to keep out of everyone else’s way.”

“You’re being morose,” said Alondo. “It’s the grapes speaking, as usual.”

“This is the first bottle I’ve touched since my head hit the ground last night,” said Sylvanus. “And for me, that’s as sober as a babe freshly unwombed. No, gentlemen, I know a thing which you do not. Read any script in our common property and you’ll find too many roles to which you’re suited—soldiers, princes, lovers, fools. You could never play them all if you lived to twice my age, which is a frightful number.

“At twenty, you may be anything. At thirty you may do as you please. At forty, only a few doors ease shut, but fifty, ah! Here’s a sting that Moncraine feels for sure. By fifty, you’re becoming a perfect stranger to all those parts that once suited you like the skin of your own cock.”

Locke had no idea what to say, so he simply watched as Sylvanus finished his bottle and tossed it into the leather-hard mud of the yard.

“I used to skim these plays for all the fine young roles my ambition could bear,” he said. “Now I look at the broken parts, the sick men, the forgotten men, and I wonder which of them will be mine. Did you not hear why I’m emperor? Because the emperor need not trouble his fat old ass to move. I am as much entombed as enthroned.”

Sylvanus heaved himself to his feet, joints creaking. “I don’t mean to oppress your spirits, boys. Come find me in an hour or two, and I shall be merry. Yes, I will have quite forgotten anything I’ve said here, I’m sure.”

After Sylvanus had gone inside, Locke rose, stretched, and followed. He had no notion of what, if anything, he should say. In one short afternoon he had grown used to the advantage of having all of his lines scribbled out for him on a piece of paper.

4

“RIGHT,” SAID Jasmer, three hours into their fifth day of practice under the unfriendly sun. “Jovanno, I’m sure you’re a fine fellow, but you’ve got no business saying lines in front of people. I think I can beat your friends into something resembling actors, but you’re as useless as gloves on a snake.”

“Uh,” said Jean, looking up from his script, “what’d I do wrong?”

“If you had any wit for the work you’d already know,” said Jasmer. “Go sit the fuck down and count our money or something.”

“Hang on,” said Locke, who’d been playing Aurin to Jean’s Ferrin. “You’ve got no business talking to Jovanno like that.”

“This is the business of the play,” said Moncraine, “and in this realm I am all the gods on their heavenly thrones, speaking with one voice, telling him to shut up and go away.”

“Agreed, you can order him around,” said Locke. “But mind your manners.”

“Boy, I do not have fucking time—”

“Yes you do,” said Locke. “You always have the time to be polite to Jovanno, and when you don’t, we will pack up and go back to Camorr! Do I make myself clear?”

“Hey,” said Jean, tugging at Locke’s tunic, “it’s fine.”

“No it isn’t,” said Sabetha, joining Locke and Jean in the center of the courtyard. “Lucaza’s right, Jasmer. We’ll slave for you as required, but we won’t eat shit for no reason.”

“Send me back to gaol,” muttered Moncraine. “Fuck me and send me back to gaol.”

“We shall accommodate neither request,” said Sabetha.

“I can use him,” said Jenora, appearing from the door to the inn. “Jovanno, that is. If he’s not going to be onstage he can help me manage the property and alchemy.”

“I, uh, guess I’ve got … no real choice?” said Jean.

“And speaking of the common property,” said Jenora, “I’ve got to tell you now, the mice and red moths have been at it. All the death-masks and robes are too scrubby to use, and most of the other costumes are only fit for cutting up as pieces.”

“Well, then, do so,” said Jasmer. “I’m busy out here turning dogshit into diamonds; it’s only fair you should get to do the same in your line of work.”

“I need funds,” said Jenora, “and we must have a sit-down, all the stakeholders, and decide where those funds are coming from, and how to address the shares of our friends that cut and ran—”

“Good gods,” said Moncraine.

“… and on what terms! And I need to hire someone who can handle a needle and thread.” Jean raised his hand.

“You can sew?” said Jenora. “What, mending torn tunics and so forth? I need—”

“I know hemming from pleating,” said Jean. “And darning from shirring, and I’ve got the thimble-calluses to prove it.”

“I’ll be damned.” Jenora grabbed Jean by the arm. “You can’t have this one back even if you decide you do need another actor.”

“I won’t,” said Moncraine sourly.

“Are we taking a break?” said Calo, sitting down hard.

“Sure, sit on your ass, sweetheart. Those of us still in condition will play for your amusement,” said Galdo. He kicked dirt across his brother’s breeches.

Calo didn’t even waste time on a dirty look. He lashed out with his legs, hooked Galdo below the knees, and toppled him. Galdo rolled over on his back, clutching at his left wrist, and howled in pain.

“Oh, hell,” said Calo, jumping back to his feet. “Is it bad? I didn’t mean to, honest—GNNNAKKKH!”

This last extremely unpleasant sound was forced out of him by a kick from Galdo that terminated in Calo’s groin.

“Nah, it feels fine,” said Galdo. “Just having a bit of acting practice.”

Locke, Jean, Alondo, Jenora, and Sabetha descended on the twins, separating them before Moncraine could get involved in the melee. What followed was a pandemonium of finger-pointing and hard words in which the intelligence, birth city, artistic capacity, work habits, skin color, dress sense, and personal honor of every participant were insulted at least once. Through it all the sun poured down relentless heat, and by the time relative order was restored Locke’s head was swimming. He didn’t notice that someone had come around the corner from the street until they cleared their throat loudly.

“How grand,” said the newcomer, a tall woman of about thirty. She wore a tight gray tunic and baggy trousers, and she was of mixed Therin and dark-skinned parentage, though she was lighter than Jasmer or the Gloriano women. Her black curls were cut just above her ears, and she had the sort of cool self-composure that Locke associated with Camorri garristas. “Jasmer, I’m impressed, but not really in the way I expected to be.”

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, conjuring his dignity with the speed of a quick-draw artist. “A fine afternoon to you as well, you opportunistic turncoat.”

“You were off to the Weeping Tower,” said the woman. “I do like to eat more than once a month. I’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“What’s the matter, Basanti not handing out charity to any more of my strays?”

“Basanti’s got work for the taking. But I heard some interesting things. Heard you’d found a patron.”

“Yes, it turns out that not all the good taste has been bred out of Espara’s quality.”

“Also heard that those Camorri you promised weren’t a lie after all.”

“They’re all here,” said Moncraine. “Count ’em.”

“And you’re still serious about doing The Republic of Thieves?”

“Serious as a slit throat.”

“Is Jenora finally getting onstage?”

“Gods above, no!” said Jenora.

“Aha.” Chantal strolled toward Moncraine. “By my count, you’re short at least one woman, then.”

“What do you care if I am?”

“Look, Jasmer.” Chantal’s cat-and-mouse smile vanished. “Basanti’s doing The Wine of Womanly Reverence, and I don’t want to spend the summer giggling and flouncing as Fetching Maid Number Four. We’re in a position to help one another.”

“Hmmm,” said Moncraine. “Depends. Did you drag that husband of yours back over here as well?”

As though on cue, a brown-haired Therin man came around the corner behind Chantal. He wore an open white tunic, displaying a rugged physique decorated with dents and scars. Those and the fact that his right ear was half-missing led Locke to guess that he was either a veteran handball player or an aging swordsman who’d seen the writing on the wall.

“Of course you did,” said Moncraine. “Well, my new young friends, allow me to introduce you to Chantal Couza, formerly of the Moncraine Company, and her husband, Bertrand the Crowd.”

“The Crowd?” said Locke.

“He hops costumes from scene to scene like nobody else,” said Alondo. “He’s half a dozen bit players in one.”

“Him I can use,” said Moncraine, “but what makes you think I’ve forgiven either of you?”

“Cut the crap, Jasmer,” said Chantal. “I want decent work. You want a happy audience.”

“Dare I ask if there will be any more reverse defections?”

“Not for a basket of rubies the size of your self-regard, Jasmer. They’re more worried about being taken in as accomplices to assault and sedition than they are about losing their places in your troupe.”

“Well, I say take Bert and Chantal back,” said Alondo.

“Likewise,” said Jenora. “We’ve got parts to fill, and we don’t have time to be choosy. Shall I pry Sylvanus out of bed and see what he thinks?”

“No,” said Moncraine. “He’d say yes just because he can’t take his eyes off her. Fine! You’re in luck, the pair of you, but it’s on wages. No percentage. You know the papers. You lost that when you walked.”

“We might have to argue that,” said Chantal. “Either way, it’s worth it to avoid Fetching Maid Number Four. Believe me, I’d much rather be Amadine, Queen of the Shadows.”

“I’m ever so sorry,” said Sabetha. If the words THAT WAS A LIE had suddenly sprung up behind her in letters of fire ten feet high, the effect could scarcely have added to her tone of voice. “That role is no longer available.”

“Are you kidding?” Chantal strode across the courtyard until she was looking down at Sabetha, who was a hand-span shorter than the older woman. “Who are you, then?”

“Amadine,” said Sabetha coolly. “Queen of the Shadows.”

“Bloody Camorri. You’re young enough to have come out from between my legs! But not pretty enough. You can’t be serious.”

“She certainly can,” said Locke. Heat and frustration mingled badly with his acute sensitivity at hearing a stranger say anything uncomplimentary about Sabetha.

“Jasmer, you’re mad,” said Chantal. “She’s no Amadine. Give her Penthra, by all means, but not Amadine! What is she, sixteen? Sixteen, boy-assed and average!”

“Average?” said Locke. “Average? How the hell do you get around the city with two glass eyes in your gods-damned head, woman? You gotta be stu—”

Before Locke could append the second syllable of that heartfelt but unwisely chosen word, Bertrand the Crowd, true to his appearance, had one rough hand on Locke’s tunic collar and was dragging him toward a rendezvous with his other fist, already drawn back. The world moved in horrifying slow motion; Locke, who was no stranger to a beating, was cursed with an uncanny ability to recognize one just before it ceased to be theoretical.

A miracle the size and shape of Jean Tannen appeared out of the corner of Locke’s vision. An instant before Bertrand could throw his punch, Jean hit him shoulder-to-stomach and slammed him into the dirt.

“Bert!” shouted Chantal.

“Heavens,” said Jenora.

Locke realized he was holding something, and he glanced down to discover that Jean had somehow tossed his precious optics into his hands while separating him from Bertrand.

Jean was a round-bellied, quietly dignified boy of about sixteen. Even his current crop of carefully hoarded stubble failed to lend his aspect any real menace. Bertrand had at least a decade on him, not to mention six inches and twenty pounds, and he looked like he could tear a side of beef in half on a whim. What happened next surprised even Locke.

Punch was traded for punch. Jean and Bertrand rolled around, a furious tangle of arms and legs, swiping and swatting and straining. The advantage shifted every few seconds. Jean got his hands around Bertrand’s throat, only to find the older man hammering at his ribs. Bertrand pinned Jean beneath him, yet the boy somehow kicked his legs aside and pulled him back to the ground.

“Gods above,” said Chantal. “Stop! Stop it, already! We can talk about this!”

Jean attempted to hold an arm across Bertrand’s neck, and Bertrand responded with something fast and clever that flung Jean forward over his shoulder. When he tried to press his advantage, however, Jean did something equally fast and clever that threw Bert into a wall. The two combatants wrestled again, desperately forming and breaking grips on one another, until at last Jean slipped free and rolled clear. This was a mistake; the older man used the space between them to swing a wild haymaker that clipped Jean across the chin and finally dropped him.

A moment later, Bertrand wobbled and fell on his face, just as used up as his younger antagonist.

“Chantal,” said Moncraine, “I would have been happy to tell you that the role of Amadine was beyond negotiation, for several reasons. And hot staggering shit, you cannot expect me to believe that boy can do all that and work a thimble, too!”

Jenora and the Gentlemen Bastards gathered around Jean, while Alondo, Chantal, and Moncraine saw to Bert. Both the fighters regained their senses soon enough, and were eased up into sitting positions against the inn wall.

“Optics,” coughed Jean. When Locke handed them over, he settled them carefully on his nose and sighed with relief.

“Smoke,” muttered Bertrand. Chantal handed him a sheaf of rolled tobacco and flicked a bit of twist-match to light it. Once she’d done this, Bert tore the cigar in two, lit the cold half from the red embers of the other, and passed it over to Jean. The boy nodded his thanks, and the two combatants smoked in peace for a few moments while everyone else watched, dumbfounded.

“You play handball, kid?” said Bertrand. His voice was deep, his Verrari accent thick.

“Certainly,” said Jean.

“Come play with my side on Penance Day afternoons. We play for ale money, two coppins a man to buy in.”

“Love to,” said Jean. “Just don’t take any more swings at my friends.”

“Sure, kid,” said Bertrand. He waved a finger at Locke. “And you don’t talk about my wife like that.”

“Then tell your wife not to insult Verena,” said Locke.

“Hey there, skinny, we both speak Therin.” Chantal poked Locke sharply in the chest. “You got something to tell me, tell me yourself.”

“Fine,” said Locke, matching gazes with Chantal. “Don’t insult Verena—”

“Excuse me,” said Sabetha, pushing Locke aside without humor or delicacy. “Did I turn invisible or something? I’m not hiding behind him, Chantal.”

Locke winced at the unkind emphasis on him.

“You want to fight your own fights, bitchling?” said Chantal. “Good. Anytime you want a real education, you try and throw a—”

“ENOUGH,” hollered Moncraine in a shake-the-rafters voice, pushing the two women apart. “Gods damn you all for shit-witted wastrels! Bring yourselves to order or I’ll go punch another nobleman, I swear it on my balls and bones!”

“Chantal, sweetness,” said Bertrand, blowing smoke, “when Jasmer’s the voice of reason you might have to admit it’s time to calm down.”

“Verena’s Amadine,” said Jasmer. “That’s the way it is! You can have Penthra or you can have Fetching Maid Number Four and shake your tits all summer for Basanti.”

Chantal glowered, then offered a hand to Sabetha. “Peace, then. I just hope that when you’re onstage the sun shines out of your backside, girl.”

Sabetha shook with Chantal. “When I’m finished, you won’t be able to imagine anyone else as Amadine ever again.”

Bertrand whistled and grinned. “Ha! That’s good. Give my wife a couple of days to grow on you, Verena. She’ll make you like her.”

“I’ve had a lot of opportunities in my life to learn tolerance,” said Sabetha with a thin smile.

“Now, if you’re Amadine,” said Bertrand, “who’s Aurin? Who gets to do all that kissing and mooning and staring, eh?”

Locke’s heart seemed to skip a beat.

“That’s what we were in the business of figuring out when you showed up,” said Moncraine. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I suppose I might as well make my decision. I’ll hedge our bets. Lucaza, you’ll be Ferrin.”

“I would love to … wait, what?” said Locke.

“You heard me. Aurin’s a role that needs more nuance. I want Alondo to handle it.”

“But—”

“That’s all,” said Jasmer. “That’s it for today. No further discussion. And gods help me, I can quote the company charter as well as Jenora can. Next one of you that lays a finger on anyone else here gets docked. Wages, shares, work time—I don’t give a damn. I’ll spank you like an angry father. Now, go!”

5

“PENTHRA,” MUTTERED Jean, reading aloud from the script in his hands, “a fallen noblewoman of Therim Pel. Amadine’s boon companion.”

“I’ve read the bloody character list, Jean.” Locke and Jean sat in the corner of Mistress Gloriano’s common room farthest from the bar, where Bertrand, Jasmer, Alondo, Chantal, and Sylvanus were drinking up a significant portion of the company’s future profits. Dinner was just past. “Wait, are you trying to ignore me?”

“Yes.” Jean closed his copy of the play with a sigh. “My ribs ache, I got thrown out of the play, I’m now a bookkeeping stevedore, and you’re plumbing new depths of tedium with your moping.”

“But I—”

“Seriously, if you want to kiss her onstage so badly just speak to Jasmer.”

“He doesn’t want to talk about it.” Locke sipped his cup of warm dark ale, barely tasting it. “Says it’s an artistic decision and therefore not subject to debate.”

“Then talk to Alondo.”

“He acts for a living. Why would he give up the plum role?”

“I don’t know, because you tricked him? Because you convinced him? Rumor has it you took some lessons in being tricky and convincing.”

“Yeah, but … he’s a decent enough fellow. It’s not like yanking Jasmer around. Feels wrong.”

“Then listen here, my friend. I’m not an oracle and I’m not going to turn into one no matter how long you sit there crying in your beer. You know I used to think that the Sanzas were the biggest annoyance around? I was wrong. Until you and Sabetha get your shit together, they’re the least of all possible evils.”

“She’s just so gods-damned inscrutable.”

“You were talking to her before, right?”

“Yeah. It was going well. Now it’s all strange.”

“Have you considered extreme, desperate measures like talking to her again?”

“Yeah, but, well …”

“You’ve yeah-but your way to this point,” said Jean. “You’re going to yeah-but this mess until it’s time to go home, and I don’t doubt you’ll yeah-but her out of your life. Quit circling at a distance. Go talk to her, for Preva’s sake.”

“Where is she?”

“She sneaks up to the roof when the rest of us are down here making idiots of ourselves.”

“She won’t … I dunno, it’s not that it’s—”

“Reach between your legs,” growled Jean, “and find some balls, or you do not get to speak to me on the subject of her for the rest of the summer.”

“I’m sorry,” said Locke. “I just hate the thought of screwing things up worse than they are. You know I’ve got talents in that direction.”

“Ha. Indeed. Try being direct and honest. I can’t give you any more specific advice. When the hell have I ever charmed my way under anyone’s dress, hmm? All I know is that if you and Sabetha don’t reach some understanding we’re all going to regret it. But you most of all.”

“You’re right.” Locke took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re right!”

“Pretty routinely,” sighed Jean. “Are you going?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not with that beer, you’re not. Give it over.” Locke did so with an absentminded air, and Jean drained the cup in one gulp.

“Okay,” he said. “Go! Before your so-called better judgment has a chance to wake back up. Wait, that’s not the way up. Where the hell are you going?”

“Just back to the bar,” said Locke. “I have a bright idea.”

6

LANGUID, THICK-AIRED evening had come down on Espara, and the city lights were flicking to life beneath a sky the color of harvest grapes. Mistress Gloriano’s crooked gables concealed a little balcony, westward-facing, where two people could sit side by side, assuming they were on good terms. Locke eased the balcony hatch open carefully, peered out, and found Sabetha staring directly at him with eyebrows raised. She lowered her copy of The Republic of Thieves.

“Hi,” said Locke, much less confidently than he’d imagined he would as he’d climbed the little passage from the second floor. “Can I, ah, share your balcony for a little while?”

“I was going over my part.”

“You expect me to believe you don’t already have the whole thing memorized?”

It was as though she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or exasperated. Locke knew the expression well. After a moment, she set her book down and beckoned him out. He sat down cross-legged, as she was, and they faced one another.

“What’s behind your back?” she said.

“A small kindness.” He showed her the wineskin and two small clay cups he’d been concealing. “Or a bribe. Depending on how you look at it.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“If I’d been worried about thirst, I’d have brought you water. I was worried about knives.”

“Knives?”

“Yeah, the ones you’ve had out for a few days now. I was hoping to sort of dull the edges.”

“Isn’t that rather knavish? Plying a girl with drink?”

“In this case it’s more like self-defense. And I did sort of think you might just … like a cup of wine.”

“And then perhaps a second? And a third, and so on, until my inhibitions were sufficiently elastic?”

“I didn’t deserve that.”

“Yes, well … perhaps not.”

“Gods, I forgot that anyone who wants to be nice to you has to get permission in advance and wear heavy armor.” Biting his lip, Locke poured the pale wine carelessly and slid one of the cups toward her. “Look, you can pretend it just appeared there by magic if it makes you happy.”

“Is that Anjani orange wine?”

“If it’s Anjani my ass is made of gold,” said Locke, sipping from his cup. “But it was some kind of orange, once upon a time.”

“And what miracle are you trying to coax out of me, exactly?”

“Simple conversation? What’s happened, Sabetha? We were talking, actually talking. It was … it was really nice. And we worked well together! But now you snap for no reason. You find excuses to cut me dead. You keep throwing up these walls, and even when I climb them, I find you’ve dug moats on the other side—”

“You’re crediting me with an extraordinary degree of industry,” she said, and Locke was delighted to see the tiniest hint of a smirk on her lips, though it vanished between breaths. “Maybe I’m preoccupied with the play.”

“Oh look,” said Locke. “Now the moat is full of spikes. Also, I don’t believe you.”

“That’s your problem.”

“What do you have to gain by not talking to me?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to—”

“But you did,” said Locke. “You did, and we were getting somewhere. Do you really want to spend the rest of our stay here doing this stupid dance back and forth? I don’t.”

“It’s not so much a dance, though, is it?” she said, softly.

“No,” said Locke. “You’re the one that keeps stepping back. Why?”

“It’s not easy to explain.”

“If it was, an idiot like me would have figured the answer out already. Can I sit beside you?”

“That’s putting the cart before the horse.”

“The horse is tired and needs a break. Come on, it’ll make it easier to hit me if you don’t like what I have to say.”

After a pause that seemed to last about ten years, she turned to look out over the city and patted the stone beside her. Locke slid over, eagerly but carefully, until his left shoulder was touching her right. The warm wind stirred around them, and Locke caught the faint scents of musk and sage oil from her hair. A thousand fluttering things burst to life in his stomach and immediately found reasons to run all over the place.

“You’re trembling,” she said, actually turning to look at him.

“You’re not exactly a statue yourself.”

“Are you going to try to make me not regret this, or are you just going to sit there staring?”

“I like staring at you,” said Locke, shocked and pleased at his own refusal to turn from her gaze.

“Well, I like heaving boys off rooftops. It’s not a habit I get to indulge often enough.”

“That wouldn’t get rid of me. I know how to land softly.”

“Gods damn it, Locke, if you’ve got something you want to say—”

“I do,” he said, steadying himself as though for the incoming swing of a wooden training baton. “I, uh, I’m tired of talking behind my hands and dropping hints and trying to trick some sort of reaction out of you. These are my cards on the table. I think you’re beautiful. I feel like I’m an idiot with dirt on his face sitting next to someone out of a painting. I think … I think I’m just plain stupid for you. I know that’s not exactly sweet talk out of a play. Frankly, I’d kiss your shadow. I’d kiss dirt that had your heel print in it. I like feeling this way. I don’t give a damn what you or anyone else thinks … this is how it feels every time I look at you.

“And I admire you,” he said, praying that he could blurt everything out before she interrupted him. This desperate eloquence was like an out-of-control carriage, and if it smashed to a halt it might not move again. “I admire everything about you. Even your temper, and your moods, and the way you take gods-damned offense when I breathe wrong around you. I’d rather be confused about you than stone-fucking-certain about anyone else, got it? I admire the way you’re good at everything you do, even when it makes me feel small enough to drown myself in this wine cup.”

“Locke—”

“I’m not done.” He held up the cup he’d used to illustrate his previous point and gulped its contents straightaway. “The last thing. The most important thing … it’s this. I’m sorry.”

She was staring at him with an expression that made him feel like his legs were no longer touching the balcony stones beneath them.

“Sabetha, I’m sorry. You told me that you wanted something important from me, and that it wasn’t a defense or a justification … so it has to be this. If I’ve pushed you aside, if I’ve taken you for granted, if I’ve been a bad friend and screwed up anything that you felt was rightfully yours, I apologize. I have no excuses, and I wish I could tell you how ashamed I am that you had to point that out to me.”

“Gods damn you, Locke,” she whispered. The corners of her eyes glistened.

“Twice now? Look, uh, if I said the wrong thing—”

“No,” she said, wiping at her eyes, trying but failing to do so nonchalantly. “No, the trouble is you said the right thing.”

“Oh,” he said. His heart seemed to wobble back and forth in his chest like an improperly balanced alchemist’s scale. “You know, even for a girl, that’s confusing.”

“Don’t you get it? It’s easy to deal with you when you’re being an idiot. It’s easy to push you aside when you’re blind to anything outside your own skull. But when you actually pay attention, and you actually make yourself … act like an adult, I can’t, I just can’t seem to make myself want to keep doing it.” She grabbed her wine cup at last, gulped most of it, and laughed, almost harshly. “I’m scared, Locke.”

“No you’re not,” he said vehemently. “Nothing scares you. You may be a lot of other things, but you’re never scared.”

“Our world is this big.” She held the thumb and forefinger of her left hand up barely an inch apart. “Just like Chains says. We live in a hole, for the gods’ sake. We sleep fifteen feet apart. We’ve known each other more than half our lives. What have we ever seen of other men or women? I don’t want … I don’t want something like this to happen because it can’t be helped. I don’t want to be loved because it’s inevitable.”

“Not everything that’s inevitable is bad.”

“I should want someone taller,” she said. “I should want someone better-looking, and less stubborn, and more … I don’t know. But I don’t. You are awkward and frustrating and peculiar, and I like it. I like the way you look at me. I like the way you sit and stare and ponder and worry yourself over everything. Nobody else stumbles around quite the way you do, Locke. Nobody else can … keep juggling flaming torches while the stage burns down around them like you do. I adore it. And that … that frightens me.”

“Why should it?” Locke reached out, and his heart threatened to start breaking ribs when she slipped his hand into hers. “Why aren’t you entitled to your feelings? Why can’t you like whoever you want to like? Why can’t you love—”

“I wish I knew.” Suddenly they were on their knees facing one another, hands clasped, and Sabetha’s face was a map of mingled sorrow and relief. “I wish I was like you.”

“No you don’t,” he said. “You’re beautiful. And you’re better at just about everything than I am.”

“I know that, stupid,” she said with a widening smile. “But what you know is how to tell the whole world to fuck off. You would piss in Aza Guilla’s eye even if it got you a million years in hell, and after a million years you’d do it again. That’s why Calo and Galdo and Jean love you. That’s why … that’s why I … well, that’s what I wish I knew how to do.”

“Sabetha,” said Locke. “Not everything that’s inevitable is regrettable. It’s inevitable that we breathe air, you know? I like shark meat better than squid. You like citrus wine better than red. Isn’t that inevitable? Why the hell does it matter? We like what we like, we want what we want, and nobody needs to give us permission to feel that way!”

“See how easy it is for you to say that?”

“Sabetha, let me tell you something. You called it silly, but I do remember the first glimpses I ever had of you, when we both lived in Shades’ Hill. I remember how you lost your hat, and I remember how your red was coming out at the roots. It struck me witless, understand? I didn’t even know why, but I was delighted.”

“What?”

“I have been fixated on you for as long as I’ve had memories. I’ve never chased another girl, I’ve never even gone with the Sanzas … you know, to see the Guilded Lilies. I dream about you, and only you, and I’ve always dreamt about you as you really are … you know, red. Not the disguise—”

“What?”

“Did I say something wrong?”

“You’ve seen the real color of my hair once.” She pulled her hands out of his. “Once, when you were the next thing to a gods-damned baby, and you can’t get over it, and that’s supposed to flatter me?”

“Hold on, please—”

“ ‘As I really am?’ I’ve kept my hair dyed brown for ten years! THAT’S how I really am! Gods, I am so stupid … . You’re not fixated on me … you want to fuck a red-haired girl, just like every leering pervert this side of Jerem!”

“Absolutely not! I mean—”

“You know why I’ve been dodging slavers all my life? You know why Chains trusted me with a poisoned dagger when Calo and Galdo were barely allowed to carry orphan’s twists? You ever hear the things they say about Therin redheads that haven’t had their petals plucked?”

“Wait, wait, wait, honest, I didn’t—”

“I am so, so stupid!” She shoved him backward, and he crushed his empty wine cup, painfully, by sitting on it.

“I should have known. I just should have known. You admire me? You respect me? Like hell. I can’t believe I was going to … I just— Get out. Get the hell out of here.”

“Wait, please.” Locke tried to wipe away the haze suddenly stinging his eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

“Your meaning was quite plain. Go away!”

She threw her own empty cup at him, missing, but speeding his stumbling escape into the little passage down to the second floor. As he tried to roll awkwardly back to his feet, a pair of strong hands grabbed him from behind and hauled him up.

“Jean,” he muttered. “Thanks, but I—”

The same hands grabbed him, spun him around, and pressed him hard against the passage wall. Locke found himself eye to eye with the new patron of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company.

“Lord Boulidazi,” Locke sputtered. “Gennaro!”

The well-built Esparan held Locke in place with one iron forearm, and reached beneath his plain, dusty clothing with the other hand. He pulled out ten inches of steel, gleaming in the light from the open balcony door, the sort of knife crafted for arguments rather than display cases. In an instant the tip was against Locke’s left cheek.

“Cousin,” spat Boulidazi. “I thought I’d dress down and come see how my investment was faring. The idiots in the taproom said you might be up here. That’s a fascinating conversation you’ve been having, Cousin, but it leaves me feeling like there’s a few things you haven’t exactly been telling me.”

The knife-tip pressed deeper into Locke’s skin, and he groaned.

“Like everything,” said Boulidazi. “Why don’t we start with everything?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: INFINITE VARIATION

1

“SOMEONE’S GONNA RECOGNIZE us,” said Locke.

“We look like hell,” said Jean, practicing understatement at the master level. “Just two more travelers covered in dust and shit.”

“Volantyne must have returned by now. Sabetha’s got to have people watching the gates.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “You and I would.”

“That’s a generous appraisal of our foresight.”

It had been a hard four days back to Karthain. They’d looted the wagon and shoved it into a ravine on the second day, needing every scrap of speed they could coax out of their unyoked team. Lashain’s constables were no threat, but the previous occupant of the wagon could always hire mercenaries. There was no law on the long, ancient road between city-states; a column of dust rising rapidly in the sky behind them would probably have meant someone was going to die.

Now the city, finally in sight, had taunted them for half a day with the prospect of relative safety. They’d come up the coast road from the east, through hills and terraced farming villages, their bodies thoroughly punished by the seedy emergency saddles they’d filched from the wagon.

“Maybe you’re right, though,” said Jean. “If we’ve got no chance of hiding ourselves, we’ve got to rely on speed. We get one move, maybe, before she can respond.”

“Let’s go straight for her,” said Locke. His scowl shook little puffs of dust out of the creases of his road-grimed face.

“To do what?”

“Finish a conversation.”

“You in a hurry to get back to sea? I can handle a couple of her people at a time. She’s got more than a couple.”

“Taken care of,” said Locke. “I know a fellow who’ll be eager to help us past the guards.”

“You do?”

“Didn’t you notice that Vordratha favors tight breeches?”

“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

“Every little detail matters,” said Locke. “Just wait. It’ll be a fun surprise.”

“Well, shit,” said Jean. “It’s not like I’ve done anything especially smart in months. Why start now?”

2

THEY SLIPPED into traffic and the usual milling semi-confusion of customs inspectors, guards, teamsters, travelers, and horse manure. The Court of Dust, despite the general cleanliness of Karthain, could have been peeled up beneath its paving stones and set down in place of its counterpart in nearly any Therin city without arousing much notice.

Locke scanned the crowds as he and Jean were poked and prodded by bored constables. Sabetha’s spotters would most likely be working in teams, one person on watch while the other was always plausibly absorbed in some trivial business. After counting five possible pairs of watchers, Locke shook his head. What was the point?

Locke felt something else unusual going on, though. A buzz of activity around the court, beyond mundane business. He’d spent too many hours picking pockets in crowds like this not to sense that something was awry.

Jean was alert, too. “What’s the excitement?” he asked of a passing constable.

“It’s the Marrows. You ain’t heard?” The woman gestured toward a crowd forming around a battered statue of a Therin Throne noblewoman. “Crier’s just about to start up again.”

Locke saw that a young woman, a finger’s width over four feet tall, had climbed the statue pedestal. She wore the blue coat of Karthain, and standing below her was a man in the regalia worn by Herald Vidalos, tipstaff and all.

“KIND ATTENTION, citizens and friends of Karthain,” bellowed the woman. Locke was impressed; there had to be more leather lining her lungs than his saddle. “Hear this report of the FACTS as provided and authorized by the KONSEIL! Mendacity will NOT be tolerated! Rumormongers will be subject to INCARCERATION on the PENANCE BARGES!

“Vencezla Valgasha, king of the Seven Marrows, is DEAD! He is KNOWN to have died in the city of Vintila, SIX DAYS AGO. He died WITHOUT ISSUE and without lawful heir! A war of secession is now under way!

“The Canton of EMBERLAIN, easternmost of the Seven Marrows, has EXILED its ruling graf and declared itself to be a SOVEREIGN REPUBLIC! The Konseil of Karthain DECLINES to formally recognize Emberlain at this time, and strongly advises citizens of Karthain to AVOID all travel in the north until the situation stabilizes!”

“Holy hells,” said Locke. “Sabetha was right! The Marrows finally busted up. Gods, what a mess that’s going to be.”

“We won’t be able to pull the Austershalin brandy scam again,” said Jean. “Not for a good long while.”

“There’ll be other opportunities,” said Locke wistfully. “If it’s war, desperate people are going to be moving a lot of valuable things. But come on, we’ve got to move ourselves.”

They spurred their tired mounts down a broad avenue to the west, over a shaking and sighing glass bridge, through the Court of the Divines with its incense haze, and onto the Evening Terrace. It seemed surreal to be back on clean streets, among lush gardens and bubbling fountains, as though Karthain were more of a recurring dream than a real place.

Outside the Sign of the Black Iris, they aroused immediate interest. At least two watchers, unmistakably real, flashed hand signs to dark shapes on roofs. A fleet-footed child darted into the alley beside Sabetha’s headquarters. Locke led their bedraggled horses to a curbside spot more commonly used for carriages, and when he hopped down a cloud of road dust floated off his boots. He wobbled and nearly pitched over before seizing control of himself. His legs felt like prickly jelly. His horse, less than endeared to him, flicked its ears and snapped its teeth.

“These animals are the personal property of Verena Gallante,” Locke said to the anxious-looking footman. “She wants them well looked after.”

“But sir, if you please—”

“I don’t. Get them stabled.” Locke shoved past the man and reached for the door to the foyer, but Jean pushed his hand aside and went first.

Inside were the two alley-hounds Locke had seen last time.

“Oh, hell,” said the closest one. Jean was already inside his guard. A variety of fast, noisy, and painful things happened, none of them to Locke or Jean. As one guard hit the floor, Jean pitched his comrade facefirst through the lobby doors like a battering ram. Then the Gentlemen Bastards followed.

Here was Vordratha, impeccably dressed and with a fresh black iris pinned to his jacket, backed by four guards with truncheons in hand. Better-dressed people scattered for the doors and staircases behind them.

“Gentlemen,” said the majordomo, peering at the guard who’d just landed at his feet, “this is a members-only establishment with firm rules against rendering the help unconscious.”

“Your game now, Lazari,” said Jean.

“Thanks.” Locke put his hands up to show they were empty. “Please take us to Mistress Gallante immediately.”

“Now how can I do that, gentlemen, when you’ll be headed out the alley door presently with bruises on your skulls?”

“We’d really like to see her.” Before the guards could crowd in, Locke moved up to Vordratha, reached down to the man’s breeches, grabbed his balls through the silk, and gave them a considerable twist. “Or we’d like to see your physiker’s face when he gets a look at the bruises from this.”

Vordratha moaned, and his face turned shades of a color rarely seen outside of vineyards at harvest time. The guards edged forward, but Locke held up his free hand.

“Call your friends off,” said Locke. “I’m not a strong man, but I don’t have to be, do I? I’ll twist this thing so tight you’ll piss corkscrews for the next twenty years!”

“Do as he says, gods damn you,” gasped Vordratha.

“Simply take us to Verena,” said Locke, watching as the guards slowly backed away, “and I’ll return your valuable property to you without lasting damage.”

It was an awkward shuffle, with Vordratha stumbling backward and Locke maintaining his tight, twisted grip on the majordomo’s hopes of procreation, but it did the job of keeping the guards at bay.

“Well, how now, asshole?” said Locke. “No little quips for us? I’ve never steered a fellow along by his loot sack before. Sort of like steering a boat by the tiller.”

“Camorri dog … your mother … sucked—”

“If you finish that thought,” said Locke, “I’ll wind your precious bits tighter than a bowstring.”

Vordratha led Locke and Jean up a flight of stairs to the private dining hall where they’d met Sabetha before. The guards maintained a respectful distance, but followed en masse. Vordratha bumped the door to the hall open with his backside, and Locke saw that Sabetha was already waiting for them.

She was dressed sensibly for anything from signing papers to diving out windows, in black breeches, a short brown jacket, and riding boots. Her hair was wound around lacquered pins; doubtless they contained tricks or weapons or both. Behind her were three more guards, armed with coshes and bucklers.

“Hello again, Verena,” said Locke. “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d investigate persistent rumors that Master Vordratha has no balls.”

“Isn’t this a bit crude, even by your relaxed standards?” said Sabetha.

“I suppose having your boot-print embedded in my ass makes me cranky,” said Locke. “Tell your friends to go away.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely! Shall I tie myself up for you as well?”

“We just want to talk.”

“Release Vordratha and we’ll talk as long as you like.”

“The instant I release Vordratha, all hell’s going to break loose. I’m not stupid. For a change.”

“I promise—”

“HA,” shouted Locke. “Please.”

“We have no basis for trust, then.”

“You’ve given us no basis for trust. I wasn’t the one—”

“This is getting personal.” Sabetha glared at him with real irritation. She was always less in control of herself when pushed, a hot anger in direct contrast to Jean’s cold fury. Locke had spent years desperately straining to read her, and he saw now that she had no clever plan for ending this standoff. His own position—his safety assured only so long as he could keep a grip on another man’s privates—suddenly struck him as painfully ridiculous.

“I want to speak to you,” he said, slowly. “Nothing more. I won’t harm you or try to take you from this place. I swear it absolutely on the souls of two men we both loved.”

“What could you—”

With his free hand, Locke made two of the old private signals.

Calo. Galdo.

Sabetha stared at him; then something broke behind her eyes. Relief? At any rate, she nodded.

“Everyone out,” she said. “Nobody lays a hand on these men without my orders. Release Vordratha.”

Locke did. The majordomo slumped to the ground and curled up in a half-moon of misery. Sabetha’s guards slowly backed out of the room behind her, and Jean crouched over Vordratha.

“I’ll get him out of here,” he said. “I think you two want some privacy.”

In a moment, Jean had carried the slender Vadran out the way they’d come, and Locke was once again facing Sabetha in an empty room.

“We can’t just use those names as magic words every time we find ourselves at cross-purposes,” she said.

“I know. But it’s not my fault I even had to—”

“Spare me.”

“NO!” Locke trembled with hunger, adrenaline, and emotion. “I will not be shrugged off! I will not have my feelings pushed aside for the convenience of whatever pose you think you’re adopting here.”

“Your feelings? We’re in Karthain working for the Bondsmagi, damn it, we’re not children fumbling around in the back of a wagon!”

“You used me.”

“And that’s what we do,” she said. “Both of us, professionally. I tricked you, and I meant to trick you, and I’m sorry that hurts, but this is our trade.”

“Not this. You didn’t just trick me. You used the deepest feelings I have ever had for anyone, and you know it! You exploited a weakness that only exists when I’m around you!”

“Woman convinces man to impale himself on his own hard-on. There’s a very old story! The world didn’t stop just because it happened again.”

“I’m not an infant, Sabetha. I’m not talking about sex; I’m talking about trust.”

“I put you on that ship for your own gods-damned good, Locke. I knew this would happen! I didn’t just need you out of the way and I wasn’t just minding your health. I knew you’d beat your brains out against your stupid obsession.”

“Oh, marvelous. Lovely fucking plan, because I certainly didn’t think about you once during the nine days it took to get back to Karthain.”

She had the good grace to glance away.

“What the hell is this, anyway? First you don’t need to justify yourself at all, and now it was for my own good?” Locke, feeling hot, angrily unbuttoned the stained, oversized riding jacket he’d taken from the stolen carriage. “And you are NOT a stupid obsession!”

“I’m a grown woman who’s telling you we cannot wind the clock back five years just because you can’t work up the courage to make a pass at someone else.”

“Courage? Who the hell do you think you are, telling me about my courage? Courage is what it takes to come after you! Courage is what it takes to put up with your self-righteous gods-damned martyr act!”

“You cocksure, self-entitled, swaggering little ass!”

“Tell me you never liked me,” said Locke, advancing step by step. “Tell me you never found me worthwhile. Tell me we didn’t have good years together. That’s all it would take!”

“Stubborn, fixated—”

“Tell me you weren’t pleased to see me!”

“… presumptuous—”

“Quit telling me things I already know!” They were suddenly less than a foot apart. “Quit making excuses. Tell me you can’t stand me. Otherwise—”

“You … you … whew, Locke, in faith, you reek.”

“Is that a surprise? What was I supposed to do, swim back to Karthain?”

“You were supposed to stay on the damned ship! I gave very specific directions about the availability of baths, for one thing.”

“If you wanted me to stay on the ship,” he said, “you should have been on it.”

“You look ridiculous.” Locke fought for self-control as Sabetha slowly ran two fingers down his left cheek. “You look bowlegged. Gods above, did you leave any dust on the road after you passed?”

“You can’t, can you?”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t tell me to get lost. Not to my face, not now that I’ve called you out. You don’t really want me to go away.”

“I do not have to explain myself by your terms!”

“Better cinch up that jacket, Sabetha, I think your conscience is showing.”

“We are servants of the Bondsmagi,” she whispered angrily. “We came here of our own free will, and we both screwed things up badly enough that we need this. Our position is precarious. And if we get too friendly, at least one of us gets killed.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not saying we don’t need to be careful. I’m just pointing out that there’s nothing forbidding us from having a personal life.”

“Everything personal is business with us.” She brushed the dust from his cheek against her coat. “And all of our damned business is personal.”

“Have dinner with me.”

“What?”

“Dinner. It’s a meal. Men and women often have it together. Ask around if you don’t believe me.”

“For this you twisted my majordomo’s balls off?”

“You said we’re not kids fumbling around in the back of a wagon, and you’re right. We’re in charge of our own gods-damned lives no matter how hard we’ve been kicked around. We can set the clock back however many years we like. It’s ours to set!”

“This is crazy.”

“No. Two weeks ago I was begging to die. That’s crazy. Two weeks ago I came this close, this close.” He held up a thumb and forefinger with no space at all between them. “I hit the black wall between this life and the next, believe me. I am through fucking around. Maybe this is going to complicate the hell out of things. So what? You’re the complication I want more than anything else. You’re my favorite complication. No matter what sort of holes you poke in my trust.”

“You know, self-pity is the only thing that smells worse than four days of road sweat.”

“Self-pity is about the only straw left to cling to after YOU happen to a fellow,” said Locke. “We can have this if we both want it. But you have to want it, too. This isn’t me trying to convince you of anything, unless …”

“Unless?”

“Unless some part of you is already convinced.”

“Dinner,” she said softly.

“And a contractual option for … subsequent complications. At your discretion.”

She couldn’t or wouldn’t meet his gaze during the silence that filled the next few seconds. Locke’s blood seemed to turn to gel in his veins.

“Where are we going?” she said at last.

“How the hell should I know?” Relief hit so hard he wobbled on his feet.

Sabetha’s right arm darted out and caught him around the waist. They both stood staring at the point of contact for a long, frozen moment, and then she drew back again.

“Are you all right?” she said softly.

“I, uh, guess I really liked your answer. But come now, how much time have you left me to figure out where anything is in this damned city? You’re morally obligated to pick the place. Tomorrow night.”

“Let it be sunset,” she said. “Do you trust me to send a carriage?”

“Jean and I won’t be together,” said Locke. “We’ll make sure of it. If I don’t come back in a reasonable amount of time, you can face him, pissed off and unrestrained. How’s that for a safeguard?”

“Not trouble I’d invite if I could help it.” She put her hands behind her back and regarded him appraisingly. “What now?”

“Depends. Do I still have an inn to go home to?”

“I’ve left Josten alone. Mostly.”

“Well, then, I’ve got to go soothe my children and, uh, figure out just how the hell I’m going to beat you.”

“Cocksure, infuriating little shit,” she said, without malice.

“Arrogant bitch,” he said, grinning as he backed toward the door. “Arrogant, stubborn, gorgeous bitch. And hey, if I catch one whiff of that perfume you were wearing last time—”

“If I catch one whiff of horses and road sweat, you’re going back to sea.”

“I’ll take a bath.”

“Take two. And … I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“You will,” said Locke.

He reached the door, crediting himself with enough wits to not turn his back on her, at least not yet. He was about to leave when another thought struck him.

“Oh, you know, we did borrow some horses to get here. We put them in a bad way. Would you mind stabling the poor things?”

“I’ll clean up after you, sure. And …”

“Yes?”

“Is Jean all right? His face—”

“He broke his nose getting off your ship. He’ll be fine. You know what it takes to really slow him down. It occurs to me, though, that you still have his Wicked Sisters.”

“I’ll give them back … soon.” She smiled thinly. “They can be my hostages for your good behavior.”

“If you need hostages, you could always try a gentler version of what I just did to Vord—”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she said, fighting back a laugh.

3

“SO WHAT did you get us?” said Jean.

“Uh, a dinner date,” said Locke. “I think I should be able to discuss drawing a few sensible lines so none of us have to worry about waking up halfway to sea again.”

They’d walked out nonchalantly and claimed the first waiting carriage-for-hire, which was now rattling toward more friendly territory through the slanting late-afternoon shadows of the city’s towers.

“I assume you mentioned my sisters?”

“She’ll give them back if I behave.”

“Fine, then.”

Jean’s voice still had an alarming nasal quality, and Locke made a mental note to have him examined by a physiker whether he liked it or not.

“You’re not mad?” said Locke.

“Of course not. I presume you two idiots hinted to one another about relighting old fires?”

“That was my distinct impression.”

“Well, assuming you don’t let her drug you again, I’m proud of you. I’m the last man on earth who’d discourage you from chasing the woman you adore. Believe me. See to business and then make it as personal as possible.”

“Thanks.” Locke grinned, and enjoyed a brief moment of actual relaxation, one that ended as soon as he blinked and realized that Patience was seated just across from him, lips folded into a scowl below her night-dark eyes.

“I’d say you’re placing an alarming emphasis on pleasure over responsibility, wouldn’t you?” she said.

“Gods above!” Locke edged away from her reflexively, and saw Jean flinch as well. “Why couldn’t you show up on the street like an ordinary person?”

“I’m no good at being an ordinary person. Your recent behavior has been darkly amusing, but I must confess that my colleagues and I are starting to worry about the effectiveness of your overall plan of resistance. If, indeed, such a plan exists.”

“It had to be set aside for a few days,” said Locke. “We did manage to escape total humiliation, no thanks to you.”

“How would you know where the thanks should fall?”

“I don’t remember you offering us a spare boat and a hot meal when we were trying not to drown,” said Jean.

“Unseasonal hard winds blew you off course for most of a week, leaving you within spitting distance of shore, and you didn’t stop to ponder the implications?”

“Wait,” said Locke. “I thought you were strictly forbidden from—”

“I won’t confirm or refute any conjecture,” said Patience, sounding satisfied as a cream-fed cat. “I’m merely pointing out that your vaunted imaginations seem to be flickering rather dimly. Of course it’s possible we aided you. It’s possible the other side had bent the rules as well, and earned a bit of a rebuke. You’ll never know for sure.”

“Damn it, Patience,” said Locke, “you were at pains to assure us that the rules of your stupid contest are ironclad!”

“And you were at pains to insist that you didn’t trust me any farther than you could throw this carriage.”

“Why the hell are you even here? Do you have some message?”

“The message is this: Mind your task, Locke Lamora. You’re here to win, not to woo.”

“I’m here to do both. Carte blanche was the deal. Are you reneging?”

“I’m just relaying—”

“My disinterest in your bullshit is so tangible you could make bricks out of it. Carte blanche, yes or no?”

“Yes,” she said. “But you should be very, very careful how long you test our forbearance. When dealing with a horse that won’t make speed, one tends to apply a whip to its flanks, doesn’t one?”

“You told me you people love to sit back and watch your agents run around entertaining you. So kindly sit back, shut up, and be entertained.”

“I intend to be,” she said. Between heartbeats she was gone, without so much as a rustle of fabric.

“Gods damn it,” said Locke. “Tell me I wouldn’t be such a tremendous pain in the ass if I had those powers.”

“You’d be worse,” sighed Jean. “I’d have killed you myself a long time ago. And you know what else?”

“Hrrrm?”

“Patience can lick scorpions in hell. You and Sabetha take your time and sort out whatever the last five years have done to you. I’m here to mind the shop whenever you’re out.”

4

“OH, GODS,” said Nikoros, who was sitting at Josten’s bar behind a half-finished drink that was a bit too large and a bit too early in the day. “Oh, thank the gods! Where have you two been?”

“On the road, dear fellow,” said Locke, seizing Nikoros around the shoulders and pulling him to his feet. Locke ground his teeth as he noticed the sharp smell of something alchemical on Nikoros’ breath, and his dilated pupils, but there was no time to berate him just now. “Engaged in terribly important secret affairs! Where do we stand?”

“We’re, uh, beset by unexpected complications,” said Nikoros, bewildered. “We’re getting our asses kicked. The bookmakers are projecting a fourteen-seat Konseil majority for the Black—”

“That’s great,” said Locke, flush with the heady exhilaration that comes from absolute freedom to bullshit absolutely. “That’s excellent. That’s the whole point of the exercise! Master Callas and I have been making careful arrangements to create the false impression of a total state of disarray on our side. Get it? We’ve got the Black Iris right where we want them.”

“Uh … really?” Hope brought new color to Nikoros’ face with startling speed, and Locke sighed. Between whatever he’d been drinking and the “adjustments” of the Bondsmagi, Nikoros probably had the free will of a sponge. “That sounds great!”

“Doesn’t it?” said Locke. “Now summon a physiker. Then grab every trustworthy dogsbody and scribe you can lay hands on and bring them up to me in the Deep Roots private gallery in five minutes. Go, go, go! Josten?”

“At your service, Master Lazari.”

“Food for five hungry fat men, in the private gallery, as soon as possible.”

“I gave some orders when I saw you walk in.”

“Bless you. Master Callas will want coffee, too. Hot enough to strip paint. Did you have any problems while we were away? Security trouble?”

“Your people caught half a dozen folks trying to break in. Sent them off with bad headaches. They also tell me we’re being watched from several points around the neighborhood.”

“We’ll tend to that soon enough.” Locke beckoned for Jean to follow, and the two of them passed through the crowd of afternoon businessfolk and traders, exchanging friendly nods with Deep Roots supporters barely remembered from the night of Nikoros’ party. In moments they were up in the party’s private gallery, temporarily alone.

“Is there an actual plan running around in your head?” wheezed Jean.

“Crap sparks until something catches fire.” Locke settled into a high-backed chair and brushed dust from his filthy tunic. “Noise and action to keep Sabetha guessing while we cook up a real scheme. We start with childish pranks and escalate steadily. Gods, I wish we had some proper urchins, some Right People that knew what they were doing.”

Camorri outlaws had never thought very highly of their fraternal associates in other cities, but Karthain was the least-regarded of all. Locke hadn’t once heard of a Karthani gang that had any reach, any of the savage pride or inventiveness that Camorri, Verrari, or even Lashani crews took for granted.

“It’s the Presence,” said Jean. “The Bondsmagi have these people tamed.”

Food and coffee were the first of the commanded resources to arrive. Locke scarfed down meat and bread; neither lingered long enough before his eyes or in his mouth for full identification. Jean sipped coffee and ate a roll, almost daintily, with obvious discomfort.

A few moments later, a dark-skinned woman with neat gray hair came up the stairs carrying a leather bag.

“I’m Scholar Triassa,” she said, frowning at Jean. “And that nose tells quite a story.”

While she began her examination, tactfully saying nothing about the fact that Locke and Jean smelled like goats, Nikoros and half a dozen scribes and assistants came up the stairs.

“Good,” said Locke, gulping a last bite of food. “It’s time to give those Black Iris gits a taste of some friendly piss-artistry. Whet your quills. Scribe everything down exactly. Give your notes to Nikoros when we’re finished, and he’ll handle the actual work assignments.

“I want a letter drafted immediately to the chief constable of Lashain, whoever that is. Tell them that four horses stolen from an armored carriage service bound for Lashain have been located in the stables at the Sign of the Black Iris in Karthain. Each horse has a clearly visible brand on its neck. These horses were received as stolen property and not reported to the Karthani authorities. Sign it ‘a friend’ and get it to the very next ship crossing the Amathel with mail.”

Jean chuckled, then grunted as Scholar Triassa continued her work. Locke paced back and forth as he spoke.

“Tomorrow I’ll secure an addition to party funds. I want a thousand ducats handed out to trustworthy Deep Roots members in increments of five to twenty ducats apiece. I want them all to go out this week and place bets, with anyone taking them, on the Deep Roots winning the election. I want a sudden surge of Deep Roots confidence, so the opposition can have a good hard worry about the possibility that we know something they don’t.

“I want another thousand spent on cakes and wine, rigged up in baskets with green ribbons. Complimentary baskets go to the houses of tradesfolk, merchants, alchemists, scribes, physikers—anyone respectable that isn’t already part of the Deep Roots family. Let’s go wooing new voters.”

“That might, uh, cause a problem with some of the, uh, senior party members,” said Nikoros. “Traditionally we’re very choosy about new members. We have private salons, by invitation. We don’t, uh, sweep the streets for recruits.”

Locke poured a mug of coffee and took a long sip. And for those refined tastes, you idiots have been crowded out hard in the last two elections, he thought.

“Am I in charge here, Nikoros?”

“Oh, uh, gods yes, absolutely sir. I didn’t mean to imply anything other—”

“We will sweep the streets for recruits if it comes to that. I’ll put a bag of gold in the hands of any brick-witted cross-eyed sheepfucker who can mark a parchment. Anytime you want to question me, remind yourself that the opposition doesn’t share your delicate gods-damned traditions. All they care about is winning.”

“Er, of course.”

“The baskets go out. No demands, no obligations, not yet. We just want people thinking kindly of us. Arm-twisting comes later.

“More quietly,” he continued, “hunt down our party members with debts, troubles in court, that sort of thing. Give me a list of their little problems and we’ll send people out to fix them. In exchange, we’ll own their asses and set them toiling.

“Now, conversely. Black Iris party members with weaknesses. Debts, affairs, scandals, addictions, legal entanglements. I want that list! I want to scratch every wound, pour vinegar in every cut, pluck every low-hanging fruit. Constant, total harassment, seizing any opportunity they give us, starting before the sun rises again.”

“As you wish,” said Nikoros.

“To that end … I need a trustworthy alchemist. I need a wagon … a few dozen small animal cages … as many live snakes as we can get our hands on.”

“Live snakes?” said one of the scribes. “You mean—”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “They’ve got scales, they slither around—snakes. Keep up. We only want ’em if they’re not venomous! That means barn serpents, brown marshies, belt snakes. Anything else you have in these parts that fits the bill. Use mercenaries, boys, girls, anyone.… Offer a suitable bounty, but keep it gods-damned quiet. I don’t want word of this little project going too far. Drop the cages in the cellar and keep the snakes there until further notice. How’s Master Callas’ nose?”

“Badly set,” said the physiker. “I gather from your rather forthright aroma that you gentlemen have been unable to rest for several days.”

“Woefully correct,” said Locke.

“It’ll have to be rebroken. It’s plain this isn’t your first such injury, Master Callas, and you’re developing a breathing obstruction.”

“Then do it,” said Jean.

“I’ll need two cups of brandy, some assistants, and some rope.”

“No time for all that,” growled Jean, “and I want my head clear for work. Just do it here and now.”

“Your pardon, Master Callas, but I don’t relish the thought of a man your size lashing out at me—”

“Scholar,” said Locke, “this building is more likely to collapse than my friend is to lose control of himself.”

“I’m doubling my fee,” said the woman sternly.

“And I’m tripling it,” said Jean. “Go on, snap the damn thing to where it ought to be. I’ve had worse, and I’ve had it without warning.”

Triassa placed her hands carefully, as though Jean’s head were a clay sculpture and she meant to pinch the nose off and start over. She applied pressure with one smooth motion; Jean remained still but did indulge in a long, deep, appropriately theatrical groan. The sound of whatever was moving or breaking inside the nose itself made Locke shudder as though his privates had just been dipped in ice water, and a collective gasp arose from the scribes.

“Perhaps just one small brandy,” rasped Jean, barely moving his lips. Tears ran down his cheeks. Locke pointed at one of the scribes; the woman nodded and hurried out of the gallery.

Triassa deftly set Jean’s nose in cream-colored alchemical plasters and wrapped linen around his head. “Keep this in place,” she said. “You’ve danced this dance before, so don’t do anything foolish. Brace your head while you sleep. Come see me tomorrow—I’m across the street.”

“Thanks,” said Jean. A moment later the helpful scribe returned with a glass of caramel-brown liquor, which Jean poured carefully down his throat.

“Well, then,” said Locke. “Now that we’ve all realized precisely how tough we’ll never be, let’s stand on what we have. Pass your lists to Nikoros and he’ll mind the details.”

“Sirs,” said Nikoros as his hands rapidly filled with papers, “I’m pleased to see you back and taking a more active role in our affairs, but, ah, this volume of work—”

“Don’t fret, Nikoros, there’s plenty of time, assuming none of us sleeps before dawn.” Locke gave Nikoros a reassuring squeeze on the arm, then lowered his voice to a private whisper. “Also, if I catch you stuffing another speck of black alchemy down your throat, your job situation is going to be vacant. Understand?”

“Master Lazari, sir, what can I say? I’m ashamed … but you were gone … everything was so confused—”

“Everything is now unconfused. We’re gonna have baths drawn and rejoin civilization. Get to work. Get me that list and get me that alchemist. There’s two ladies in particular waiting to see what we’ve got up our sleeves, and it’s time for things to get hectic.”

“Uh, of course, Master Lazari.”

“Nikoros!”

“Uh, yes, sir?”

“I just had a really exciting thought. Get me the list, the alchemist, and then get me a city constable! A well-bent one. Someone who thinks with their purse and isn’t shy about it.”

“Uh, certainly, but it may take—”

“Tonight, Nikoros, tonight!”

5

LOCKE AND Jean found steaming baths in their suite, along with more food and enough towels, body scrapers, and scented oil jars to supply a rather hygienic harem. Refreshed and repackaged in respectable outer layers, they returned to the Deep Roots private gallery to find Nikoros waiting, new papers in hand. Locke scanned them as rapidly as the crabbed handwriting would permit.

“Good, good,” he muttered. “Debts, lots of debts. Eager little gamblers, our Black Iris friends … Who’d be holding most of these?”

“Most of the debts that aren’t between gentlefolk would involve Fifthson Lucidus, over in the Vel Verda.… Well, he owns the chance houses in the Vel Verda, but he lives somewhere on Isas Merreau.”

“Lovely,” said Locke. “A little duke of the dice-dens. He’s not a big player in either political party, is he?”

“Doesn’t give a damn about the elections, as far as I know.”

“Better and better,” said Locke. “Exactly the sort of man Master Callas and I should see in the small hours of the night, like dutiful physikers paying a house call.”

“Physikers?”

“Absolutely. We want him firmly convinced that if he disregards our advice his health is apt to suffer. Now, where’s my alchemist and my constable?”

“Coming, Master Lazari, coming.…”

6

THE MOONS were shy in just the way thieves prefer, hidden behind clouds like black wool, and the brisk south wind carried the scents of lake water and forge smoke. Banked-down furnaces were faint smudges of red and orange nestled among the shadows of the Isle of Hammers, and the view from the window of Fifthson Lucidus’ third-story bedroom captured it all nicely.

Locke took a moment to properly appreciate the tableau before he turned and woke Lucidus with a slap to the face.

“Mmmmmph,” said the heavyset Karthani. His exclamation was muffled by Jean, who, standing behind his bed, slapped one hand over his mouth and hauled him to a sitting position with the other.

“Shhhh,” said Locke, who sat down at Lucidus’ feet. He adjusted the aperture of his dark-lantern to throw a thin beam directly on the bearded and bleary-eyed fellow, whose face wore the sort of extra years that came out of a wine bottle. “Your first thought will be to struggle, so I’d like you to think about where and how deep I can cut you while leaving you perfectly capable of conversation.”

He unsheathed a long, freshly polished steel blade, and was sure to catch the lantern light with it before he slapped Lucidus’ legs with the flat of the weapon.

“Your second thought,” said Locke, who wore an improvised gray linen mask, “will be to summon that big man who’s supposed to be watching your front door. I’m afraid we’ve put him to sleep for a bit. So now my associate will take his hand off your mouth, and you’ll mind your tone of voice.”

“Who the hell are you?” whispered Lucidus.

“What we are is the important thing. We’re better than you. There’s no defense you can dream up and no hole you can hide in that will keep us from doing this to you anytime we please.”

“What … what do you want?”

“Take a good look at these names.” Locke sheathed the blade and pulled out a torn sheet of parchment with a short list on it. The names had been culled from the larger list provided by Nikoros. They weren’t merely opposition voters, but components of varying importance in the Black Iris political machine. “Some of these men and women owe you money, yes?”

“Yes,” said Lucidus, squinting at the parchment. “Yes … most of them, in fact.”

“Good,” said Locke. “Because you’re about to have some money problems, understand? You’re going to call in your markers on all of these fine citizens.”

“Wait just a— Hggggrrrrkkk—”

This last exclamation was a result of Jean reasserting his presence, without prompting from Locke, via the careful application of a forearm to Lucidus’ windpipe.

“I’m not soliciting opinions,” said Locke, gesturing for Jean to ease up. “I’m giving orders. Yank the leash on these people or bad luck follows. Chance houses burn down. Nice homes like this burn down. The tendons in your legs get slashed. Understood?”

“Yes … yes …”

“About those money issues.” Locke held up a purse, stuffed near bursting with about ten pounds of coins, and Lucidus’ eyes went wide. “A hidden floor panel? Seriously? I was learning how to spot that sort of thing when I was six. You squeeze these people hard, get it? Collect the debts. Do your best and you’ll get this purse back, plus a hundred ducats. That’s nothing to scoff at, is it?”

“N-no …”

“Fuck it up,” said Locke, lowering his voice to a growl, “and this money vanishes. Try to cross me, and I’ll carve you like a festival roast. Get to work tomorrow, and don’t worry about looking for us. When we want to talk again we’ll find you.”

7

“NOW TELL us,” said Jean, staring down at a detailed map of Karthain with all of its avenues and islands, “which districts are usually considered an absolute lock for either party?”

It was deepening evening, the day after their midnight visit to the house of Fifthson Lucidus. Locke and Jean were in the private gallery with Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson Epitalus. Nikoros, who’d been worked like a clockwork automaton for longer than Locke had intended, had passed out in a high-backed chair. Whether it was honest fatigue or alchemically induced, Locke allowed him to snore on for the time being.

“We’ve got all the right places, dear boy,” said Dexa, pointing to the southeastern portion of the map. “Isas Mellia, Thedra, and Jonquin. The Three Sisters, the old money districts. The Silverchase and Vorhala routinely come back eight-tenths Deep Roots, as well.”

“As for the opposition,” said Epitalus, “they’ve got the Isle of Hammers and the surrounding neighborhoods. Barresta, Merreau, Lacor, Agarro—shop and trade districts, you see.” Epitalus exhaled twin streams of white pipe smoke from his nostrils, and brief-lived cloud formations drifted over the illustrated city. “New men and women. Ink still wet on the receipts for their voting privileges, eh?”

“So it’s five against five,” said Locke, “and the other nine districts are in play?”

“More or less,” said Dexa. “Sentiment across the city—”

“Can go hang itself,” said Locke. “Here’s the basic plan, as much as I can reveal now. We keep most of our money out of the settled districts. We don’t have time to turn the Black Iris strongholds, and we shouldn’t have to worry about them turning ours. We’ll run some misdirection and some nice childish pranks, but most of our leverage gets thrown against the nine in the balance. How busy are you two with Konseil duties?”

“Hardly busy,” said Dexa. “We partly recess during election season. Karthain all but runs itself, barring emergencies.”

Epitalus mouthed something under his breath, and Locke was sure it was Bless the Presence.

“Good,” said Locke. “I’d like you two to do me a favor. Go after some undecided voters in districts outside your own. Make personal calls. Important people, the cream of the middle bunch. I’m sure you can think of a hundred candidates. Charm us votes one by one in the districts where every one of those votes will count. Does that sound agreeable?”

“With all due respect, Master Lazari,” said Epitalus, “that’s simply not how it’s done here in Karthain.”

“I doubt your counterparts in the hierarchy of the Black Iris would quibble at such a task.”

“It’s simply not how things are done where folk of substance are concerned,” said Dexa gently, as though explaining to a very small child that fire was hot.

“We have higher expectations than the Black Iris,” said Epitalus. “Firmer standards. We don’t scuttle about courting just anyone, Master Lazari. Surely you can see that it would make us look beggarly.”

“I doubt that any of the recipients of the solicitations I propose,” said Locke, “would be anything but deeply flattered to receive someone of your stature.”

“We don’t mean them,” said Dexa. “Rather, our fellow members of the Deep Roots. This sort of behavior could not be countenanced—”

“I see,” said Locke. “Never mind that these scruples have brought you embarrassing defeat in the last two elections. Never mind that you will apply your ‘firmer standards’ to a smaller and smaller circle of associates, with ever-shrinking influence, should you blithely allow the Black Iris to best you again.”

“Now, now, dear Master Lazari,” said Dexa. “Surely there’s no cause—”

“I am charged with winning this election,” said Locke. “To do so I will bend every custom that must be bent. If I lack your full confidence, you may have my resig—”

“Oh no,” said Epitalus, “no, please—”

Once again Locke saw the curious working of the arts of the Bondsmagi, as the ingrained prejudices of the Karthani warred with their conditioning to see him as some sort of cross between a spymaster and a prophet. It was something behind their eyes, and though it seemed to be going his way he thought it best to lay on some sweetness for added assurance.

“I would hardly ask this of you,” he said soothingly, “if I didn’t believe that I was sending you out to certain success. Your quality and grace will knock these individuals into our camp straightaway, and since you’ll be choosing them yourselves they’ll bring the Deep Roots nothing but credit. Get us a hundred or so. Winning will be worth it, I assure you.”

Dexa and Epitalus acquiesced. Not energetically, to be sure, but Locke was satisfied that their nods were sincere.

“Splendid,” he said. “Now, I’ve got a dinner eng—er, appointment. Business appointment. Something, ah, that could really work to our advantage. Master Callas will be here if you need anything.”

“I thought you were overdressed for a planning session,” said Dexa.

“What about poor Via Lupa?” said Epitalus.

“Hmm? Oh, Nikoros.… Let him sleep on for a bit. He’ll be up to his ass in baskets and green ribbons tomorrow.”

Locke made several pointless adjustments to his dark blue coat, and brushed imaginary dust from his black silk cravat.

“And if I don’t come back …” he muttered to Jean.

“I’ll knock the Sign of the Black Iris into its own foundation, and put Sabetha on a ship to Talisham.”

“Comforting,” Locke whispered. “Right. I’ve got to go wait for the carriage. Pin a note to Nikoros’ lapel, would you? I’m still waiting on that bloody alchemist and constable.”

8

THE CARRIAGE was on time and comfortable, but Locke rode alertly, with the compartment windows open and one hand in a coat pocket. He could have instantly conjured lockpicks, a dagger, a blackjack, or a small steel pry bar, as the situation required.

However, before any need arose for the tricks in his coat, the ride came to an end beneath a warmly lit stone tower somewhere in what Locke guessed was the Silverchase District. At least a dozen well-dressed gentlefolk were visible, seemingly at ease. A footman in a red silk coat opened the carriage door for him and bowed.

“Welcome to the Oversight, Master Lazari,” said the footman as Locke stepped onto the curb. “Your party’s already waiting, if you’ll follow me.”

Allowing himself to hope that there might be an actual dinner rather than an ambush forthcoming, Locke glanced up, and was startled. Spherical brass cages anointed with alchemical lanterns circled the highest level of the tower. These were suspended by some complex mechanical apparatus and formed a sort of gleaming halo perhaps seventy feet above the ground.

As the footman led him around the tower along a hedged path, Locke heard a muted rumbling from overhead. The cage on the side directly opposite the carriage park descended smoothly and settled into a circle of pavement about five yards across. The footman seized two levers and pulled open the cage’s door, revealing the luxurious interior … and Sabetha.

She wore a buttercream gown under a jacket the color of rich dark brandy, and her hair fell loose past her shoulders. She was seated on a cushion Jereshti-fashion, legs crossed, behind a knee-high table. Dazed by the sight of her and the strangeness of their surroundings, Locke meekly entered the cage and knelt on his own cushion. The footman resealed the door, and after a moment the cage crept upward, worked by some mechanism that was no doubt obsessively oiled in deference to the delicate ears of diners.

“If you’d wanted me to be ready earlier,” he said, “I’d have been happy—”

“Oh, tsk. How could I be properly mysterious and alluring if I wasn’t calmly waiting for you when the door opened?”

“You could manage it, somehow.” Locke studied the cage more closely. Although the table was ringed by gauze curtains, these were presently pulled up to the ceiling and tied in place. The cage was composed of thin bars laid in a grid with spaces about an inch on a side, through which Locke had a view of northeastern Karthain under the gold-red lines of fading sunset. “They punish criminals back home with a contraption like this.”

“Well, in Karthain criminals pay for the privilege of being hoisted,” said Sabetha. “I was told that the Oversight was actually inspired by the Palace of Patience. Something about how the west gentles and perfects the ways of the east.”

“I’ve been out here for several years, and I don’t feel gentled or perfected,” said Locke.

“Indeed, you haven’t even offered to pour the wine yet,” said Sabetha with mock disdain.

“Oh, damn,” said Locke, stumbling back to his feet. There was a bottle of something airing on the table next to a trio of glasses. He did his duty gracefully, filling two glasses and offering one to her with an exaggerated bow.

“Better, but you forgot some of us,” she said, pointing to the empty glass.

“Hmmm?” Proximity to Sabetha was like sand in the gears of his mind. He imagined that he could literally feel them straining to turn as he stared at the empty glass, and then came a warm rush of shame. “Hell and castration,” he muttered as he poured again, and then: “A glass poured to air for absent friends. May the Crooked Warden bless his crooked servants. Chains, Calo, Galdo, and Bug—”

“May they laugh forever in better worlds than this,” said Sabetha, touching Locke’s glass. They both took small sips. It was a good vintage, mellow and strong, tasting of plums and bitter oranges. Locke sat on his cushion again, and they shared an awkward pause.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to give things a melancholy turn.”

“I know.” Locke sipped his wine again, reasoning that if it was drugged all of his hopes and assumptions were useless anyway. The miniature arsenal in his coat suddenly struck him as comical. “So, uh, do you like the flower I brought you?”

“The invisible flower? The hypothetical flower?”

Locke arched his eyebrows and tapped the right side of his coat. Sabetha looked down, hurriedly patted her own jacket, and pulled out an unfurled stemless rose, dark purple petals limned with crimson on their tips.

“Oh, you clever little weasel,” she said. “While you poured the wine.”

“And you were watching the bottle rather than the beau,” said Locke with a theatrical sigh. “It’s fine. My pride’s had all the stiffness trampled out of it already. I hope you like the color, though. Karthani hothouse. It had a stem, but that made it too awkward to carry or palm.”

“I don’t mind at all.” She set the rose carefully in the middle of the table. “Assuming it doesn’t explode or put me to sleep or anything.”

“I’ve forsworn vengeance on that score,” said Locke. “But we do need to talk about that, so we might as well get it over with.”

“What’s to talk about?”

“Kidnapping,” said Locke. “Assault. Exile. Alchemy. Dirty tricks of that nature, aimed at you or me or Jean.”

“We learned a dozen ways to incapacitate someone before we were ten,” said Sabetha. “It’s perfectly routine for us. I agreed to a truce tonight—”

“We should extend the truce permanently,” said Locke. “Mutual immunity from direct personal attack. If we’re going to have this fight, let’s have it mind to mind, plan to plan, and not need to sleep under our beds because we’re afraid of waking up on a ship the next day.”

“I’m not afraid of waking up on a ship.”

“Push your luck, gorgeous, and eventually luck pushes back. I might be dim enough to have dinner with you in a metal cage, but consider Jean. If he’s free to make his own moves he’ll squash your little army like boiled goose liver and you’ll be on your way to Talisham in a box.”

“Fearsome as that, is he?”

“Tell me again how many people you detailed to catch him while you were busy drugging me.”

“And if the Bondsmagi interpret this as collusion—”

“It’s nothing of the sort. Hell, this only increases our entertainment value for our jackass masters. They want us to run this affair in our accustomed style. Skulduggery, not skull-crackery. And you can’t tell me it wouldn’t tickle your own pride.”

“Just to be clear, you’re suggesting that I should discard an approach which has already brought me one considerable success, and continue the fight at a level more suited to the restraints of your own, well, inadequacy, and I should do this because it’ll make me feel the warm glow of virtue?”

“I suppose if you discard the lovely emotional resonance of my suggestion and pin me down on cold hard meaning—”

“How strange. You sound rather like a confidence trickster. But I’ve no objection to ending a little game while I’m one-up on you,” she said with a thin smile. “Truce as discussed, strictly limited to you and Jean and myself, so we can have more time to worry about the proper contest. Will you drink to it?”

“Full glass is an empty promise,” said Locke. Their glasses rang as they brought them together, and then they both gulped their wine to the last drop.

“Doubles or dishonor,” said Sabetha, speedily refilling the wine. Again they raced one another to the bottoms of their glasses, and when they finished her laugh seemed genuine enough to make Locke feel like a fresh wind had blown across whatever was smoldering in his heart.

“You have no idea,” he said, as the warm cloud of wine-haze steadily rose from his chest to his head, “how much aggravation I really am willing to put up with to hear that laugh again.”

“Oh, shit,” she said, rolling her eyes without banishing her smile. “Straight from business to skirt-chasing.”

“You’re the one plying me with wine!”

“Any woman of sense does prefer her men drunk and tractable.”

“And now you’re speaking of me possessively. Gods, keep doing that.”

“This is a far cry from the dusty mess that stormed my inn and accused me of cruelly tugging his heartstrings.”

“You try four days in the saddle without preparation and see what kind of mood it leaves you in.”

Their conversation was interrupted as an iron plank slid out from the tower and locked into place beside their cage. A waiter appeared and opened a door in the brass gridwork, through which he made several trips to deliver fresh wine and starter courses on gilded platters.

“I hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you,” said Sabetha.

“I’m at your mercy,” said Locke, whose stomach now grumbled achingly to life. Fortunately, Sabetha seemed sensitive to the awkwardness of his new appetite. She ravaged their dishes with indelicate gusto that matched his own.

There were the underwater mushrooms of the Amathel, translucent and steamed to the texture of gossamer, paired with coal-black truffles in malt and mustard sauce. There were cool buttercream cheeses and crackling, caustic golden peppers. Spicy fried bread with sweet onions was drizzled with tart yellow yogurt, a variation on a dish Locke recognized from the cuisine of Syrune. Each of these courses was bookended with wine and more wine. Though Locke felt his own wits softening, he was heartened to see the deepening blush on Sabetha’s cheeks and the way her smiles grew steadily wider and easier as the evening wore on.

Purple twilight became full dark of night, and Karthain a sea of half-shadowed shapes suspended between blackness and alchemical sparks.

The main course was a turtle crafted to life size from glazed particolored breads. The top of the starchy creature’s shell was paper-thin, and when punched through with a serving ladle it proved to contain a lake of turtle and oyster ragout. The turtle came under enthusiastic siege from both ends of the table.

“Have you ever had a chance to look out over the Isas Scholastica before?” said Sabetha, recovering some measure of ladylike delicacy by dabbing at her chin with a silk cloth. “That’s it down behind me, just across the canal. Isle of Scholars. Home of the magi, or so they claim.”

“Claim? No, I’ve never had a chance to see it. I can’t see much now, between the darkness and the wine.”

“They don’t seem to frown on people building towers around the edges of their little sanctuary. I’ve been sightseeing up a few. I say claim because I’m not sure I believe they all live happily together like Collegium students in rooms. I think they’re all over the place … I think the Isas Scholastica is just where they want everyone looking.”

“All those parks and buildings and so forth down there are just a sham?”

“No, I’m pretty sure they use the place, just not as a sole residence.” She took a final long draught of wine and pushed her glass aside. “Though I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one down there. Not one.”

“What, would they wear signs or something? Funny hats? They’re easy enough to spot when you can see their wrists and their manners, but at a distance they must look like other people.”

“I’ve seen servants,” said Sabetha. “People driving carts, off-loading things, but those wouldn’t be Bondsmagi, surely. I’ve never seen anyone strolling the Isas Scholastica at leisure, or giving orders, or simply talking to anyone else. No guards, no masters and mistresses, only servants. If they’re down there, they conceal themselves. Even from eyes that are hundreds of yards away.”

“They’re odd people,” said Locke, staring into the pale orange dregs of his own wine. “And I say that as a fully qualified professional odd person of the first degree. I wish they weren’t such arrogant pricks, but I suppose odd people will keep odd habits.”

“I wonder,” said Sabetha. “Do you … do you feel that your … handlers have been entirely candid with you concerning their motives for this contest of theirs?”

“Hells, no,” said Locke. “But that was an easy question. Perhaps you’ve not met my side of the magi family. Why, do you think that yours are—”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, staring out into the night. “They’ve delivered all the tools they said they would. They seem happy with my work, and I think their promises of consequences are certainly sincere. But their secrecy, their misdirection, it’s just so habitual.…”

“You’re really not used to feeling like a piece on a game board,” said Locke.

“No,” she said, and then she brought her brief moment of wistfulness to an end by sticking her tongue out at him. “I haven’t had all the opportunities you have to get acclimated to the sensation.”

“Oh ho! Serpent in a dress. Well, if only I wasn’t too much the gentleman to flay your spirit with a witty and cutting retort, madam, you’d be … thoroughly … um, wittily retorted at this very instant.”

“If you were any sort of actual gentleman you’d be no fun to have dinner with.”

“You admit you’re having fun?”

“I admit it’s much as I feared.” She looked down at the table for a moment before continuing. “Your presence is … steadily less of a chore and more of a comfort.”

“Well,” said Locke, chuckling, “aren’t I always delighted to be not quite the burden you were expecting!”

“Dessert?”

“Would you forgive me if I begged off?” Locke patted his stomach, which had mercifully reached the sheer physical limit of its gluttony. “I’m stuffed like a grain bag.”

“Good. You’re still too bloody thin.”

The waiter cleared their dishes and left a slate with a folded note pinned to it. Sabetha picked it up and glanced at it idly.

“What’s that?”

“Itemized bill,” she said. “They actually bring it to the table here. It’s all the rage. Lets those that can read show it off in public.”

“Strange,” said Locke. “But that’s the west for you. So what now, Mistress Gallante? A walk, a carriage ride, maybe an—”

“Now we rest on our laurels.” She rose from the table and stretched, revealing how precisely her gown and jacket were fitted to her curves. “Look, it’s not that I haven’t appreciated the break, but some things … just have to go slow.”

“Slow,” said Locke, knowing he was failing miserably to conceal his disappointment. “Of course.”

“Slow,” she repeated. “We’ve got five years and more of sharp edges to file down. I might be willing to work at it, but I don’t think I can do it in one night.”

“I see.”

“Oh, don’t give me that drowning-puppy look.” She touched his waist and gave him a kiss on the cheek that was not quite passionate but a shade longer than merely polite. “Let’s do this again. Three nights hence. I’ll pick some other interesting place.”

“Three nights hence,” said Locke, still feeling the warm press of her lips against his skin. “Three nights. All right. Just try and stop me.”

“I can’t. I seem to have promised to fight clean.” She drew a pair of leather gloves from her jacket and pulled them on.

“Can I at least walk you to your carriage?”

“Mmmmm … don’t think so,” she said mischievously. “I try to live by a cardinal rule of our shared profession, namely, ‘always leave a sucker wanting more.’ ”

She reached under the table and pulled out a coil of demi-silk rope previously hidden there. Locke watched, puzzled, as she conjured a slender metal pick in her other hand and applied it to the mechanism of the waiter’s door. It opened in seconds.

“Hey, wait a minute—”

“It was in case you tried anything tricky. Whether I would have used it to escape or hang you can remain an open question.”

“Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she said with a grin. “But I’m definitely sincere. Thanks for the flower. I left you a little something in exchange.”

Then she was gone. The rope was anchored to a point on the cage beneath the table; Sabetha kicked it out the door and rappelled into the night, without a harness, sliding down on the friction of boots and gloves with her gown billowing like the petals of a wind-whipped flower.

“Gods damn,” whispered Locke as he watched her land safely and vanish far below. After a moment her last words finally squeezed past the film of wine clinging to his brain, and he frantically patted himself down. A piece of paper was in his left jacket pocket. A note? A love letter?

He unfolded it in haste, and discovered the bill for dinner.

9

“MOVE! MOVE! For your life, move!”

Doormen scattered from a snorting pair of barely controlled horses dragging a rickety dray tended by a single wild-eyed driver. The back of the vehicle was loaded with sacks and barrels, one of which had bled an expanding trail of gray smoke all the way down the street. With a lurching crash, the dray broke a wheel against the curb and toppled, spilling its contents in a pile before the front doors of the Sign of the Black Iris.

“It’s alchemy!” The driver, a slender, white-bearded fellow in a voluminous rat-chewed coat, leapt to the ground as smoke billowed past him. Sparks leapt and flickered amidst the spilled cargo, and he unyoked his frantic animals. “Heaps of alchemy! Fetch water and sand, or run for your gods-damned lives!”

Patrons, servants, and guards poured out of the inn to investigate the commotion, only to reel back in dismay as smoke boiled past them into the building. Crackling noises rose ominously within the haze, and fires of eerie colors burst to life. The driver of the crashed dray led his horses across the street, where he found several boys in Black Iris livery watching the unfolding disaster.

“Here,” he shouted, thrusting the reins into one boy’s hands. “Watch my animals! I’ll be right back!”

The bearded man scuttled across the street and into the billowing murk. Green smoke, red smoke, and mustard-yellow smoke uncoiled from the spreading fire, tendrils wafting like sinister serpents of the air. The new hazes bore nauseating odors of garlic, brimstone, and mortified flesh. The entire street side of the Sign of the Black Iris was subsumed in a picturesque alchemical nightmare.

More or less hidden in the rising smoke, through which the masked afternoon sun shone dimly bronze, the driver darted down an alley beside the inn. He threw his coat and hat behind a pile of empty crates, then yanked away his baggy trousers and boots to reveal black hose and polished shoes. The beard was the last to go. Freshly peeled like a human fruit, smooth-cheeked and well-dressed, Locke Lamora strolled casually out the end of the smoky alley and into the court behind the inn.

“Master Lazari. Good-oof-afternoon!”

Sabetha rolled off the lowest eave on the Sign of the Black Iris’ rear side, landed hard, recovered gracefully, and offered a half-curtsy from about ten feet away. Three of her security folk followed her, landed awkwardly, and spread out in an arc around Locke. The window they’d spilled out of remained open, its shutters swaying in the soft breeze.

“Oh, hello, Mistress Gallante,” said Locke cheerfully. “Having problems with your inn?”

“Nothing that can’t be corrected with a little assistance, I’m sure.”

“I do wish I could help,” said Locke. “I just happened to be nearby. Ahhhh! I remember now! You’re having some sort of big Black Iris party meeting today, aren’t you? My condolences! The smoke, the flames … I can only imagine the consternation.”

“I’m sure you’ve imagined it in detail.” Sabetha moved close enough to lower her voice. “Bearded peasant goes in one end of an alley, clean-shaven gentleman comes out the other? Really?”

“It’s a classic!”

“It’s got cobwebs on it. Might have fooled someone who hadn’t seen you do it before. Now, do you want to come with me gracefully or on the shoulders of my friends?”

“I remind you, darling, my person is inviolate.”

“Don’t call me that when we’ve got our working faces on. And nobody’s person is getting violated. But you can’t think I’m going to let you stroll away while a cart full of alchemical crap burns on my doorstep.”

“Of course I can. It’s all perfectly harmless,” said Locke. “Oh, it might smell awful, and some of it reacts badly with water, and there’s just no telling what’s what until you experiment, but give it a few hours, then air your inn out for a day or two. There won’t be any lingering issues.”

“All the same, I think you should sit in a little room and be bored until I’ve got the mess under control.”

“Now, now,” said Locke, “you must credit me with the foresight to have a backup plan in case you decided to take it like this.”

“And of course, you must expect me to have one of my own in case you wanted to play hard to get,” she said.

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Well.” She ran a finger lightly up and down one of the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“YOU! HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!”

The shout echoed down the courtyard as a trio of surcoated constables appeared out of the drifting smoke. The leader, a man with a wheat-colored beard and the aesthetic qualities of a lard slab, touched Locke on the shoulder with a wooden baton.

“As a constable of Karthain, sir, I must formally detain you,” he said.

“How dreadful.” Locke feigned a yawn. “What’s the charge?”

“You resemble a suspect wanted for questioning in a confidential matter. You’ll have to come with us.”

“Alas.” Locke allowed the constables to gather loosely around him, and doffed an imaginary hat to Sabetha as he backed away with them. “Verena, I wish I could continue our conversation, but it seems the deficiencies of my character have become a matter of official concern. Best of luck dealing with your little … conflagration.”

Just before the smoke cloud swallowed him again, Locke rapidly gestured in code: Looking forward to tomorrow night.

Her response was a gesture, though not one originating in the private signals of the Gentlemen Bastards. Still, Locke felt reassured by the fact that she smiled as she delivered it.

The street before the Sign of the Black Iris was a reeking mess. Well-dressed men and women with black flowers pinned to their jackets sought escape, while well-meaning people with buckets of water tripped over one another and tumbled around like billiard balls. The alchemical fires burned merrily on, a partial rainbow of sorcerous lights within the miasma. Locke’s “captors” walked with him for about a block before detouring into an empty, windowless court.

“Beautifully timed, Sergeant,” said Locke, producing three leather purses of equal size. “Worthy of applause.”

“We take pride in the conduct of our civic duty,” said the bearded man. He and his cohorts accepted the purses with wide grins; each had earned three months’ wages for the few minutes spent loitering nearby in case of Locke’s need. It was downright pleasant, thought Locke, to be treading the old familiar realms of avarice after dealing with the eerie malleability of the “adjusted” Deep Roots people.

“Now, none of that stuff is really dangerous, right?” said the sergeant, one bushy eyebrow raised.

“Harmless as baby spit,” said Locke. “As long as nobody’s dim enough to shove their hand into a fire.”

Satisfied, the constables took their leave. Locke had only a few minutes to wait before Jean came strolling down the avenue from the direction of the smoke, several empty sacks flung over his shoulder.

“How’d it go up top?” said Locke as the two of them fell into step together.

“Perfection and then some,” said Jean. “They were all so distracted, bothering to sneak might have been a waste of time. That’s thirty-seven snakes down the cold chimneys.”

“Magnificently childish, though I say it myself.” Locke scratched at his chin to remove a few stubborn flecks of beard adhesive. “Hopefully that’ll keep them uneasy for a few days.”

“And if she responds with more of the same?”

“I arranged to have city work gangs do some unnecessary mucking with the cobblestones around Josten’s for the next few days. No carriages can get closer than twenty yards. Our friends will grumble, but that should keep loads of mischief at a distance.”

As they walked, Locke noticed for the first time that banners had started to appear, hanging from balconies and windows. Here and there were a few brave greens, but in this neighborhood the majority were black. Citizen interest was climbing; half the allotted six weeks was nearly gone. Annoying pranks were a fine gambit, but now it was time to begin truly curbing some of Sabetha’s capabilities.

“Those spies keeping watch on our place …” said Locke. “Fancy a little hospitality visit once the sun goes down?”

10

THEIR SECOND night of upper-story work went as smoothly as the first. They swept the block surrounding Josten’s Comprehensive just after midnight, creeping silently through rooftop gardens and over well-tended slate roofs, using chimneys and parapets for cover.

Not everyone they crossed paths with was in Sabetha’s pay. A drunk woman, huddled in the corner of her terrace, was sobbing over a small painting and didn’t notice them slip past. Two lithe young men wrapped in one another’s arms a few gardens over were similarly absorbed. Locke crept past their cast-off clothes, close enough to sift them for purses, but pangs of sympathy stilled the impulse. Doing mischief to happy lovers might invite a cruel justice to trample his own hopes.

Their first legitimate target was taken unawares, and his possessions made his job plain. He wore a mottled gray-brown cloak ideal for blending into city shadows, carried a spyglass, and the remains of a cold meal were spread beside his hiding place. In an instant, Jean flung him down on his stomach and crouched atop him, wrenching the poor fellow’s arms behind his back. Locke knelt at the man’s head, bemused at how familiar he and Jean were becoming with the old Threatening Voice/Silent Brawn act.

“You try to cry out,” whispered Locke, “and we’ll rip your arms off. Shove one down your throat and one up your ass so you’ll look like meat on a spit. How many of you are watching Josten’s?”

“I don’t know,” hissed the man.

Locke gave him a shove on the back of the head, bouncing his face off the roof tiles. Hard, but not too hard.

“It’s not worth it,” said Locke. “Your employer doesn’t expect life-or-death loyalty, surely. But we will hurt you to send a message.”

“There’s one more,” spat their captive. “One that I know of. Maybe more. Look out past this parapet. Four rows down, roof of the apothecary shop. He’s there somewhere. I swear that’s all I can tell you.”

“Good enough,” said Locke. He pulled his dagger and slashed the man’s cloak into strips. When Sabetha’s agent was gagged and thoroughly trussed, Locke gave him a pat on the back. “Now, don’t fret. Once we’ve finished clearing out all your friends, we’ll tip one of them off and you’ll be collected. Shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The second agent was crouched atop the apothecary shop as indicated, but he was a touch more alert and met them with a drawn cosh. What followed was a proper scrum, with Locke clinging to the man’s legs while Jean attempted to wrestle and disarm him, hampered by the need to avoid killing him. Such was the fellow’s fighting spirit that they ultimately had to pummel him unconscious before they could have a word.

As they neared the end of their circuit around the neighborhood, perhaps ten minutes later, they found a third and likely final observer, fortunately no more on guard than the first.

“All your friends are dealt with,” said Jean cheerfully as he dangled the man over the back-alley side of the building by his jacket collar. “Trussed up like festival chickens.”

“Great gods, mate, it’s nothing personal,” sobbed the man as he stared into the shadows four stories below. “We’re just doing our bloody job!”

“Find another job,” said Locke. “This is us being very, very cordial. Next time we catch spies lurking in this neighborhood, we cripple them. This isn’t Karthain right now, it’s the sovereign state of Fuck Off and Go Home.”

“But—”

“Take a good look at that alley,” said Locke. “Imagine what those cold, hard stones will feel like when we throw you off this roof. You come round here again, you’d best have wings. Now, your comrades are tied up in their usual spots. Fetch them and run hard.”

“Couldn’t we discuss—”

“Get the dogshit out of your ears, you witless corpse-fart,” growled Jean. “Do you want to do as you’re told, or do you want to kiss that pavement?”

It turned out he wanted to do as he was told.

11

“HAVE YOU ever thought about how badly Chains fucked us all up?”

“Gods above!” Locke narrowly avoided choking on his beer. “How tipsy are you?”

“Not at all.” Sabetha held her own glass rock-steady for several moments to support the assertion.

“I understand your frustration with the way some things played out,” said Locke. “You know I listened to you.”

“I do.”

“And you know I think you had some points. But Chains was a generous man. A generous and caring man, whatever his faults.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. He wanted a family, very desperately. You’ve realized that?”

“Of course. I never thought of it as a defect.”

“I often think he wanted a family more than he wanted a gang.”

“Again—”

“A conscience is a deadweight in our profession.” She stared into the amber depths of her half-full glass. “Make no mistake, he shackled each of us with one. Even Calo and Galdo, rest their souls. For all that they did most of their thinking with their cocks and the rest with their balls, even they wound up with essentially kindly dispositions. Chains got us all in the end, good and hard.”

Their second dinner, the night following the alchemical “disaster” at the Sign of the Black Iris, was held aboard the Merry Drifter, a flat-topped dining barge complete with gardens and lacquered privacy screens. The barge had floated gently through the heart of Karthain, beneath the strange music of the Elderglass bridges, before finally laying anchor in the Amathel just off the Ponta Corbessa. As the sky had darkened and the alchemical globes flicked to life, little boats had ferried other diners to and from shore, but Locke and Sabetha had held their choice table at the barge’s stern all the while.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from someone who came out of Shades’ Hill,” said Locke. “Is that what you would have preferred? Getting beaten and starved? Maybe buggered here and there when it suited him?”

“Of course not—”

“Sabetha, you know how much I respect you, but if you can’t see what a gods-damned paradise we lucked into when Chains picked us, you need to set that beer down this instant.”

“I don’t regret the comforts or the education. He was a faultless provider. Except in one respect … he trained a gentle streak into us and let us pretend it would never cost us.”

“You think we should have been more cruel? Ready to turn on each other like sharks in blood, like every other gods-damned gang around us? I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but that wasn’t weakness he bred into us. It was loyalty. And loyalty’s a hell of a weapon.”

“You have the luxury of thinking so.”

“Oh, not this again. The Jean situation, right? Straight and simple, gorgeous, don’t you dare sit there and hit me with self-righteous envy for a friendship I kept and you walked away from.”

She set her beer down and stared coldly at him. Then, just as Locke’s heart started to sink in expectation of another one of their habitual misunderstandings, the chill thawed, and she attempted a smile. She whistled, mimicking the sound of an arrow in flight, and clutched at an imaginary shaft just above her heart.

“I’m sorry,” they both said, in Sanza-esque unison, and chuckled.

“You’re dwelling on something,” said Locke, reaching across the table to rest his free hand on hers. “Let it go. Just be here. Just be Sabetha, having dinner, floating on the Amathel. Let the world end at the sides of this barge.”

“I am dwelling on something.”

“Well, don’t take such a poisonous view of our upbringing. Come on. We lie for a living; it’s not healthy for us to lie to ourselves.”

“What do we do BUT lie to ourselves, Locke? Aren’t we supposed to be rich? Aren’t we supposed to be in command of our lives, free to go when and where we please, with all the honest simpletons of the world throwing coins at our feet? Here we are, halfway around the world, working for the gods-damned Bondsmagi just to stay alive.”

“You know, Jean’s slapped me out of a lot of moods like the one you’re in right now.” Locke took a long pull on his beer. “You’re taking the world awfully personally. Didn’t Chains ever tell you about the Golden Theological Principle?”

“The what?”

“The single congruent aspect of every known religion. The one shared, universal assumption about the human condition.”

“What is it?”

“He said that life boils down to standing in line to get shit dropped on your head. Everyone’s got a place in the queue, you can’t get out of it, and just when you start to congratulate yourself on surviving your dose of shit, you discover that the line is actually circular.”

“I’m just old enough to find that distressingly accurate.”

“You see? It’s universal,” said Locke. “Of course, I’m a stark staring hypocrite for telling you not to take it personally. It’s easy to prescribe remedies for our own weaknesses when they’re comfortably ensconced in other people. What’s got you dwelling on the past?”

“I don’t like dancing on strings, any strings, even my own. I’ve been … examining some, I suppose. Trying to follow them all the way back to where they began.”

“Ah.” Locke shuffled his glass around idly. “You’re trying to reconcile your contradictory thoughts about yours truly. And you’re wondering what sort of decision you’d be making without our shared history—”

“Gods damn it!” Sabetha punctuated this exclamation by throwing a wadded-up silk napkin at him. “Don’t do that. It makes me feel as though my thoughts are written on my forehead.”

“Come now. Fair’s fair. You read me like a scroll.”

“I tried to get you out of the way—”

“Half-assed,” said Locke. “Very half-assed. Admit it. You made it difficult, but some part of you wanted to see Jean and me get off that ship and come riding back into town.”

“I don’t know. I wanted to see you, but then I wanted you gone,” said Sabetha. “I tried to say no to dinner. I couldn’t. I don’t … I don’t want anyone to be a habit for me, Locke. If I love someone, I want it to be my choice.… I want it to be the right choice.”

“I never felt as though I had a choice. From the first hours I knew you. Remember when I told you, for the first time? You nearly threw me off the roof—”

“I thought you deserved it. You know, it’s an opinion I return to from time to time, whether or not a roof is available.”

“You’re a difficult woman, Sabetha. But then, difficult women are the only ones worth falling in love with.”

“How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever been after anyone else—”

“That part’s easy. I started with the most difficult woman possible, so there was never any need to look any further.”

“You’re trying to be charming.” She squeezed his hand once, then pulled away. “I choose not to be entirely charmed, Locke Lamora.”

“Not entirely?”

“Not entirely. Not yet.”

“Well.” Locke sighed. The evening might not be ending as he’d dared to hope, but that was no reason to be less than good company. “I suppose I still have two ambitions to mind as long as I’m in Karthain. Dessert?”

“How about a ride back to shore?”

“I’ve been curious about what might happen when you suggested that. Will you be leaving by catapult? Giant kite?”

“One showy exit was amusing; two would be gauche. We can’t let these westerners think Camorri are entirely without a sense of restraint.”

Their ride back to shore was a flat-bottomed boat with velvet cushions, tended by an admirably mum old fellow rowing at the stern. Locke and Sabetha rode side by side in companionable silence, through waters that gleamed white and blue from the lanterns of the dining barge. The air was full of pale, fluttering streaks, pulsing like fireflies, adding their soft touches of light to the canvas of the water.

“Firelight Sovereigns,” whispered Sabetha. “Karthani night butterflies. It’s said they hatch at dusk and die with the dawn.”

“You and I are natives of the dark, too,” said Locke. “I’m glad some of us last a bit longer.”

Two carriages waited above the quayside.

“His and hers, I presume?” said Locke.

“To bear us back to ribbons and duties and dumping carts of burning alchemy on doorsteps.” She led him to the first carriage and held the door open. “The driver has Jean’s hatchets. Safe and sound, to be handed over on arrival.”

“Thanks. So … three nights hence?” He took her hand as he placed one foot on the step, and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly when she didn’t draw away. “Come on. You know you want to say yes.”

“Three nights. I’ll send a carriage. However, I’m charging you with finding a place this time. You’ve roamed the city enough to have some ideas, I think.”

“Oh, I’m full of ideas.” He bowed and kissed the back of her hand, then climbed into the carriage. “Can I offer you one last thing?”

“You can offer.” She pushed the door shut and looked in at him through the barred window.

“Quit being so hard on yourself. We are what we are; we love what we love. We don’t need to justify it to anyone … not even to ourselves. I seem to remember telling you that before.”

“Thank you.” She did something to the lock on the carriage door. “We are what we are. Now, listen, my driver will let you out when you’re back home. Don’t bother messing with the door; I had the lock mechanism sealed on the inside.”

“Wha … wait a damned minute, what are you—”

“Have a smooth ride,” she said, waving. “And I want you to know that the bit with the snakes was pretty cute. In fact, I took pains to see that they weren’t harmed, because I was certain you’d want such adorable little creatures returned to you.”

She thumped the side of the carriage twice. A panel in the cabin ceiling above Locke slid open, and as the carriage clattered across the cobbles, the rain of snakes began.

12

“PAINT ME a picture,” said Locke, standing in the Deep Roots private gallery two days later. Since his return from dinner with a carriage full of less-than-deadly but agitated serpents, he’d been consumed by the paper chase, poring over maps and allocating funds, checking and double-checking lists, with no chance to engage in more hands-on weasel work.

“Nikoros just went down to fetch the latest reports,” said Jean, blowing smoke from an aromatic Syresti-leaf cigar that would have cost a common laborer a day’s wages. “But our Konseil members here have been chatting their teeth out in all the better parts of town.”

“Successfully, too, I should think.” Damned Superstition Dexa took a sip from her brandy snifter and gestured at the map of Karthain with her own cigar. Asceticism was a virtue the Deep Roots party held in slight regard. “We’ve squeezed a lot of promises out of Plaza Gandolo and the Palanta District. Fence-sitters, mostly. And some old friends we’ve brought back into the fold.”

“Bought back is more like it,” said Firstson Epitalus. “Bloody ingrates.”

“What are you handing out to steady their resolve?” said Locke.

“Oh, hints about tax easements,” said Dexa. “Everyone loves the thought of keeping a little more of their own money.”

“The Black Iris people can drop the same hints,” said Locke. “I don’t mean to tell you your business, but fuck me, if something as boring as tax easements is enough to hook votes, those people won’t care which party delivers the goods. We need some impractical reasons to motivate them. Emotional reasons. That means rumormongering. I want to rub dirt on whoever’s standing for the Black Iris in those districts. Something disgusting. In fact, we’ll completely avoid mud-flinging in a few other spots to make these stand out all the more. What’s guaranteed to repulse the good voters of Karthain?”

“Rather depends on how much vulgarity you’re willing to countenance, dear boy.” Dexa drew in a long breath of smoke while she pondered. “Thirdson Jovindus, that’s their lad for the Palanta District. He’s got what you might call an open-door policy for the contents of his breeches, but he’s also just dashing enough to carry it off.”

“Seconddaughter Viracois stands for them in Plaza Gandolo,” said Epitalus. “She’s clean as fresh plaster.”

“Hmmm.” Locke tapped his knuckles against the map table. “Clean just means we can paint whatever we like on her. But let’s not do it directly. Master Callas and I will arrange a crew. Scary people on a tight leash. They’ll visit some of our fence-sitters in Plaza Gandolo, and they’ll make threats. Vote for Viracois and the Black Iris or bad things happen to your nice homes, your pretty gardens, your expensive carriages.…”

“Well, I don’t mean to tell you your business, Master Lazari,” said Epitalus, “but shouldn’t we be frightening voters into our own corner?”

“I don’t want them frightened. I want them annoyed. Come now, Epitalus, how would you feel if a pack of half-copper hoods barged into your foyer and tried to put a scare into you? Swells aren’t used to being pushed around. They’ll resent it like hell. They’ll mutter about it to all their friends, and they’ll be at the head of the line to vote against the Black Iris out of spite.”

“My, my,” said Epitalus. “There may be something in that. And what about Jovindus?”

“I’ll come up with something suitable for him, too. Let the pot simmer awhile.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “Where’s Nikoros?”

“Coming, sirs, coming!” Long black plait bobbing behind him, Nikoros jogged up the gallery stairs and passed a set of papers to Jean. “Fresh as the weather, all the reports you asked for, and something, ah, unfortunate—”

“Unfortunate?” Jean flipped through the papers until he found one that caught his eye. The furrows in his forehead deepened as he read, and when he finished he drew Locke aside.

“What is it?”

“The official constabulary report on the arrest of Fifthson Lucidus of the Isas Merreau,” said Jean.

“What?”

“It says that acting on a tip from the Lashani legate, a party of constables paid Lucidus a visit and discovered a team of stolen Lashani carriage horses in his private stable, identifiable by their brands—”

“Cockless sons of Jeremite shit-jugglers!” Locke seized the report and scanned it. “That sneaky bitch. That beautiful, sneaky bitch. She just can’t let us feel good about ourselves, not even for a few days. Oh, look, out of concern for the diplomatic aspect of the situation, they’re holding Lucidus in solitary confinement until after the election!”

“Indeed.”

“Some of the Black Iris chicks must have complained to their mother hen about the big bad debt collector. So much for that scheme.”

“We should come back hard and fast.”

“Agreed.” Locke closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. “Keep pushing everyone on that list of vulnerabilities. Send courtesans and handsome lads after all the Black Iris people with wandering eyes. Make sure the gamblers get invitations to high-stakes games. Scatter temptations all around the ones with nasty habits. Pluck the weaknesses of the flesh like harp strings, all of ’em, from every direction.”

“I suppose there’s money in the bank itching to be spent,” sighed Jean.

“That’s right. We’ll spend it down to the dust under the last scrap of copper. Then we’ll sweep up the dust and see what we can get for it.”

“Um, one thing more, sirs,” said Nikoros. “Josten tells me that we’ve got watchers on the surrounding rooftops again.”

“Leave that with me,” said Jean. “We gave fair warning. This time I’ll make some work for the physikers.”

13

COOL GRAY veils of drizzle and fog draped the neighborhood when Jean went out, an hour after midnight, to pay a call on the new neighbors. He moved up to the rooftops as slowly and cautiously as possible, using routes he’d noted on the previous excursion. In this weather there were no drunks or lovers to stumble over, and he was confident that he crept along as silently as he ever had in his life.

His first target was obvious—so obvious that Jean watched for nearly a quarter of an hour, straining his senses to spot the ambush or the trap that had to be there. The watcher sat (sat!) in a collapsible wood-and-leather chair beside a parapet, wrapped in a cloak and blanket. If not for the fact that the seated figure moved from time to time, Jean would have sworn it had to be a decoy.

The tiniest speck of light lit the shadows beside the chair, revealing a spread of gear and comforts, including bottles of wine, a silk parasol, and several different spyglasses. It had to be a joke, or a trap … and yet there was simply nobody else around. He took the opening. It was child’s play to sneak up behind the seated watcher and clap a hand over their mouth.

“Scream and I’ll break your arms,” hissed Jean. The watcher gave a start, but it was plain in an instant that this small-framed and weak body was incapable of serious resistance. Puzzled, Jean scrabbled for the light source, which turned out to be a dark-lantern with the aperture drawn to its narrowest setting. Jean eased it open another few clicks and held it up to his captive.

Gods, it was an old woman. A very old woman, seventy or more, and it wasn’t one of Sabetha’s makeup jobs, either. This woman was genuinely light and frail, her face a valley of lines, one eye gray as the overcast sky. The other one, however, fixed on him with mischievous vitality.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she whispered as he withdrew his hand. “I won’t be screaming, I promise. You gave me a start, though she warned me you’d be up sooner or later.”

“She?”

“My employer, dear.”

“So you admit that you’re—”

“A spy. Oh yes.” The old woman chuckled. A dry and not entirely healthy sound. “A spyfully spying spy. Settled up here all cozy to see what I can see. Which isn’t much, more’s the pity. That’s why I’ve got all the lovely spyglasses. Now, what are you going to do with me, dear? Are you going to beat the hell out of me?”

“Wha … no!”

“Pick me up and throw me off the roof? Tie me up and leave me here for a few hours? Kick my teeth out?”

“Gods, woman, of course not!”

“Oh, that’s exactly what she told me,” beamed the old woman. “She said you weren’t the sort of fellow who’d raise his hand to a helpless old woman. Which, let’s be honest, is what time has made of me.”

Jean lowered his head against the cold stone of the parapet and groaned.

“Oh, come now, son, it’s not a thing to be ashamed of, having scruples.”

“Are all of her new spies as … um …”

“Old as myself? Oh, there’s no harm in saying it. Yes, dear, you’re hemmed in by old women. All of us wrapped up in our blankets, clutching our parasols. We’ve got apartments to use, and people to fetch us things, but we’re doing the watching from now on. Unless you beat us up.”

“Come now,” said Jean. “You know I won’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t suppose I could ask you very politely to get down off this roof and go away?”

“Oh, gods no. Apologies, dear, but the money I’m seeing for this … well, I don’t think I can live long enough for money to ever be a problem again.”

“I could make you a better deal.”

“Oh no. No, gods bless you for offering, but no. You’ve got your scruples, and I’ve got mine.”

“I could pick you up and carry you down to the street!”

“Of course you could. And then I’d kick and scream and fuss, and you’d have to deal with that somehow. And when you were done, I’d creep back up here as fast as my joints could take me, and since you won’t just punch my lights out, we’d have to do it all over again.” She punctuated these words by tapping him gently on the chest with a very slender finger. “All over again. And again. And again.”

“Well, shit.” Jean slumped against the parapet, feeling soundly embarrassed. “Don’t, uh, come crawling to us for help if you catch an ague up here or something.”

“Never fret, dear. I can assure you that we’re very well looked after. Just like your inn.”

14

AT THE very moment Jean Tannen was discovering old women on rooftops, Nikoros Via Lupa was knocking at a lamp-lit door in a misty alley behind the Avenue of the Night Singers on the Isas Vorhala. He had a warm, nervous itch in his throat—an itch he had run out of the means to assuage.

The apothecary shop of the Brothers Farager provided the alley door as a discreet courtesy for those in need at odd hours. This included customers in pursuit of substances not sanctioned by the laws of Karthain.

The burly guard behind the door, wrapped in a heavy black coat, was new to Nikoros; the fellow that had always met him before had been older and thinner. The man let him in regardless, gesturing up the narrow steps with a grunt and leaving Nikoros to find his own way to the rear office. There Thirdson Farager sat slumped behind a counter, threads of some floral smoke wrapped around him like a ghostly shawl, idly mixing powders on a measuring board.

“Nikoros,” said the alchemist, glumly. “Thought I might see you, sooner rather than later. What’s your taste?”

“You know why I’m here,” said Nikoros. Thirdson Farager had always been the sole provider of Nikoros’ dust … had led him to the stuff in the first place, in fact.

“Muse-of-Fire,” grunted Farager, setting aside the glass rod he’d been using in his work. “Need some more lightning for those clouds in your head, eh?”

“Same as always.” Nikoros licked his lips and tried to ignore the hollow, dry sensation inside his skull. He’d meant to put off another purchase for a few days, meant to obey Lazari and Callas … but the urge had grown. An initially aimless walk had drawn him here, inevitably as water running downhill.

“Akkadris,” said Farager. “Well, if that’s what you want, let’s see your coin.”

Nikoros tossed a bag of silver on the counter. No sooner had it landed than something slapped him painfully in his left side. Wincing, he turned and found that the burly door guard had crept up to the office after him, lacquered wooden baton in hand. The man’s bulky black coat now hung open, revealing the light constabulary blue of the jacket beneath.

“This is disappointing, Via Lupa. You ought to know a thing or two about the laws concerning black alchemy,” said the constable with a grin. “That’s ten years in a penance barge sitting there on the counter. Confiscation of your goods. Forfeiture of licenses and citizenship. Exile, too, if you live through your ten.”

“But surely,” said Nikoros, fear clawing at his innards, “there must be some, ah, mistake—”

“Yeah, and you’re the one that made it.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Farager, looking away. “They got onto me last week. I had no choice. I’d be on a barge already if I hadn’t agreed to help them.”

“Oh, gods, please,” whispered Nikoros.

“It was a smart arrangement,” said a woman, appearing from the door behind Farager. She wore a dark hooded cloak, the sort of thing Nikoros might have scoffed at as theatrical, anytime before the Karthani constabulary had threatened to bring his life to an end. “Thirdson Farager made one that got him off the hook. You might be able to do the same.”

The woman pushed her hood back, revealing long, dark red hair. Her eyes glittered as she began to explain to Nikoros what would be required of him.

15

KARTHAIN WAS the most cultivated and manicured city Locke had ever seen, and the Vel Verda, the Green Terrace, was perhaps its most cultivated and manicured district. The manors and promenades of the Vel Verda were walled in by thick strands of poplar, olive, witchwood, pale oak, and merinshade trees, and beyond it all loomed the crumbling shadow of the city’s old walls. In any other Therin city these would have been lit, manned, and obsessively repaired, but the Karthani hadn’t kept theirs up for more than three centuries.

“This is a private manor, not a restaurant,” said Sabetha as Locke led her up a winding black iron staircase. “If you’ve got some sort of half-witted ambush in mind, Master Lamora, I must warn you that I’ll be severely disappointed.…”

“It’s vacant. One of my Deep Roots ladies holds it from a dead cousin. She’s been lax about selling it off since she doesn’t exactly need the money, but she was happy to let me borrow it for a night.”

“Will I be getting a pile of snakes dropped on my head?”

“Ha. No, and thank you for that, by the way. I was ever so worried about those little fellows while they were away from me. No, Mistress of Doubts, I’ve brought you here to this secluded corner of the city for the nefarious purpose of cooking your dinner myself.”

They came to the second floor of the dark, undecorated manor house, and Locke slid a wooden door in the north wall open with a dramatic flourish. Thus revealed was a tiled balcony with a marble balustrade, overlooking the dark tops of countless trees swaying softly in the autumn breeze. Lanterns in semi-opaque paper hoods filled the area with mellow golden light.

“Ooh,” said Sabetha. She allowed Locke to pull out one of the chairs at the tiny round witchwood table in the center of the balcony for her. “Now, this is more promising.”

“I didn’t just choose the setting,” said Locke. “Tonight I’m chef, sommelier, and alchemist, in one very convenient package, and of course available at a staggeringly insignificant cost if it suits the lady—”

“I’m not sure I brought any coins small enough to pay an appropriate price for you.”

“I practice selective deafness to hurtful remarks, young woman. Though I should ask, are we under observation by one of your packs of old women?”

“No, not here. Much as I could have used a chaperone, they’re busy where they are.”

“They’re damned lucky it was Jean that stumbled over them. I don’t have his qualms about punching old biddies in the teeth.”

“Well, then, why haven’t you vanquished them yourself?”

“Some forms of behavior,” sighed Locke, “simply cannot be made to look reasonable.”

“You don’t say! You might have drugged them, of course.”

“Oh, yes,” said Locke. “Throwing alchemy at old women with gods know what sorts of constitutional complaints. If I can’t murder them on purpose I’d hardly let it happen by accident.”

“That thought had crossed my mind,” said Sabetha, grinning.

“Now how’s your candidate for Plaza Gandolo?” said Locke. “What’s her name again … Seconddaughter Viracois? Got taken in by the constables on a pretty serious charge, I heard. Receiving stolen goods? Stolen goods from the houses of Deep Roots supporters? That’s pretty shocking.”

“And pretty asinine,” said Sabetha, feigning a deep yawn. “Her solicitors will have the matter cleared up in just a day or two.”

“Well, no doubt you’re right not to worry. After all, you’ve got quite a slate of replacement candidates if she should be tied up in the courts. As thrilling a collection of ciphers and nonentities as ever stirred the voters to indifference.”

“Now, Locke,” she said softly, “you and I going on like this before the final results are tallied is like peeking at festival presents before they’re opened. This isn’t the game I came to play tonight.”

“Delighted to hear it! Watch, then, and be amazed as I perform the most menial portion of an amazing alchemical process and claim all the credit for myself.”

On the table stood a silver bucket-within-a-bucket, constructed so that there was an open gap of about a finger’s width between the inner and outer walls. In the center bucket, a bottle of pale orange wine stood in water.

Locke uncapped two leather-covered decanters. He poured their colorless contents into the outer channel of the chambered bucket, then juggled the empty decanters hand-to-hand a few times and bowed.

A patina of frost appeared on the outer surface of the bucket, steadily thickening into a wall of crisp white ice. Puffs of pale vapor rose from the bucket’s outer channel, and a jagged crackling noise could be heard. Locke silently counted out fifteen seconds, pulled on a leather glove, and carefully tilted the bucket toward Sabetha. The wine bottle, cloudy with frost, was now immersed in slush.

“Behold! I have chilled the wine. I am the true master of the elements. Bondsmagi across the city are handing in their resignations.”

Sabetha rendered applause by tapping one finger inaudibly against the opposite palm. Locke grinned, withdrew the bottle from its semisolid surroundings, uncorked it, and poured two glasses.

“I give you our first toast of the evening.” Locke picked up his glass and touched it gently to hers. “To crime, confusion, and all arts insidious. To the most enchanting practitioner they’ve ever had.”

“That’s awkward, asking me to drink to my own honor.”

“I’m sure a self-regard as robust as your own can easily bear the strain.”

They drank; the sweet orange-and-ginger wine was cold as a northern autumn. Locke poured them each a second glass.

“My turn,” said Sabetha. “To strange little boys and impatient little girls. May their real mistakes … be gentle and far between.”

“Am I wide of the mark, or are you in a better mood than you were three nights ago?” said Locke as he finished his second drink.

“It was quite a mood, wasn’t it?”

“Did you figure anything out?”

“Only that I wasn’t going to find any real answers in one night of brooding. Besides, packing you off in some sort of richly deserved trap always cheers me up.”

“You might see those snakes again, madam, if you keep up that unseemly gloating. Now, I believe I promised you dinner.”

Off to one side of the balcony was a long oak table and a smoldering brazier. Locke threw more chips of aromatic wood into the brazier and gave them a stir. Pleasantly approaching the edge of muddled as the wine mounted from his mostly empty stomach, he examined the piles of ingredients and utensils he’d set out earlier. There was a tap on his shoulder.

“Now, this is not how it’s done,” said Sabetha. She’d removed her black velvet jacket, revealing a white silk undertunic and a loosely knotted scarf just slightly darker than her hair.

“I haven’t even started cooking yet!”

“Where we come from we didn’t cook for one another, remember? We cooked together.”

“Well—”

“Let’s see what sort of mess you’ve got here.” She bumped him gently aside with her hip. Together they sorted out the components of the meal he’d planned—fennel fronds, onions, sliced blood oranges, pale white olives, almonds and hazel nuts, a chicken he’d plucked and dressed, and enough assorted oils to sauté anything smaller than a horse.

“How strange,” she said, “but it looks as though you’ve assembled some of my favorite things.”

“My life is haunted by wild coincidences,” said Locke.

“I suppose I should admire your constancy in one respect, Locke Lamora. All these years and you’re still beside yourself to tumble a redheaded girl.”

“Oh?” His grin faded, along with some of his wine-induced buoyancy.

He reached out and touched a loose strand of her burnished copper hair. “You know, if you take offense at the notion, you have a hell of a strange way of showing it.”

“ ‘Confusion and all arts insidious,’ ” she said, glancing away.

“Did you really restore that color just to keep me off balance? Make me easier to play games with?”

“No,” she said. “Not entirely.”

“Not entirely.” Locke stared at her, trying to force the muscles of his face, usually so loyal and pliable, to twitch into some semblance of a smile. “You know, I hate the way one of us can say something.… We’re enjoying ourselves for the gods know how long, but one wrong word and suddenly it’s like we’re not even in the same room.”

“ ‘We’ is a tactful way of saying ‘me,’ isn’t it?”

“Only this time,” said Locke, “Sabetha, listen to me. You know what I’m after. My cards are on the table and always have been. Am I fixated? Yes. Absolutely. Am I sorry about that? No. I’m standing here with my intentions plain as the rising sun, waiting for you to convince yourself, one way or the other. And I’ll wait for that. I’ll wait until I’m old and bent and need help spelling my own name. But you know, if I had the luxury of any self-respect at all where you’re concerned, I’d be insulted by the idea that I must think convincing you to spread your legs is the big endgame.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know. I do know you want more than that, and for all your faults you give more—”

“Bloody right. I mean, who knows, maybe we could sleep together twice.” He drew himself up, thrust out his chest, and stuck out his tongue. “Limitless ambitions, woman! Limitless!”

“Oh, you bastard.” She punched him, but it was the sort of punch delivered with a warm smile. “So, has it … well, how long has it been, for you? Since, you know—”

“You already know the answer,” said Locke. “Very precisely. Think about the day you left. Go back two nights from that, and there you have it.”

“Not even once?”

“I guess it’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? But no. I tried. I tried to enlist some help. One of the resident cherry tops at the Guilded Lilies.

Turns out a redhead’s just not a redhead if she’s not, you know, twice as smart as I am and three times as infuriating.”

“Three times as smart,” said Sabetha. “Half as infuriating. And … I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. It wasn’t too bad.” Locke rolled an onion across the table and bounced it off a decanter of olive oil. “She was a friend, close to Chains and me. She knew what my problem was, and that pushing it wasn’t the answer. I got a massage that was worth the price of admission.”

“I suppose I should tell you … it hasn’t been the same way with me these past few years. For several reasons.”

“I see.” He felt cold knots forming in his guts, but fought the sensation down. “I won’t lie. My feelings about you are selfish as hell. I don’t like to think about you with anyone else, but … I wasn’t there. You’re a grown woman and you didn’t owe me anything. Did you expect me to be angry?”

“Yes.”

“I might have been, once. Maybe the one real advantage to getting older is that you have the time to pull your head a little bit farther out of your ass. I don’t want to care, understand? You’re here now. With luck … I really hope you’ll be here later. Besides, it seems safe to assume you weren’t swept off your feet by a handsome young Vadran lord with a castle or two to spare—”

“I had some comfort from it, once or twice.” She reached out and touched his arm, not softly, as though she were afraid he might suddenly decide to be elsewhere. “And the rest of the time, it was to empty some pockets. Or a vault. You know.”

“I do indeed.” He reached out, half-consciously, and started fiddling with another onion, spinning it like a top. “In fact, I’m steadily emptying a bank vault because of you with every passing day.”

“Good. Because I’ve never been what anyone would call easy, and I’m certainly not cheap.” She reached up and took his other arm.

“Sabetha, what—”

“I’m making a decision. Now, are you going to quit playing with that fucking onion and see what happens if you kiss me, or do I have to put a sword to your neck?”

“Promise I won’t wake up on a ship?”

“Disappoint me, Lamora, and I make no promises as to where and when you’ll wake up.”

He put his hands beneath her arms, swung her off her feet, and lifted her onto the table. Laughing, she hooked her legs behind his waist and pulled him close. Her lips were warm and still carried the faint taste of ginger and oranges; he had no idea how long they kissed, arms around each other’s necks, but while they did Locke completely lost track of the fact that he was even standing up.

“Whew,” Sabetha said when they grudgingly broke apart at last. She put a finger against his lips. “And look at that, you’re still conscious. You’re one and one when it comes to kissing in Karthain.”

“That’s a tally I mean to improve … Sabetha? Sabetha, what is it?”

She’d gone rigid in his arms. With his head still spinning from the one-two punch of wine and woman, he slowly turned to look over his shoulder.

Patience was standing beside the little round table, dressed in a carnelian-colored robe with a wide hood.

“Oh, come on,” Locke growled. “Not now. Surely you have better things to do than bother us now.”

“Which one are you?” said Sabetha, calmly and respectfully.

“Archedama Patience. You work for my rival.”

“Patience,” said Locke, “if this isn’t important, I swear to the Crooked Warden, I’ll—”

“It is important. In fact, it’s critical. It’s time we spoke. Since neither of you could be dissuaded from this foolishness, both of you have a right to know.”

“Both of us?” said Sabetha. “What do we have a right to know?”

“Where Locke really comes from.” Patience gestured for the two of them to move away from the food table. “And what Locke really is.”

INTERLUDE

HAPPENINGS IN BEDCHAMBERS

1

“HONORED … COUSIN,” LOCKE hissed, “I need …”

“Do regale me with your needs,” said Boulidazi.

“Air!”

“Ah.” The iron pressure against Locke’s neck eased just enough to permit a breath.

“It’s not what you think,” he gasped.

“Perhaps I’ve been an idiot,” whispered Boulidazi, “but you’ll not find me eager to resume the role.”

“Gennaro!”

Sabetha stood in the balcony door, and her tone of voice was sufficient to check a rampant horse. Boulidazi actually lowered his blade.

“Verena, I … I’m sorry, but your behavior—”

“It’s your behavior that requires explanation, Cousin!”

“I’ve been listening to both of you—”

“You’ve been skulking like a thief!”

“You proclaimed love for one another! I heard your quarrel!”

Too late, Boulidazi seemed to remember that he hadn’t yet professed his interest in Verena to Verena herself. Dismay spilled across his face like paint splashed across a blank canvas, and Sabetha didn’t neglect the opening.

“It was an acting exercise, you lout! An improvisation! And why should it concern you, were it otherwise?”

“An … improvisation?”

“I asked Lucaza to follow my lead and improvise a scene!” She pushed Boulidazi’s arm firmly away from Locke’s throat. “A scene you interrupted! We might be the ones dressed as commoners, Baron Boulidazi, but you’ve bested us for coarse behavior!”

“But …”

Locke admired the ingenuity of Sabetha’s ploy, but perhaps she was pushing it too far. They needed Boulidazi controlled, not crushed. It was time to resume his role as advocate. He rubbed his aching throat.

“Cousin Verena,” he coughed, “what Gennaro means is that I told him about my own betrothal. So, when he overheard our exercise, why, he had good cause to suspect some deceit.”

“He had no cause to lay hands on your person!”

“Cousin, be sensible. We discussed this before we set out. We knew that living incognito would require us to surrender some of the dignities of our true station.”

“Yes, but—”

“Furthermore, there are no other witnesses, so I feel no need to require satisfaction.”

Locke tried to sound as natural and confident as possible, though he suspected Boulidazi would rate the prospect of a duel with him as a physical threat on par with a difficult bowel movement. The thought of alienating Verena, however …

“I seem to have made a mistake.” Boulidazi sheathed his knife. The cold anger of moments before was put away just as thoroughly. “Verena, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Tell me, please, how can I recover your good opinion?”

Locke blinked at the solitary direction of the apology and the rapid shift to a smooth, wheedling manner. He’d pegged Boulidazi as sincere and straightforward, even a bit of a yokel, but the Esparan had obviously relegated the “noble” Lucaza to the role of a tool in his designs on Sabetha. That and his ease with violence hinted at dangerous depths.

“For one thing,” said Sabetha, “you can cease this unseemly scuttling in shadows. You’re a lord of Espara and the patron of this company. I’d prefer to see you come and go openly in a manner befitting your blood.”

“Of … of course.”

“And if you want to make yourself genuinely useful, you could secure us a more appropriate rehearsal space. I’m growing tired of Mistress Gloriano’s inn-yard.”

“Where would you prefer—”

“I’m told we’re to use a theater called the Old Pearl.”

“Oh. Naturally. Well, that’s just a matter of a gratuity for the countess’ envoy of ceremonies—”

“See to that gratuity, Baron Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, subtly softening her posture and tone of voice. “Surely it’s a matter of little consequence for you. It will be a boon to the company to be practicing on our real stage as soon as possible. Do this, and I’ll be pleased to call you Gennaro again.”

“Then consider it done.” Boulidazi bowed to her with gallant over-formality, gave Locke a perfunctory clap on the shoulder, and went away in haste. His footsteps receded down the passage, and the door to the inn’s second floor banged shut.

“That was close,” whispered Locke.

“Our patron is starting to assume possessive feelings toward his noble cousins,” said Sabetha. “He’s more shifty than I realized.”

“My neck agrees.” With the threat of Boulidazi temporarily quelled, Locke’s thoughts returned to the conversation the baron had interrupted. “And, uh, look, you and I have had—”

“Nothing,” hissed Sabetha. “Evidently I was wrong to say what I did, and wrong to feel those things in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit!” Barely feeling the ache across his throat for the new sting of her words, Locke shocked himself by grabbing her arm and pulling her back out onto the balcony. “I tripped over something. I don’t know what it is, but you owe me an explanation. After everything we just said to one another, I will not let you push me aside just because you’re pitching a fit!”

“I am not pitching a fit!”

“You make the Sanzas look like bloody diplomats when you do this. I’ll run after Boulidazi and pick another fight with him before I’ll let this rest. What set you off?”

“You cannot be so wholly ignorant … Do you know what they pay for red-haired girls in Jerem? Do you know what they do to us if we’re pristine? The Thiefmaker did—and it’s so awful it was too much for his conscience. Understand? That ghoul would tongue-fuck a dead rat if there was silver in it for him, but selling redheads was too vile. He’s the one that taught me to keep my hair dyed and wrapped.”

“I’ve heard about these things, but I never, I never thought of you—”

“First they cut,” said Sabetha. “Right out of a girl’s sex. What they call the sweetness, the little hill. You’ve been around Calo and Galdo long enough, you must have heard a dozen names for it. Then, while the wound is gushing, they bring in the old bastard with the rotting cock or the festering sores or whatever he wants miraculously cured, and he does his business. ‘Blood of the blood-haired child,’ is what they call it.”

“Sabetha—”

“And then, even though most of the miracle is already used up, they bring in the next hundred men that want a go at the bloody hole, because it still brings good luck. In fact, it’s especially good luck if you’re the one riding her when she finally dies!”

“Gods.”

“Yes. May they all spend ten thousand years drinking salted shit in the deepest hell there is.” Sabetha slumped against the rear wall of the balcony and stared at their discarded wine cups and scripts. “Damn. I am pitching a fit.”

“You have some cause!”

She gave a sharp, self-disgusted sort of laugh.

“How was I supposed to know all this the first time I ever laid eyes on you?” said Locke. “I remember that first glimpse as though it happened yesterday. But that’s not the only thing I think about … if it really bothers you that much—”

“My hair doesn’t bother me,” she said forcefully. “It’s the stupid bastards who’d put me in chains on account of that nonsense about it. I’ve had to mind this every day of my life since I went to Shades’ Hill. Every day! All the hours I’ve wasted peering at my hair in a glass, slopping it with alchemy … someday I’ll be old enough that it won’t matter anymore. Someday not soon enough.”

“What about before Shades’ Hill?”

“Nothing before the Hill matters,” she said quietly. “I was protected. Then I was an orphan. Leave it at that.”

“As you prefer.” Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned against the wall beside her. Stars were just beginning to pierce the bruise-colored sky above them, and the faint, familiar whispers of evening were rising—the hum of insects, the clatter of wagons, the din of eating and laughter and argument.

“I’m sorry, Locke,” she said after a few moments had passed. “It’s stupid and unfair to be so upset with you. I’ve insulted you.”

“Absolutely not.” He put one hand on her arm and was encouraged to find her resuming the habit of not flinching away. “I’m glad you told me. Your problems should be our problems, and your worries should be our worries. You realize how rarely you bother to explain yourself?”

“Now, that’s a load—”

“A load of straight truth! You could give inscrutability lessons to the gods-damned Eldren. You know, it’s sort of frightening how you’re actually starting to make sense.”

“Is that meant to be complimentary?”

“Maybe toward both of us,” said Locke. Her weather-like mood swings, the brief seasons of warmth followed by withdrawal and frustration, her urge to control everything in her life with such precision and forethought; behavior that had mystified Locke for years suddenly had a context. “I honestly don’t care what color your hair is as long as you’re under it somewhere.”

“You forgive me for being … unreasonable?”

“Haven’t you forgiven me for the same thing?”

“We may find ourselves once again in serious danger of a happy understanding,” she said, and the way her smile reached her eyes made Locke’s pulse race. Suddenly they seemed to be competing to see who could bring their lips closer to the other’s without appearing to do so—

The sound of a rapid, careless tread echoed from within the passage, and they sprang apart in instinctive unison. The passage door slammed open, and Alondo Razi stumbled out, red-cheeked and sweaty.

“Alondo,” said Sabetha with plainly exaggerated sweetness, “would you consider yourself at peace with the gods?”

“I’m sorry,” he panted, his voice slurred. “I don’t mean to barge in on you, but I can’t find Jovanno. It’s the Asino brothers. Need help—”

“Don’t tell me they started a fight,” said Locke, straining to banish the sudden mental image of a Sanza insulting Lord Boulidazi, and all the intersections of flesh and steel that might result.

“No, gods, no! Sylvanus bet that they couldn’t chug the Ash Bastard. Nobody can chug the Ash Bastard. So they tried, and got what was coming. Ha!”

Locke seized Alondo by the sweat-stained collar of his tunic and briefly forgot that the Esparan had half a decade of growth on him. “Razi,” he growled, “what the cock-blistering hell is an Ash Bastard?”

“Come down,” said the unsteady young actor. “Best see for yourself.”

Locke and Sabetha followed him to the common room, where they found the company and the evening ale-swillers even more scattered and dissipated than usual. Calo and Galdo were lying on their sides, artfully symmetrical, in the middle of a slick black-red puddle. The smell in the air was somewhere between wet animal fur and an unwashed torture chamber, but all the non-Sanza onlookers were quivering with mirth. Mistress Gloriano was the only exception.

“I said take it out to the yard! Idiots! Pink-skinned Therin infants!” She noticed Locke and Sabetha, and encompassed them with her glower. “What kind of fool tries the Ash Bastard indoors?”

“What the hell are you people talking about?” said Locke. He knelt beside Calo. The twins were alive, though they were liquored out of their wits and had clearly lost a fight with those potent joint antagonists, vomit and gravity.

“The Ash Bastard,” said Jasmer, who was leaning against a nearly comatose Sylvanus, “is that ghastly spittoon.”

Locke glanced where Jasmer pointed, and saw a tar-colored cask about two feet long resting sideways on the floor. The stuff spilling from it looked like campfire ashes after a hard rain.

“It’s a quaint ritual of the house,” smirked Jasmer.

“Performed in the yard!” bellowed Mistress Gloriano.

“True enough. But the gist of it, dear Lucaza, is that the Bastard collects tobacco ash and spit for weeks, when people remember not to use the floor. We test the mettle of brash young pickle-wits like your friends there by challenging them to chug the Bastard, which means we fill it to the brim with a hideous black juniper wine Mistress Gloriano imports directly from hell. We swirl it around and make them drink the slurry.”

“That’s idiotic,” said Sabetha, who was making sure Galdo still had a pulse.

“Completely,” laughed Jasmer. “No one in the history of the company has ever chugged the Ash Bastard without hucking it right back up. And lo, the Bastard is victorious once again!”

“Jasmer,” said Sabetha, lowering her voice, “not to put too fine a point on it, but we need these two unpoisoned if they’re going to keep rehearsing. In fact, we need everyone! Can’t you idiots dry out a bit—”

Sylvanus, though he seemed barely aware of the existence of his own face let alone the world beyond it, gave an elephantine snort.

“Green gills or no,” said Jasmer, “the company always takes the stage, my dear. Besides, this can hardly even be called a proper debauch by our lofty standards. Your friends hold their liquor like sieves, is the problem.”

“Sorry to make this your trouble,” said Alondo, sinking into a chair, “but we needed some help with the floor, and moving the Asinos, and we’re all too blotted to be much use, and we can’t find Jenora or Jovanno … Hey, did you two see Lord Boulidazi? He was here, too!”

“We know,” said Sabetha. “Mistress Gloriano, we need some water buckets. Lucaza, we’d better drag these two out to the yard and get to work. They’ll be stuck to the floor like barnacles if we let them alone.”

“I was going to thank you again for prying me out of Boulidazi’s grasp,” whispered Locke, “but now I think I’ll wait and see how the evening ends first.”

“How do you think I feel?” She squeezed his arm and flashed him a hint of a smile, like a fellow desert traveler sharing out precious water. “Now, pick arms or legs. Let’s heave this one outside.”

“Where the hell is Jovanno?” muttered Locke.

2

JEAN HAD watched Locke ascend the stairs, skin of wine in hand, with a mix of relief and annoyance. It was past time for Locke and Sabetha to sort themselves out, or pitch themselves out of a high window. Jean’s own peace of mind would be the benefactor in either case.

He closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and let the wall do the job of holding it up for a moment. What a time he must be having, when merely sitting alone and not pretending that his bruises didn’t hurt felt like an immoderate indulgence.

When he opened his eyes again, Jenora was smiling at him from two feet away.

“I’ve found a threadbare boy!” she said. “Let me help you back up to your room.”

“Oh, uh, my room?”

“Trust me,” she said, hauling him to his feet. “Until the rest of the company’s too drunk to move, you never want to be the first to fall asleep around ’em. Gods know what mischief you’ll wake up to.”

There was a strange heat on his cheeks, like the warmth of too many ales. Jenora’s hand was around his waist as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and together they made a quick exit from the common room.

“So what are you not telling me, Jovanno?” She closed the door to Locke and Jean’s chamber softly, then put her arms on his shoulders.

“Not telling you?”

“Oh, come now.” Her fingers began to work the knots between his shoulder blades. “You read, write, and figure, but scribes don’t get muscles like this pushing quills. I know you speak Vadran as well as Therin. You can handle a needle and thread. You fought a grown man to a standstill … not just any man, but Bert. Bert’s a scrapper and a half.”

“I’ve had a, ah, strange education,” said Jean, feeling his wits loosening as agreeably as his muscles under Jenora’s ministrations.

“You’re all strange, you Camorri. And strangely educated.”

“It’s nothing sinister. We’re just …”

“Slumming, hmm? Isn’t that what they usually call it when someone dresses down and plays beneath their station?”

“Jenora!” Jean turned around, grabbed her hands, and halted the massage. His well-soothed wits grudgingly rose to the occasion. If she’d been snooping on them a flat denial would probably be useless. “Look, imagine whatever you like, but please believe me … everyone is better off just taking things at face value.”

“Is there some sort of danger in my being curious?”

“Let’s just say there’s absolutely no danger in not being curious!”

“Rest easy. It’s an informed guess, Jovanno. Your cousin Lucaza, well, he seems a little surprised every time he notices that the world isn’t revolving around him. And Verena, she’s no scullery maid, you know? Manners, diction, learning, poise. Then there’s swordsman’s calluses on these hands of yours.” She ran her fingers lightly over his palms, and the sensation made Jean’s blood run hot in more than one place. “The gods put you all together from odd parts. There’s a story to be told.”

“There isn’t. There are so many trusts I’d be breaking … Jenora, please.”

“All right,” she said soothingly. “I can live with a bit of mystery. Let’s work on what ails you, then.”

“What ails … I don’t … oh, well, ha—”

She slipped her hands under his tunic and ran them up his back, where they started to gently but firmly put his sore muscles into something resembling their proper order. This had the natural effect of bringing them together; her breasts were warm against his upper chest, and her lips were parted in a half-smile just in front of his nose.

“Heh.” She blew playfully on his optics, fogging them over. “Not frightened of older, taller women, are you?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t really know what to be frightened of.”

“Oh? So you’re an untapped vintage, hmmm?”

“Jenora, I’m not used … surely you can see that I’m not thought of as, uh, you know—”

“You know what I don’t like, Jovanno?” She moved her hands and teased the thin line of hair that ran down his stomach. “Stupid men, weak men, illiterate men. Men who can’t tell a play from a pile of kindling.”

Their lips came together, and as they kissed she slowly, deliberately guided one of his hands until it rested atop a breast. She squeezed for both of them, pushing his fingers, and Jean felt his awareness of the world narrowing to the delightful corridor of heat that seemed to be rising between them.

“Lucaza,” he whispered. “He might—”

“I have a feeling your friends are going to be up on the roof for a very long time,” she murmured. “Don’t you?”

Soon enough, by some process halfway between legerdemain and wrestling, their clothes were off and they fell into his bed. Jean could barely tell where light skin ended and dark skin began. He lay wrapped in the taste and smell and warmth of her, with smoke-colored hair falling around him like a teasing shroud. Jenora seemed very much at ease taking the lead, staying on top of him, alternately slowing and quickening the rhythm of their coupling. All too soon he reached the limit of his untrained endurance, and with a joyful, aching eruption there was one less mystery in Jean Tannen’s life.

Exhilarated, exhausted, and pleasantly bewildered, he clung to her for some time as their heartbeats slowed from a gallop to a canter. The pains of his tussle with Bertrand the Crowd seemed a hundred years in the past.

Jenora found her jacket in the mixed scatter of their clothing, pulled out a slim wooden pipe, and tamped it full of a tobacco mixture that smelled alien and spicy to Jean. They covered the room’s feeble alchemical globe and shared the pipe back and forth in the near-darkness, talking softly by the orange glow of the embers.

“So I really was your first.”

“Was it that obvious? Would you have known, even if I hadn’t said?”

“Enthusiasm is the first step,” she said. “Artfulness comes later.”

“I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

“I’m not displeased, Jovanno. Hells, having a lover that’s new to the dance means you can train him properly. Give me a few nights and I’ll have you whipped into proper form.”

“The Asino brothers … they always, well, they always invited me to go with them when they went out. To buy it, you know.”

“There’s no shame in doing that. And there’s no shame in not having done it. But those two are hounds, Jovanno. Any woman could smell it a mile away. Sometimes a run with the hounds is just what you’re in the mood for, but in the end they’ll always roll around in muck and shit on your floor.”

“Oh, they’ve got an endearing side,” said Jean. “It comes out once a month, when the first moon is full. They’re like backwards werewolves.”

“Well,” she said, “when I take someone into my bed, I prefer brains and balls in more equal proportion.”

“I like the sound of that. Hey, there’s a … sorry, beneath your legs, did we …?”

“Ah. My apprentice, allow me to introduce you to the concept of the wet spot.”

“Is that uncomfortable?”

“Well, it’s not what I’d call ideal. Hey, what are you—”

With an enthusiastic excess of groping and giggling, he applied his strength to shifting their positions. In a few moments, he’d pushed her to the dry side of the bed and taken her former place.

“Mmmm. Jovanno, you have a gallant streak. Another smoke?”

“Absolutely.”

They were just finishing carefully lighting the second bowl when the door burst open.

“Jovanno,” shouted Locke, “it’s the Asino brothers, you wouldn’t believe what they oh my gods holy shit!”

He stared for a second or two, then whirled away and faced out into the hall.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“The idiot twins,” said Jean, “are they in trouble?”

“No,” said Locke, with less than believable haste. “No, no, no. Actually, it’s not important at all. We’ve got it handled. You, uh, you just … hell, I can sleep in the common room, you two just forget I exist. Sorry. Have, uh, have a good time!”

“We are,” said Jenora, calmly exhaling a line of smoke.

“Great! Well! Excellent! Just … going now!”

“He’s down off the roof a lot sooner than I would have thought,” said Jenora once the door was closed again.

“Yeah,” said Jean, frowning. “Something must have happened. Whatever the Asinos did—”

“Your friends,” said Jenora. “They sort of look to you to hold them together when there’s trouble, don’t they?”

“Well, that’s a pretty flattering way of putting it, but—”

“Let ’em fend for themselves for a night,” she whispered. “Now we’ll have privacy. If Verena wants to sort Lucaza out she can always take him to my room.”

“She can,” said Jean. “She sure as hell can. So, uh, is it too soon to start hearing about this artfulness you mentioned?”

3

“LONG SUMMER of the Therin Throne,” shouted Calo, arms outflung to encompass the inn-yard, “ordained time for building and growing, while earth and sky are generous. These years for princely Aurin lie fallow as a field, plowed and yet unseeded with valorrrrrruurrrrrrrgh—”

Calo lurched to his knees and ended what had been a fine, vigorous declamation by vomiting. Locke, watching from the shade of a wall, put his hands to his forehead and groaned.

“Gods above,” said Moncraine, “I’ve seen songbirds with more iron in their gullets than you Camorri. One dance with the Ash Bastard and you’re acting like you’ve been killed in the wars. Understudy!”

Galdo, his complexion a shade green in its own right, seemed uninterested for once in making sport of Calo’s discomfort. He stepped forward and placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

“I can do it … . I’m fine …” panted Calo. He spat and wobbled to his feet.

“Like hell, idiot,” said Galdo. “Here’s a thought. Let’s do it together.”

“What do you mean?”

“Toss it back and forth.” Galdo faced Moncraine, and spoke with the precise tone and volume of his twin before the stumble: “Swords unblooded hang in scabbards unworn, and, sun-like in its dispensations, the imperial court sheds grandeur on the world.”

“Sweet summer of the Therin Throne,” said Calo, interrupting smoothly, conquering his wobbly knees and willing the hoarseness from his throat. “Some that live as beggars within would scorn to live as dukes without, such an empire it is, and some wear stolen splendor with the dignity of right-born kings! Below the streets the skulkers, the cozeners, the vagabonds of fortune raise bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight.”

“If thieves pretend to eminence,” said Galdo, “and meet in eager regiments, defying rightful law and crown, is it not suiting to the temper of the age? So high the tides of fortune rise beneath the Therin Throne, its outlaws pay tribute with matching insolence!”

“Matching insolents,” said Moncraine. “That’d be you Asinos. Hold, everyone, hold. This is all very pretty. Why don’t we just dispense with the notion of parts altogether? We can stand onstage in a group and chant the lines for all the roles. Hells, we can even hold hands to keep our spirits up while it rains rocks and vegetables on us.”

“I rather liked it,” said Chantal.

“As if I gave a—”

“She’s right, Moncraine.” Sylvanus stirred, emerging from the shade as well as his usual torporous morning fuddle. “How often do you see a pair of twins onstage? We should make something of it. We’ve got precious little spectacle as it stands.”

“When we’re in want of spectacle, Andrassus, I’ll start walking around without my breeches.”

“You useless Syresti coxcomb! Think on it—twins for a chorus. Something never seen before, to let the peons know they’re not watching Old Father Dullard’s Piss-Weak Boredom Revival, but a proper something from the Moncraine Company!”

“Actually, it’s the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company these days,” said Chantal.

“Anytime you want to return to being an ambulatory pair of tits, turncoat, you can mince straight back to Basanti and ask how many lusty maids are still on offer.” Locke noticed that Moncraine’s shoulders sagged despite his tone of voice. However the impresario might ridicule Sylvanus, the old lush had occasional sway over him. “Ah, gods, past the third or fourth row of groundlings, who can tell they’re twins, anyway?”

“It’s what they do with their voices,” said Alondo. “You have to admit it’s good, when they’re not pitching vomit everywhere.”

“We’ve got to do something about their hair,” said Moncraine.

“Glue a wig on baldy,” said Calo.

“Hold the fop down and shave him,” muttered Galdo.

“Hats,” said Sabetha in a politely commanding tone. “They can both wear hats. It’s a question of costuming.”

“And that would require the attention of the costumers,” rumbled Moncraine. “I’m sure they’re off somewhere attending to clothes at this very instant, but whether they’re taking them off or putting them on is the question.”

“Moncraine!” A stout middle-aged Therin strolled into the inn-yard. He had no chin to speak of, and long hair so ill-kept it looked as though a brown hawk had perched on the back of his head and clung there until it died. “Jasmer, you lucky bastard, I didn’t believe ’em when they said you were off the hook. How many cocks did you have to lick to get them to slip the chains?”

“Master Calabazi,” said Moncraine, “you know a gentleman never does his own dirty work. I simply made a lot of promises concerning your daughters. Or was it your sons? Gods know I can’t tell them apart.”

“Ha! If you’re a gentleman, I fart incense. But you’re out, and now someone’s conjured a wild fantasy about you playing the Pearl. Is this the show? A little one?”

“It’s not the size, but the employment,” said Moncraine, losing some of his forced good cheer. “Why are you bothering me?”

“Well, you know what me and my lads need.”

“Speak to Jenora; she’s the woman of business.”

“Well, I thought with that fancy new owner you’ve got you might lay a surety—”

“Patron, Calabazi. We’ve got a noble patron, not a new owner. And you wouldn’t get a surety if Emperor Salerius himself crawled out of his tomb to watch the show. You get paid when the rest of us do, on performance nights.”

“It’s just that there’s some, ah, uncertainty, in your situation, and we’d like something firmer than a heartfelt assurance we’ll be working—”

“I was in gaol for two days, you idiot; I didn’t breathe Wraithstone smoke and lose my wits. If you want the work, you can have the usual terms, and if you don’t, I won’t lie awake at night wondering where I’ll get three or four half-wits to shovel shit!”

The two men moved chin to chin and continued arguing in low, impassioned tones. Locke gestured to Alondo, who was lounging nearby, and whispered, “What’s this?”

“It’s the trenchmen, Lucaza.” Alondo yawned. “The countess might be pleased to hand out the Old Pearl for shows, but she doesn’t pay to keep the place clean. We do. That means empty trenches for a few hundred to piss in every night, dammed up and tended by apes like Calabazi.”

“This whole thing is more complicated than I ever imagined.”

“Too true. And Jasmer hates the business side of business, you know? He negotiates like he’s having his balls scraped.”

Across the inn-yard, Jasmer brought the conversation with Calabazi to a halt by raising both palms to the ugly trenchman’s face and turning away.

“Master Moncraine!” shouted yet another newcomer, appearing from the direction of the stables. Moncraine whirled.

“Gods’ peace, you fucking fool, can’t you see I’m work— Oh, gods, Baron Boulidazi, I didn’t recognize you! You’ve, ah, come in costume again.”

“Ha! I wanted to be in keeping with the spirit of our endeavors!” Boulidazi, once again dressed in a low fashion, wore a dirty broad-brimmed hat that partly concealed his features. “And of course, to intrude as little as possible on your affairs.”

“Of course,” said Moncraine, and Locke was certain he could hear teeth grinding even from across the inn-yard.

“And who’s this? Anyone important?”

“Uh, I’m Paza Calabazi, uh, sir. I handle—”

“No, not important, or you’d know it’s ‘my lord.’ Go be undistinguished somewhere else.”

“Uh … yes, my lord.”

Locke frowned as he watched Calabazi all but scuttle away. His original impression of Boulidazi seemed more naïve than ever.

“Now, Moncraine.” The young lord gave the impresario a firm slap on the back. “I know this inn-yard has a certain unrefined charm, but I’ve arranged for better surroundings.”

“The Old Pearl?” Moncraine made a visible effort to swallow his resentment. “Is it ours, my lord?”

“We can rehearse there commencing tomorrow, and we’ll get two days of actual performance. The envoy of ceremonies is a family friend. I’ll even post a man to make sure that you’re not pestered by the Paza Calabazis of the world.”

“That’s … well, I suppose that’s very generous, my lord patron. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it. It’s in my own interest, eh? Now, what’s the scene?”

“Uh, there’s no scene, my lord. We, ah, need a break, I think. Arguing with Calabazi—”

“Nonsense. You’re no man to be tamed by a mere argument, Moncraine.” Boulidazi mimed a fist crashing into his own jaw, a gesture that made Moncraine plainly uncomfortable. “What did you last practice?”

“Nothing of real consequence—”

“The scene, gods damn you.”

“Uh, six. Act one, scene six. We were just nailing down … nailing down the situation of the chorus.”

“ ‘Vagabonds of fortune raise a bold business in catacomb kingdoms unknown to honest daylight,’ ” said Boulidazi. “I like that one. But that means Amadine’s about to come out for the first time. Surely you won’t stop now.”

“Well, perhaps not—”

“Yes. Perhaps not.” Boulidazi settled into the chair that Moncraine had occasionally rested in while watching the morning’s work. “Mistress Verena, might I beg a few moments of your Queen of Shadows?”

“Why, m’lord Boulidazi, your attention is always very welcome,” said Sabetha with a perfect curtsy. Locke would have sworn he felt the blood congealing in his heart, and he fought to maintain a façade of dopish complacency.

“Thieves in place for scene six,” shouted Moncraine. Bert the Crowd hurried into the middle of the yard, and was met by Calo and Galdo, who were intended to join the spear-carriers for several mob scenes after finishing their orations. Moncraine had promised to hire a bevy of bit players to flesh out the crowds, but didn’t seem to want to start paying them too early in the rehearsal process.

“Well met, my noble peers and bastards! Well met at Barefoot Court!” Chantal advanced from her side of the inn-yard, hips swaying, arms outthrust, playing to the tiny crowd. “What stirs, you ragged suitors, to bring you hence from drink and dice and warm attentions?”

“Allegiance, fair Penthra,” said Bertrand. “Allegiance, fair and fallen lady, for she that claims our deep regard makes those comforts seem cold distractions.”

“Valedon, you ever were a wool-tongued devil, now here’s the air hung with silk. What makes the change?” Chantal touched her husband playfully on the chin.

“My mistress and yours,” said Bertrand. “Her goodness puts a sting to my conscience. I have been remiss in my tributes, and must amend my courtesies.”

“So would we all,” said Calo. “Penthra, let her come forth. She has sheltered us, and kindled loyal fellowship, and even such poor wretches as ourselves must make obedience.”

“We are all wretches at our ragged court, and none therefore a poorer contrast.” Sabetha’s voice was effortlessly regal as she glided into the scene, out of what would eventually be the shadows of the actual stage. Not even the distraction of Boulidazi could truly dampen Locke’s pleasure at watching Sabetha vanish into the role she’d so coveted.

“Grace like fire’s heat, I am made ashamed of my tribute,” said Calo, sinking to his knees. “You are Amadine, called Queen Beneath the Stones, or I was never born. My gift deserves not the name, for such a beauty. It pales, and with it my pride. I beg a second chance, to steal a more worthy courtesy!”

“Indeed, his offering is slight as a passing fancy,” said Bertrand. “Be assured of my love, bright Amadine, and take my tribute first.”

“Unkind Valedon, this is no race with lines to cross before all others. Stand easy. Surely a moment’s wait can little harm your preparations.”

Bertrand bowed and took a step back.

“I am Amadine, called many things,” said Sabetha, gesturing for Calo to rise. “There is no honor more worthy than this, your gift of friendship. I see you are new among us.”

“Many years a thief, mistress, but far too many passed before kind fortune brought me to your company. Oh, let me trade this bauble for something more fitting, or gladly hang for trying.”

“Never speak of such an evil,” said Sabetha. “And never speak of shame, but give what you have.”

Calo pretended to hesitantly pass something over, and Sabetha mimed holding it up between thumb and forefinger.

“A speck of a silver ring,” scoffed Bertrand. “Careworn as a scullion’s hands.”

“I more proudly take a speck from a man with empty pockets,” said Sabetha, “than riches from a man whose purse stays heavy. What good thing might not be coined from this courtesy? It shall become bread and wine, and clothing, and sharp steel. It shall harden the sinews of our fellowship, and for that I hold it dear. You are welcome to our band, brother.”

“Gods willing, I shall never leave it!”

“Gods willing.” Sabetha held out her other hand and Calo kissed it. She turned to Bert. “Now, Valedon, let’s know your heart. Some months you’ve spent among us, yet aloof, a proud and solitary sort.”

“Proud and solitary as yourself, artful Amadine, though I admit my poor fellowship. Here’s the remedy! Oh, how I’ve strained my talents to produce a worthy gift!”

“A bracelet,” said Chantal as her husband pretended to display it with a flourish. “Black sapphires set in gold.”

“As suits a queen of shadows,” said Bertrand. “Pray it please you. I beg you wear it, even once, though you later strike it to a royal ransom of coins.”

“Great weight to grace a single wrist. Our thanks, Valedon; your obscure character is made clear. How did you come by this treasure?”

“Three days and nights of pains,” said Bertrand, “watching a great house, until I saw my chance for the seizing.”

“Will you wear it first, to show me its workings?”

“Why, the clasp is simple, gracious Amadine. Give me your hand, I shall anoint it.”

“I would see this treasure on your wrist, ere it touches mine. Or has your deep regard run shallow?”

“This beauty is not meant for such an unworthy display!”

“Unworthy indeed.” At a gesture from Sabetha, Chantal seized Bertrand and feigned holding a blade to his neck.

“Ladies, please, how have I offended?”

“Your face is a parchment,” said Sabetha, “with treason there written plain. You dread the bauble’s touch, and the venom of its coiled needle!” She mimed snatching the bracelet and unfolding it for all to see. “You think us dullards, that by this infant’s stratagem you might have my life? My spies advised me of your falseness.”

“I swear that when I stole the bracelet, I knew not what lay within!”

“Stole? Should I not know a thief by every scar and callus of the trade? I have them all, Valedon, familiar as children. Your hands are dough and your sinews slack. This bracelet you had as a gift from your masters.”

Calo and Galdo did their best impression of a general outcry in the crowd, and seized Bertrand by the arms.

“I see now my deception was foredoomed,” he whispered. “Clasp the bracelet to my wrist and let justice be done.”

“Hasty dispatch is mercy undeserved. You’ll have your bracelet back, miscarried murderer, after reflection. Bind him! Heat a crucible, and therein cast this scorpion bauble. Past his traitor’s lips, pour the molten slurry of his instrument. Aye, gild his guts with melted treasure, then leave him on the street for his masters to ponder.”

“I beg you—”

The last plea of the unfortunate Valedon was drowned out by the noise of Calo once again throwing up. Bert and Chantal hopped backward, minding their feet, while Galdo put a hand to his mouth and went pale.

“Ha,” shouted Boulidazi. “Ha! I think one of your twins has something to feel guilty about, Moncraine.”

“Very sorry, my lord,” moaned Calo.

“Perhaps you should try living virtuously for a few days, my friends.” Boulidazi rose and stretched. “Well done, despite the sudden ending. Indeed! Especially you ladies. By the gods, I think we’ve got something here. In fact, I’m going to join you at the Pearl for the rest of your rehearsals.”

The sudden pain between Locke’s temples was a match for the expression on Moncraine’s face.

4

“WE’LL FIND our chance to be alone,” Sabetha whispered to him more than once in the days that followed, but such chances seemed to deliberately fling themselves out of the way as the rehearsals wore on.

The Old Pearl was a testament to the generosity of the long-dead count who’d left it to the city. Though hardly a patch on the Eldren notion of longevity, the theater had been built to be taken for granted for centuries. Its walls and raised galleries were white marble, now weathered a mellow gray, and its stage was built from alchemically lacquered hardwood that might last nearly as long.

The circular courtyard was open to the sky, and though awning poles were in place to offer potential shelter from sun and rain, the awnings themselves were absent. According to Jenora, such comforts for the groundling crowd, like sanitary ditches, were one of the “free” theater’s hidden expenses that the countess had no interest in bearing herself.

There was no denying that the place was far more suitable than Mistress Gloriano’s inn-yard. The Pearl had a surplus of dignity to lend, even to their more ragged rehearsals, and what might have seemed silly pantomime twenty feet from a stable was somehow ennobled in the shadow of silent marble galleries.

Still, every new advantage seemed to come with a complication for a sibling. Each day began too early, with hungover company members packing unfinished costumes, props, and sundries into the wagon provided by the Camorri. The walk to the Pearl was two miles, and at the close of each day’s rehearsal they would have to stuff everything back into their wagon and reverse the journey. They were permitted to rehearse at the Pearl, not reside there, and the city watch would turn them out like vagabonds if they showed any sign of spending a night. Precious hours were therefore gnawed away by travel.

Although Locke and Sabetha avoided the worst of the debauches that were a nightly ritual (Mistress Gloriano, for all her loud moralizing, seemed incapable of refusing service to any drunkard who could still manage to roll a coin in her direction), there was little freedom or leisure to be found at the inn. For one thing, there was the simple press of time, and sleep was a precious commodity after long rehearsals and tedious trudging. For another, there was Boulidazi.

True to his word, the young baron became a company fixture, “disguised” in common clothing, and while Locke went to bed each night more exhausted than he’d been since his months as a farmer, Boulidazi seemed to have the stamina of ten mules. Word got around, somehow, that the Moncraine Company had come back to life with a slumming lord at the heart of its court, so opportunists, curiosity-seekers, and unemployed actors joined the taproom mess every evening, driving Moncraine to distraction.

Boulidazi, however, was never distracted. His eyes were fixed on Sabetha.

5

“CALAMAXES, OLD counsel,” said Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, squatting on a folding stool in character as His Paramount Majesty Salerius II, Emperor of All Therins. “Not a bright day passes but you find some cloud to throw before Our sun.”

“Majesty.” Jasmer sketched a bow, expressing more tolerance than awe. “It is of sons I wish to speak. Princely Aurin has reached a hungry age, and wants employment.”

“Employment? He’s heir to Our throne, that’s his trade.”

“He wants distinction, Majesty. A blade unblooded and waiting to be drawn, is Aurin.”

“You take liberties, spell-sayer. Say you that birth to the blood royal sufficeth not to mark his merit?”

“Your pardon, Sovereign. By my soul, Aurin is worthy heir to worthy line. I say only that he longs to match attainment to inheritance, as the father did, and stir this stately court with new triumph.”

“He,” mused Sylvanus, “and dear ambitious Ferrin.”

“Rightly and loyally ambitious,” said Jasmer. “Have you not been served in your own course by friends and generals?”

“And sorcerers.”

“Majesty.”

“Well, it’s no fault of Ours that foes of old are lately grown so feeble!”

“Those foes would say otherwise, Majesty. You have been the architect of their sorrows.”

“Well, well. Some serpents flatter, ere they bite. So now let’s have your fangs.”

“Majesty, there is a discontent in Therim Pel that gnaws, as vermin at a house’s timbers. The matter of the thieves.”

“Gods above! Have We not seen your spells in battle wrought, and men scythed dead like harvest grain? Have We not seen thunder and lightning leashed to your whim? Now you tell Us to cringe from vagabonds.”

“Not cringe, Majesty, never cringe. But attend, for here’s a sickness that’s catching. Word I have of gatherings in great numbers, of boldness unbecoming, of deliberate contempt for your imperial throne.”

“All thieves scorn the law, else they would not be thieves. Why cry this stale revelation?”

“Majesty, they make society beneath bright Therim Pel and name a sovereign for their counterfeit court!”

“In jest. We too much dignify this nonsense with Our consideration.”

“Majesty, please, if you suffer scorn from base pretenders, how can it not breed by example in higher stations? I grant that you may laugh in private—”

“You grant?”

“Pardon, Majesty. I submit. I counsel most earnestly. Rightly should you think this insolence trivial, but rightly for the sake of hard-won peace should you crush it in its womb! Lest it spread to those whose spirits are more matched to your own.”

“Slay wastrels now or courtiers later, you say? Who, then, would be this sovereign of thieves, and how are they grown so fearsome that your own agencies cannot weed them?”

“A woman, majesty, a woman of worthy temper, whose thralls call her Queen of Shadows. She guards well against my simpler servants. One of them was slain last night and left on a street, as warning and challenge.”

“And what of spells?” Sylvanus let the word hang heavy in the air for a moment. “By Our command, could you not slay her at leisure, swift as a cold wind?”

“By your command,” said Jasmer, grudgingly, “she could die this instant, yet thus would I murder opportunity.”

“What, then, do you submit and counsel earnestly?”

“Let Aurin and Ferrin be your instruments, Majesty. Their faces are little-known to the lawless. Let them enter this thieves’ warren, and win this woman to their confidence, and execute judgment on her.”

“The dust is not yet settled from the corpse of your former agent, and you would put my son in his place?”

“Peace, Majesty. Has not princely Aurin wondrous skill at arms? Is not Ferrin iron-strong as suits his name? I am the soul of prudence with your issue, and would set my arts and eyes upon him from afar, though he’ll know it not. He could not be safer in his own chambers … and he might do much good.”

“Strange conceit, to make an emperor’s son an assassin.”

“To make it known the coming lion has some fox to him, matches subtlety to strength, and dares personal return for personal insult!”

“Aurin desires this?” said Sylvanus softly.

“He burns for a test, Majesty. The gracious gods have put one before us. I would set him to it.”

“Long have you served Us, best and brightest of Our magi, sharpest wit and quickest counsel. Yet should this go bad for Aurin, know for a certainty you will share his doom, though it took all the magi of the empire to bind you.”

“Sovereign, if my counsel from its design so wretchedly strayed I would not wish to live.”

“Then make preparation to guard with watchful spell, and We shall see it done. Bring Aurin and Ferrin before Us.”

Locke crept out from the shade of the stage pillars and into the heat. The Pearl’s western galleries wore shadows like masks, but the middle of the stage was at the mercy of the late-afternoon sun. Alondo came from the opposite side, met him in front of Jasmer and Sylvanus, and together they continued the scene.

Scene by scene, day after day, the drama unfolded in fits and starts, as though capricious gods were toying with the lives of Salerius II and his court. Skipping forward, reversing time, shifting parts and places, demanding repetition of certain moments until every participant was ready to throw punches, Jasmer Moncraine conjured the rough shape of the story and then started to carve fine.

For Locke the days became rhythmic frustration, as he and Sabetha were herded by Boulidazi, as he dutifully applied himself to becoming a character he didn’t want to play. It was not unlike inhabiting a role as Chains had taught him, and in other circumstances it might have been fascinating. Yet each time he watched Alondo take Sabetha by the hand, or shoulder, or practice stage-kisses and embraces, he learned anew how slowly time could crawl when there was some misery to dwell on.

“You don’t seem yourself, Lucaza,” said Boulidazi softly as the company trudged home one dusty evening. Low style or not, Boulidazi and his men never went so far as to be without horses, and the baron hopped down now, leading his animal by the bridle to walk beside Locke. “You tripped over some lines you should have cold.”

“It’s … not the lines, my lord.” So annoyed was Locke, so tired of rehearsal and the cloudless Esparan sky, that he was confiding in Boulidazi before he could help himself. “I expected to be Aurin.” He stretched this confidence out with a minor lie, lest Boulidazi should suspect him of desiring more proximity to Sabetha. “I, uh, read and studied Aurin on the journey here. I practiced him. He’s got all the better lines. I’m just … not at ease as Ferrin.”

“You and I share some tastes, I think,” said Boulidazi, grinning that damned insolent grin of his.

Only one that matters, thought Locke, and fought down a fresh vision of a career as a murderer of aristocrats.

“I don’t think you’re a Ferrin either,” Boulidazi continued. “He should be older than Aurin, bigger, the more confident of the two. That Alondo is more suited to the part, if you’ll pardon the reflection. I’m sure if he’d been offered the choice, he’d rather have your birth and money than a few more inches of height and muscle, eh?”

“Quite,” muttered Locke.

“Chin up, noble cousin. Face forward.” Boulidazi glanced casually around to ensure nobody important was within earshot. “Luck’s a changing thing. Just look at your man Jovanno, eh? Hooked that fine smoke-skin seamstress, gods know how. Hardly the sort of thing you’d want to give the family name to, but tight and wet where it counts. And she must be hot for it, sure as hell.”

“Jovanno’s got some qualities that aren’t plain to the eye,” said Locke, forcing a bantering tone.

“Carrying a proper sword, is he? Those well-fed types do tend to crowd their breeches, or so I hear. Well, anyway … how’s our Verena doing?”

“You can’t have missed her onstage.” Indeed, she was doing well, the most effortlessly natural of the Gentlemen Bastards as a thespian and by far the most pleasing to the eye and the romantic sensitivities. Even Chantal’s skepticism had given way, first to tolerance and then to open respect.

“Naturally. I meant the down hours, the nights and mornings. Surely she can’t find Gloriano’s quite the thing, even as a lark. Gods know I enjoy my rolling in the muck, but I don’t sleep there, eh? She might well wish a respite … even just for a night. A proper meal, a bath, silk sheets. I’ve many rooms at the house sitting empty. You could make the suggestion.”

“I could.”

“And I could have a word with old Moncraine about a change in roles for you.”

“Well, now, my lord, that would hardly … that is, I’m not sure Moncraine is open to persuasion on the matter.”

“You’ve got some liberal notions for a Camorri, my friend. I don’t persuade; I command. Except, of course, in pursuit of fair hand and heart.” Boulidazi chuckled, but turned serious in an instant. “So you’ll speak to her, then?”

“I’ll do whatever can be done.” Which was nothing, Locke thought to himself, absolutely nothing. Sabetha would never let herself be procured on the sly for Boulidazi’s pleasure, but the baron hardly knew that. And if he could swap Locke into the role of Aurin! A warm feeling of unexpected satisfaction grew in Locke’s gut. “Cousin Verena is very particular about her comforts, my lord. I’m sure she’s quite ready to, ah, call at your house a second time.”

“You would do me such a service, Lucaza.” Boulidazi’s slap on Locke’s back was hard and careless, but Locke bore it like the gentle anointing of a priest. “She needn’t fear indiscretion, either coming or going. My men have handled this sort of thing before.”

No doubt, thought Locke.

6

“IT’S NOT that I mind reusing so much of your old mess,” said Jean the next morning, driving an iron needle through a pad of salvaged canvas. “I’m just curious as to why you’re so averse to pinching a little more money out of our esteemed patron for new stuff.”

“Because he’d give back two pinches for our one,” said Jenora, who was picking through a pile of seedy costume lace. The two were comfortably seated in the shade behind the Pearl’s stage, surrounded by their usual jumble of clothes and props. By a process of steady cannibalism, they were turning the dusty remains of all the troupe’s previous productions into suitable and perhaps even ambitious trimmings for this one. At present they were making phantasma.

It was traditional in Therin theater for the players of dead characters to dress up as phantasma, in pale death-masks and robes, to silently haunt the rest of the production as ghostly onlookers.

“There’s two sorts of patron,” she continued. “Some rain money like festival sweets and don’t mind if they lose on the deal, so long as the production goes well. They do it to impress someone, or because they can piss coins as they please. Others take what you might call a more interested position. They expect full and strict repayment.

“Now, our lord and master ain’t the one who’s keeping track, but some creature of his damn well is, down to the last bent copper. I’ve seen the papers. We can have all we like to make the production grand, sure, but if we spend past what we’re apt to take in from the crowds, there won’t be profits enough to cover us plain-blood sorts after Boulidazi gets his.”

“But you said you had some sort of precedence as original stakeholders—”

“Oh, we’re guaranteed a cut of profits; it’s just that profits have a way of magically turning into something else before that cut gets made. Boulidazi gets security on his expenses under Esparan law. The rest of us divide the leavings. So you see, if we tap our noble patron for too many pretty expensive things, we only piss our own portion away.”

“Savvy,” said Jean. Camorr lacked that particular privilege for business-minded nobles; no doubt the wealth of its lenders and money-changers gave them teeth that Espara’s commoners had yet to grow. “I can see why you’re so keen to economize.”

“A bit of pain to the wrists and elbows might save us the pain of a sharp stick in the purse when this is all—”

Uncharacteristic noises from the stage snapped Jean and Jenora out of their habitual prop-making reverie. Jasmer Moncraine had stomped across the stage with Boulidazi close behind, interrupting whatever scene was being rehearsed. Jean had seen them all so many times by now he’d learned to ignore them, but there was no ignoring this.

“You’ve no right to interfere with my artistic decisions,” yelled Moncraine.

“None of your decisions are privileged by our arrangement, artistic or otherwise,” said Boulidazi.

“It’s the damned principle of the matter—”

“Principle gets you kind words at your temple of choice, not power over me.”

“Gods damn your serpent’s eyes, you up-jumped dilettante!”

“That’s right.” Boulidazi stepped in close to Moncraine, making it impossible for the impresario to miss if his temper should snap again. “Abuse me. Forget the fact that you’re a nightskin peasant. Say something I can’t forgive. Better yet, hit me. You’ll be back at the Weeping Tower like an arrow-shot, and I’ll have the company. You think you can’t be replaced? You’ve got five scenes. I’ll hire another Calamaxes away from Basanti. The play will go on without you, and you’ll go on without one of your hands.”

Jasmer stood with terrible rigidity, lines and wattles of his dark face deepening as his jaw clenched harder and harder, and for a moment it seemed he was about to doom himself. At last he took a step back, exhaled sharply, and barked, “Alondo! Lucaza!”

Locke and Alondo appeared before him with haste.

“Swap your roles,” growled Moncraine. “Lucaza’s Aurin from now on, and Alondo’s got Ferrin. If you don’t like it, discuss the aesthetic ramifications with our honorable gods-damned patron.”

“But we just did up the Aurin costume yesterday, sized for Alondo,” said Jenora. Moncraine whirled and stalked toward her, plainly itching to pass on some of the abuse he’d just received from Boulidazi.

“Then take a knife to it,” he shouted, “or put Lucaza on a fucking rack and grow him four inches. I don’t give a damn either way!”

Jenora and Jean both leapt up, but before either could speak Moncraine turned and stormed away. Boulidazi smirked, shook his head, and gestured for the actors to continue practicing.

Eyes wide, Jean slowly eased himself back into his seat. The baron had never before so publicly taunted or countermanded his unfortunate “partner,” and coarse as he was, Boulidazi always seemed to work to a design. What was this ploy in aid of?

“I, uh, I’m sorry about this, Alondo,” said Locke, breaking the silence before it stretched too long.

“Bah,” said the young Esparan. “Not as though it’s your fault. Jasmer tells me to play a baby rabbit, I’m a baby rabbit, you know? And I’m still in most of the best scenes anyway. If I had to go begging work from Basanti I wouldn’t even have a lusty maid part waiting for me, eh?”

7

LOCKE AND Sabetha conferred in a rare, brief moment of privacy on the changing nature of Boulidazi’s expectations. Changed as they were, the Esparan baron’s old habits didn’t shift, and it was simply too dangerous to attempt to steal more meaningful privacy at Gloriano’s Rooms. Boulidazi or one of his several associates might appear at any time, from around any corner, up or down any flight of stairs.

Still, the baron had delivered on his promise to transmute Locke’s role, and had to be kept thinking that Lucaza de Barra was his earnest ally. To this end Sabetha began to play a closer and more dangerous game of flirtation with Boulidazi. While not allowing that the time was right for her to enjoy a secret sojourn under the baron’s roof, she doted on him more frequently, met his eyes more often, pretended to smile at his alleged jokes.

She also deployed more of her arsenal of feminine fascinations, carefully letting her smock hang an inch or two lower on her chest, trading boots for cheap slippers to display her ankles and elegantly muscled calves. These steps, coupled with the casual ease with which Jean and Jenora went off together each night, kept the twin flames of distraction and jealousy flickering lively in Locke’s breast.

His new role as Aurin turned out to be no help in the matter. While it sent a thrill shuddering up and down his every nerve to be working so close to Sabetha, professing love in the marvelously lurid language of Lucarno, the hawk-eyed vigil of Boulidazi was a check on every other expression of passion. In fact, he was so careful and so chaste in his stage embraces that Moncraine, his patience burnt to ash and the ashes ground deep into the dirt of his mood, soon snapped.

“Gods’ piss, you gangling twit, the love’s the whole matter of the play! Who the hell wants to pay good money to see a tragic love story if the lovers handle each other like fine porcelain? Bert! Chantal! Educate this idiot.”

Husband and wife came forward eagerly upon realizing they weren’t to share the rebuke. Chantal swooned into Bertrand’s arms, and he turned toward Locke and Sabetha.

“Exaggerate,” he said, “and lean. Leaning’s what makes a good embrace, kid. Stage kissing you’ve got down. When she’s in your arms, tilt her a bit. Take her off her feet. It looks good to the audience. Quickest way to show passion that even the drunks at the far back can see. Isn’t that right, jewel?”

“Oh, Bert, you couldn’t explain swimming to a fish. But you’ve always been one for doing, hmmm?” Giggling and poking playfully at one another, the two of them nonetheless managed to rapidly correct the flaws in Locke’s pretend girl-embracing technique. Even Moncraine grunted satisfaction, and Locke found himself suddenly able to be arm to arm, chest to chest, cheek to cheek with Sabetha without Boulidazi raising the slightest objection. Yet anyone who has ever pretend-held an intensely desirable other person will know how little it assuages the longing for genuine contact, genuine surrender, and so even this improvement was no balm to Locke’s mood or desires.

Thus the situation carried on, gaining momentum like a cart nudged off the top of a hill. The crowds at Gloriano’s grew larger and more boisterous. Calo and Galdo indulged their appetite for dice and cards, closely watched by the others to ensure they didn’t indulge their appetite for never losing. Jean and Jenora churned out costume after costume, restored theatrical weapons to full polish, and spun minor miracles out of dusty scraps. The daily rehearsals became tighter, scripts and notes were discarded, costume and prop trials were made. At last, one evening as the bronze disk of the sun slid westward, Moncraine summoned the company to the stage.

“Can’t say for sure that we’re getting any better,” he growled, “but at least we’re no longer getting any worse. I think it’s time we gave public notice. My lord Boulidazi, you and the stakeholders must consent.”

“I do,” said the baron. Alondo, Jenora, and Sylvanus nodded.

“Gods save us,” said Moncraine. “What this means, dear Camorri, is that we hire our bit players and spear-carriers. Then we announce the times of our shows, and if we don’t manage to put them on, we’re bloody liable. To the ditch-tenders, the beer- and breadmongers, the cushion furnishers, the envoy of ceremonies, and the countess herself, gods forbid.”

“I presume we’ll need some handbills?” said Jean.

“Handbills? Who reads? Put those up in most neighborhoods and the good citizens would use them for ass-wiping. We send criers around the poor districts, notes to the nicest. Maybe just a few handbills around the trade streets, but in the main we keep the oldest of old fashions.”

“What’s that, then?” said Galdo.

8

“ARE YOU tired of life itself?” yelled Galdo, attempting to strike the most dynamic pose possible while perched atop a weathered market stall barrel. “Are you dull to spectacle? Are you deaf to the timeless poetry of Caellius Lucarno, master wordsmith of the Therin Throne?”

A light warm rain was pattering down around him, rippling the mud of the market square, where dozens of Esparans were hawking food, junk, or services from under tarps in various states of repair. It seemed only natural to Galdo that after endless days of merciless sun the sky should close up and start pissing the instant he went out trying to look impressive.

“Because even if you are—” said Calo, who stood on the ground beside his brother.

“Fuck off,” yelled the nearest merchant.

“EVEN IF YOU ARE,” shouted Calo, “you will not be able to resist the romance, the excitement, the grand dazzling festival of forthright astonishments that awaits you when the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company mounts its exclusive presentation of the legendary—”

“—the daring,” shouted Galdo.

“—the bloody and heart-wrenching REPUBLIC OF THIEVES, this coming Count’s Day and Penance Day—”

Galdo had to admit that the state of full sobriety, while in most considerations far less interesting than any degree of inebriation, did at least lend itself to the better employment of reflexes. The irate merchant hurled a turnip, which Calo plucked out of the air just before it struck his head. He tossed it up to Galdo, who leapt off the barrel, somersaulted in midair, caught the turnip, and landed with arms outflung in a flourish.

“Turnips can’t stop the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company!” he shouted.

“I’ve got potatoes too,” yelled the merchant.

“Count’s Day! Penance Day! Limited engagements,” hollered Calo. “At the Old Pearl! Don’t miss the most stupendously exciting sensation that has ever graced your lives! The dead will live and breathe and speak again! True love, flashing blades, treachery of the heart, and the secrets of an imperial dynasty, all yours, but if you miss it now you miss it forever!”

Another turnip was hurled in their direction, and both twins dodged it easily.

“You missed us now and you’ll miss us forever,” shouted Galdo. He turned to his brother and lowered his voice. “All the same, we’ve got eight stops left. Maybe we’ve favored these dullards long enough.”

“Too right,” said Calo. The twins bowed to the general indifference of the market square and hurried off into the rain. “Where next?”

“Jalaan River Gate,” said Galdo. “That’ll be a welcoming and patient crowd for sure, fresh off the road with mud up their ass-cracks.”

“Yeah,” said Calo. “Gods, where would this gang be without us to do all the actual miserable footwork for it?”

“We got the aptitude, we get the chores. Bright side, though, would you rather be doing the bookkeeping?”

“Fuck no. Wouldn’t mind doing the bookkeeper’s assistant.”

“Hey now, prior claim.”

“Oh, I know. Good on tubby for sewing her up. I was starting to worry about him,” said Calo.

“That leaves red and the genius. Still cause for worry there.”

“How hard is it to fling yourselves at one another and let all the really excited bits just sort themselves out?”

“It’s not the doing, I think; it’s that our beloved patron barely lets Sabetha out of his sight. Hell’s own chaperone.”

“Think we should lend a hand?”

“Hey, I’ll cut the prick’s throat if you’ll dig the hole,” said Galdo. “But that would ruin all this dancing and singing we’re doing on the company’s behalf.”

“You must’ve kept your brains in your hair before you scraped it off, roundhead. I wasn’t talking about doing Boulidazi. More of dropping a useful hint in Sabetha’s ear.”

9

“IT WILL be a better turnout than I expected,” said Jasmer, hunched over a cracked mug of brandy and rainwater.

“What a generous allowance.” Baron Boulidazi sat across from Moncraine at a back corner table in Mistress Gloriano’s common room. “It’s better than you ever had any right to expect, you damned fool.”

“Very probably, my lord.”

Locke leaned against the wall nearby, listening while trying hard to look like he wasn’t. He nursed a half-full cup of apple wine. It was the eve of the Count’s Day performance, and by tradition the company had drunk four toasts in a row—Boulidazi first, Moncraine second, the company third, and a last cup for Morgante, the City Father, a prayer for orderly streets and crowds. Fortunately, Chains had taught Locke the fine art of making half-sips look like vast friendly gulps, and without violating the spirit of the toasts he’d managed to shield his wits from their substance.

“Probably? I’ve stretched myself for you again, Moncraine,” said the baron, his usual easy bravado discarded. He hadn’t restrained himself while toasting, and his voice was tight with concern. “I can’t just ask my friends to put in an appearance like hired clappers, for the gods’ sake. Eleven gentlemen of standing with entourages. At a first performance, no less. You know they’d usually wait to hear if it’s worth the bother. So it had damn well better be.”

“You know its quality. You’ve been on us like a bloody leech all through rehearsal.”

“I don’t just need it to be good,” said Boulidazi. “I want it smooth. Flawless. No incidents, no foul-ups, no miscues.”

“You can’t escape miscues,” said Moncraine. “If the piece is good they just flow right past; nobody gives a—”

“I give a damn.” Boulidazi was genuinely in his cups, Locke saw. “This is my bloody company now, as much as it is yours, and my reputation hanging in the wind. Fail me and you’ll regret the day you first saw the sun.”

“With every will to please my gracious lord,” said Moncraine acidly, “if it was as easy as simply commanding someone to get it right, there wouldn’t be any bad plays. Or paintings, or songs, or—”

“Fuck up and I’ll have your legs broken,” said Boulidazi. “How’s that for motivation?”

“I was already quite adequately motivated,” said Jasmer, rising to his feet. “I believe I’ll withdraw, my lord, as your heady company quite overwhelms my peasant sensibilities.”

Jasmer moved off into the crowd to mingle with Sylvanus and Chantal. The new bit players and the inn’s usual crowd of wastrels and parasites were making a joyous noise unto the wine and ale jugs. Mistress Gloriano fueled the carousing with fresh liquor like a blacksmith shoveling coal into a smelting furnace.

“Andrassus, you goat,” yelled Jasmer, “how’s tonight’s wine?”

“Undistinguished,” burped Sylvanus. “If it hasn’t improved by the seventh or eighth cup I might have to resort to sterner forms of self-abuse.”

Baron Boulidazi rose unsteadily, glowering, ignoring Locke. By chance Sabetha had just come up behind him as she wound her outwardly cheerful path through the tumult, hostess-like. The cup in her hands was as artfully decorative as Locke’s.

“Verena,” said the baron in a low voice, “surely you’ve done your duty to the company this evening. Let me grant you some of the comforts you’re used to, to rest yourself before the show. A proper hot bath, a fine bed, ice wines, perhaps even—”

“Oh, Gennaro,” she whispered, delicately removing his hand from where it had come to rest on her upper arm, then twining her fingers through his. “You’ve been so thoughtful. Surely you know it’s bad luck to celebrate like that before a performance, hmmm? I’ll be only too happy to accept your offer after we’ve taken our last bows.”

It was just about the best possible deflection under the circumstances, thought Locke, but it was also alarming. She’d committed herself now to being alone with him, no later than the day after next, when their second show was finished. After weeks of flirtation and half-promises, Boulidazi could only respond badly to further excuses.

“Oh, let it be so,” said the baron. “Let me take you away from these damned people and live as we should, even for a day or two. It’s your company that’s kept me down here incognito, not any love of correcting Moncraine. And when this is finished, I want you … that is, I want you to think on what you want next. Imagine the role you desire. I’ll have Moncraine stage it for you, anything you like—”

“You do know just what to say to a lady,” said Sabetha, laying a finger over his lips and very effectively shutting him up. “I’ll reflect on your offer. On all your offers, Gennaro. I think our desires for the future may be understood to be in close agreement.”

“Are you sure,” said Boulidazi, plainly dealing with the sudden rush of blood to somewhere less conversationally useful than his brain, “absolutely sure, that tonight you wouldn’t—”

“I wouldn’t,” she said, sweetly but firmly. “We’ve two long days ahead of us and so much time to spend as we wish afterward. Let’s not put the cart before the horse. Or should that be stallion, hmmmm?”

“Right,” he said. “Right. As you … as you wish, always. And yet—”

Locke forced himself to cease listening as Boulidazi burbled a fresh stream of love-struck inanities. The baron’s predictable refusal to accept Sabetha’s polite-speak invitation to piss off for the evening meant that she’d be tending him until she was too tired to do anything but collapse, sour and exhausted, sometime after midnight. Every halting step Locke had taken with Sabetha, every precious moment of understanding they’d clawed out of one another was again being wasted. Locke stared fixedly at his drink, wondering if it was time to quit playacting and throw back a few.

“Ahoy there, Lucaza,” said Calo, swooping out of nowhere to seize Locke by the arms. He spoke rather loudly: “We’re short a thrower for a game of Fuck-the-Next-Fellow.”

“But I don’t want to throw dice—”

“Nonsense,” said Calo, pulling him away from Sabetha and Boulidazi. “You’re just standing here mooning when you could be losing coins like a proper lad. Come, you’re rolling with us.”

“But … but—”

His sputtering achieved nothing. Calo relieved him of his wine and drank it in two gulps. He then dragged Locke on a zigzag path through the crowd, down a side passage and up the narrow stairs near Sabetha and Jenora’s room.

“What the hell are you—”

“Biggest favor of your life, half-wit,” said Calo. The long-haired Sanza kicked the wall, and to Locke’s surprise that section of wood paneling slid backward with a click. “Trust me. In the box.”

Calo’s shove sent Locke sprawling into the confines of a hidden room, perhaps four feet high and seven feet long. A layer of blankets softened his landing, and the space was lit by the pale red glow of a tiny alchemical lamp set atop a stack of small wine casks. The secret panel slid shut behind him.

Befuddled, Locke glanced around, taking in the very few interesting features of the tiny space. “Fucking Sanzas,” he muttered.

“I should think not,” said Sabetha an instant later as the panel snapped open again. She closed it as quickly as possible behind her and flopped down on the blankets with a relieved sigh.

“Oh gods,” said Locke, “this was all your—”

“The twins told me about this place. Seems Mistress Gloriano’s done some smuggling in her time. Calo accidentally opened it when he tripped against the wall one night.”

“What are we going to do about that damned baron?”

“Nothing,” said Sabetha. “He doesn’t exist.”

“My throat disagrees.”

She grabbed him by the tunic, and there was nothing playful or hesitant in the way she planted her lips on his neck.

“Your throat’s my concern,” she whispered. “And there’s nothing outside this room. Not now, not for as long as we’re in here.”

“Your absence will be as obvious to Boulidazi as if someone had stolen his breeches,” said Locke.

“Ordinarily. That’s why I made sure I handed him his last drink while we were toasting.”

“You didn’t!”

“I did.” Her smirk struck Locke as extremely becoming. “Something mild, to muddle his thoughts. Soon enough he won’t want to do anything except go to bed, and for once the miserable ass and I share a notion.”

“But if he—”

“I already told you he doesn’t exist.” She took his head in her hands and spread her fingers through his hair. “I’m tired of everyone else getting what they want except us. Coming and going as they please, sleeping where they please, while you and I live from interruption to interruption.” She brushed the faintest hint of a kiss against his lips, and then a longer one, and by the time she started on the third Locke was in serious danger of forgetting his own name.

“So you really did choose to be charmed at last, hmm?” he managed to whisper.

“No.” She jabbed him in the chest, playfully but firmly. “I’m not here because you finessed me, dunce. You were right, on the roof that night. We want what we want. We don’t need to justify it. And when we can take it, we should. I want you. And I am taking you.”

Her next kiss told him that she meant to be finished with talking for some time.

10

GLORIANO’S INN-ROOM wobbled around Gennaro Boulidazi as though mounted on an impossibly huge gimbal, and the lights and colors of the room had begun to run together like watercolors painted in the rain. The dull pressure in his skull meant he’d gone well past the horizon of smart indulgence, but how was that possible? Gloriano’s swill had snuck up on him. The thought gave him more vague amusement than alarm. Very little ever alarmed him.

Verena, now, she was at least causing him consternation. The alluring bitch! Plainly she wanted him, but if not for the fact that she was so bloody young he would have sworn she was deliberately leading him on for frustration’s sake. She had to be skittish, of course. Still a virgin. Well, he could fix that. Gods, could he fix that.

The very thought made images of his desire swim in his head, mingling with the already muddled scene around him. Seventeen at the oldest, body tight and firm as a dancer’s, with the blood of a Camorri family that went all the way back to the old empire. She was his to shape in every way. With his parents in their graves he was his own matchmaker, his own judge and counsel. If he couldn’t or wouldn’t seize a prize as sweet as Verena he ought to cut his balls off and let the house of Boulidazi fall! So she couldn’t go onstage in Camorr? Piss on Camorr. In Espara she could do as she pleased, at least until she started bearing children.

“M’lord.” It was one of his men, hatchet-faced Brego, whispering in his ear, too respectful or scared to touch him. “Can I fetch a carriage for you?”

“ ’M fine,” muttered the baron, scanning the room dazedly. “Th’ gods fucking love me. Preva loves me! Just look at what she’s sent me.”

Boulidazi concentrated, fighting back against the warm haze that was slowly gathering between his senses and the world around him. Drunk actors everywhere—his company. And there was the mouthy seamstress, the nightskin with the papers and the answer for everything. Oh, but she was tasty despite the airs she put on, no virgin and certainly no girl. Hair like curling black silk and breasts like heavy purses under that fraying bodice. Gods, yes, she’d know what to do once her legs were spread. A man could sink right in and feel at home.

That thought stirred him to arousal, a sudden exquisite pressure. He stumbled and had to push off a random inebriate to steady himself. The poor fellow toppled to the floor, dismissed from Boulidazi’s mind even before he landed.

The seamstress! He needed to spend himself a bit, drain the urge just enough to restore his self-control for a couple of days. Jenora would suit that use … would probably be flattered. Boulidazi watched her closely, noted her furtive whispers to the tubby Camorri, Jovanno. For some reason she’d taken the boy to her bed. Did she have any idea who Lucaza and Verena really were? Was she trying, in her own pathetic fashion, to sleep her way to better circumstances, fucking Lucaza’s man? Now, that was damned amusing.

Jenora left the inn-room just a moment later, her intended arrangements for the night obviously communicated to the boy. Jovanno, however, was dicing with Alondo and those twins. So he’d be busy for a few minutes at least. Polite Jovanno, sociable Jovanno—the boy would keep their company until the round was done. Well, tonight that would cost him first pass at some quim.

Verena would never have to know. Jenora, like all of her associates, was empty-pursed and painfully aware of it. It was the easiest thing in the world to keep a penniless woman shut up.

“I need some privacy. Jus’ a few minutes,” Boulidazi muttered to Brego. Then, summoning the dregs of his concentration, he put one unsteady foot in front of the other and moved toward the stairs Jenora had taken.

11

EACH KISS was longer and fiercer than the last.

Locke’s hands shook with the hot anxiety of impatience and inexperience. There were so many things to figure out so quickly between short, desperate breaths. It was one thing to throw a girl around in dreams, where the mind can discard the inconveniences of physical reality, but real girls have weight and mass and demands that dream girls lack. First passion is a complicated dance.

Strangely, it helped that Sabetha seemed just as impatient. She held him at bay a moment while she all but tore the ribbon out of her hair, spilling it across her shoulders. She was flushed, sweaty, as awkwardly excited as he was, and through that she’d shed the imposing grace that usually made Locke feel so small and stumbling around her. Neither of them could be graceful at such close quarters, and Locke found that an immense relief.

The heat grew in the tiny enclosure as they wound their arms and legs together, and the shock of actually being there with her gave way at last to the explosion of pent-up longing. Their tongues met, hesitantly at first, and they shared a nervous, muffled laugh. Then they explored the new sensation together, more and more boldly. Their hands, too, seemed to come unshackled from inhibition and roamed freely.

Order and planning were forgotten. Locke found himself having done things without any realization that he’d even started them. Their clothes were shed with reckless speed, as though torn off by ghosts. It was almost like being in a fight—the same fearful exhilaration, the same sense of time disjointed into bright, hot, all-consuming flashes. His hands on her breasts … her lips against the taut muscles of his stomach … their final scramble to arrange themselves for something that neither of them understood.

Toward that something they fought, and fought was an apt description. However passionate they were, however deep and pure the pleasure of their connection, there was something hesitant and incomplete about their lovemaking. They were like two pieces of an unfinished craftwork, not yet trimmed and polished to slide together properly. At last, they eased apart, exhausted but not content. It was obvious to Locke that Sabetha was straining to conceal disappointment, or discomfort, or even both.

Is that it? The thought came unbidden from whatever corner of his mind was responsible for unhelpful pessimism. Was that all? That was the act that turned the whole world on its ear, that made men and women crazy, that bedeviled his dreams, that made hounds of the Sanza twins?

“Look,” he muttered when he’d caught his breath. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “I, um, I’m sorry—”

Sabetha pulled him back down and held him tight, her breasts against his back. She spread her hands possessively across his chest and kissed his neck, an act that instantly disconnected him from whatever willpower he’d managed to summon.

“What are you apologizing for?” she whispered. “You think that’s it? You think we never get to try again?”

“Well, I just thought you’d—”

“What, banish you like a passing fancy?” Her kiss became a playful bite, and Locke yelped. “Preva help me, I’m sweet for an idiot.”

“Did we … did I hurt you, just now?”

“I wouldn’t say hurt, exactly.” She tightened her embrace reassuringly for an instant. “It was … strange. But it wasn’t bad.”

There was a muffled thump from one of the nearby rooms, followed by some sort of passionate outburst that quickly subsided.

“That could be us when we’ve rested a bit,” she said. “Believe me, I have every intention of practicing until we get this right.”

They lay there for a while, muttering sweet inanities, letting the minutes unroll in delectable languor. Sabetha’s hands had just begun roaming again, testing Locke’s returning ardor, when the room’s secret door slid open barely an inch. Someone moved against the dim light of the hall, and Locke’s heart pounded.

“Get dressed,” hissed Calo.

“What the hell,” said Sabetha. “This isn’t funny!”

“Damn right it’s not. It’s bad.”

“What can possibly—?”

“Don’t ask questions. If you trust me and want to live, get your bloody clothes on. We need you both, this instant.”

Locke’s relief at not seeing Boulidazi outside the little chamber was instantly squelched by the cold dead gravity of Calo’s voice. A serious Sanza was one hell of an ill omen. Locke found his clothes with the most extreme haste, and still Sabetha beat him out into the hall.

12

NO ONE else was in the hall as they emerged, though the noise of revelry continued unabated from the direction of the common room. Calo, visibly on edge, led them the short distance to Jenora’s chamber door. Locke’s sense of dread grew as Calo knocked softly in a three-two-one pattern.

It was Galdo who answered, ushered them in, and slammed the door shut behind them. The scene within the room made Locke’s knees feel as though they’d dissolved, and he found himself grabbing Sabetha to stay upright.

Jenora was huddled in a corner beside an overturned cot, wide-eyed and shuddering, her tunic torn open at the neck. Jean crouched next to her, hands on her shoulders.

Gennaro Boulidazi lay crumpled against the opposite wall, his imposing frame strangely deflated, his face pale. A pair of seamstress’ shears, their plain handles roughened and stained by Jenora’s long hours of work, was deeply embedded in a spreading red stain on the baron’s right breast.

As Locke stared in horror, Boulidazi moaned softly, shuffled his legs, and coughed more blood onto his tunic. Dull and helpless as the baron seemed, mortal as his wound had to be, for the moment he was still very much alive.

CHAPTER NINE

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: REASONABLE DOUBT

1

“WHAT LOCKE IS,” said Sabetha, “is the man about to cook my dinner.”

“Surely you both saw further than that,” said Patience.

“It’s no affair of yours.” Sabetha slipped out of Locke’s arms, dangerously tense, her air of cautious respect banished. “Locke might answer to you, but I don’t. Best think on how my principals might respond if you use your magic to keep me from dragging you out of this house.”

“Take care when throwing rules at a rule-maker, my dear,” said Patience. “Provoke me outside the bounds of the five-year game and I’m free to respond as I will. And you are quite outside the bounds of the game this evening, aren’t you? Because if you’re not, you’d be perilously close to the one thing you both agreed—”

“Shove your collusion somewhere dark and painful,” said Locke, setting his hands on Sabetha’s shoulders. “You know we weren’t talking business when you appeared. Only a snoop could have such flawless dramatic timing. Why the hell are you here?”

“A matter of conscience.”

“Really?” said Locke. “Yours? You keep alluding to its existence. Somehow I’m not convinced.”

“This interruption is entirely your own fault!” The archedama stabbed a finger in Locke’s direction. “I gave you the clearest, fairest possible warning! I told you to set aside your personal business. To get to work, not to wooing. And what have you done?”

“What have we both done?” said Sabetha. She folded her arms, but Locke could still feel that simmering tension, as familiar to him as her voice or her scent. He tightened his grip, doubting that she had his experience with physically attacking magi. She didn’t relax, but she gave his hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. “Enlighten us, Archedama. And I do mean us.”

“This reckless pursuit of your old romance,” said Patience. “Set it aside. Go back to your appointed tasks. Don’t make me carry out this obligation, Sabetha. Locke is my responsibility now, and there are things about him that you don’t understand. Things you don’t need to understand, if you would only stop here.”

“Stop what? My life?”

“I see I’m wasting breath. Remember that I made the offer, for what it’s worth.” Patience gestured casually, and the balcony doors slid shut behind her. “Locke, you see, is unique. But I’m not merely affirming his egotism. If you would continue pursuing him you have the right to know his true nature.”

“He’s no stranger to me,” said Sabetha.

“He’s a stranger to everyone.” Patience fixed her disconcertingly dark eyes on Locke. “Himself most of all.”

“Enough cryptic bullshit,” Locke growled. “Get to the meat of whatever—”

“Twenty-three years ago,” Patience interrupted him sharply, “the Black Whisper fell on Camorr. Hundreds died, but the quarantine and the canals saved the city. Once the plague burned itself out, you walked out of old Catchfire, recognized by no one. Home unknown, age unknown, parents and friends unknown.”

“Yes, I do bloody well remember that,” said Locke.

“Take it as evidence. Reflect on it.”

“Here’s something you can reflect on, you—”

“I know why you have no real memories of the time before the plague.” Again Patience parried his words with her peremptory tone. “I know why you have no recollection of your father. In fact, I know why you make up stories about how you took the name Lamora. You tell some it came from a sausage vendor. You tell others it was a kindly old sailor.”

“You … you told me it was a sailor,” said Sabetha.

“Look,” said Locke, a serpentine chill creeping up and down his spine, “look, I’ll explain, I just … Patience, how the hell can you possibly know that?”

“Not one instance of the surname Lamora has ever been recorded in a Camorri census. Not in any century since the imperial collapse. You’ll find that we had good cause to check. You brought the name with you out of Catchfire, wholly formed in your mind, though you never knew where from. I do.”

She moved toward them with that uncanny smooth glide facilitated by her elegant robe. “I know that you have only one true and immutable memory glowing dimly in that darkness before the Catchfire plague. A memory of your mother. A memory of her trade.”

“Seamstress,” muttered Locke.

“Yes,” said Patience, gesturing toward herself. “I have, after all, told you what my gray name was. The one I chose for myself, long before I was elevated to archedama—”

“Seamstress,” said Locke, “oh, no. Oh, fuck no. Fuck, no! You can’t be serious!”

2

SHE COMPOUNDED his dreadful sense of shock by laughing.

“I’m serious as cold steel,” she said with a faintly catlike grin. “You’ve made quite an amusing leap to the wrong conclusion, however. I assure you that the Falconer is my one and only child.”

“Gods,” said Locke, gasping with relief. “So what the hell are you on about?”

“I said your memory was immutable and true. But it’s nothing to do with your mother’s trade. In fact, it’s nothing to do with your mother at all. It’s me you remember.”

“And how in all the hells is that even possible?”

“There was once an extraordinarily gifted mage of my order, the youngest archedon in centuries. He earned his fifth ring when he was half my present age, and took on the office of Providence. He was my mentor, my very true friend. He was also blessed in love. His wife was Karthani, a stunning woman with a kind of beauty very rare among the Therin people. They were enchanted with one another. She died … far too young.

“It was an accident,” continued Patience, hesitantly, as though it pained her to produce each word. “A balcony collapse. I’ve told you that our arts have limitless capacity to cause harm, and scarcely any power to undo it. We can transmute; we can cleanse. Your poisoning was an alien condition that we could separate from your body. But against shattered bones and spilled blood, we’re helpless. We are ordinary. Ordinary as you.”

She glared at Locke with something like real anger.

“Yes,” she said, more slowly. “Ordinary as you are right now. The tragedy caused a terrible change in my friend. He made a grievous error of judgment.

“He became obsessed with fetching his wife back. Harsh experience teaches us that we cannot master death. Still, he fell into the trap of grief and self-regard. He convinced himself that such mastery was simply a matter of will and knowledge. Will that none had ever before mustered. Knowledge that none had ever revealed. He began to experiment with the most forbidden folly in all our arts—interference with the spirit after death. Transition of the spirit into new flesh. Do you know what a horror he would have conjured even if he’d been successful?”

“The gods would never allow such a thing,” whispered Locke, not sure he believed it but certain he wanted to. The image of Bug’s dead black sin-graven eyes flashed in his memory.

“For once I agree with you,” said Patience wryly. “But the gods are cruel. They don’t so much forbid this ambition as punish it. Life recoils from necromancy, like the inflammation of flesh from a venomous sting. The working of it produces malaise, sickness. It can’t be hidden. Eventually he was discovered, but the confrontation was badly handled. He managed to escape.”

Patience pushed her hood back. Sabetha seemed as rooted in place as Locke was, spellbound by the tale, barely breathing.

“Before his elevation to archedon, he’d used a gray name from Throne Therin. He called himself Pel Acanthus, White Amaranth. The unwithering flower of legend. It was only natural that after his madness and betrayal, we called him—”

“No,” whispered Locke. The strength went out of his legs. Sabetha wasn’t fast enough to catch him before his knees hit the floor.

“… Lamor Acanthus,” said Patience. “Black Amaranth. I see the name means something to you.”

“You can’t possibly know that name,” said Locke, his voice barely a croak. Even to his ears the denial sounded pathetic and childish. “You can’t.”

“I can,” said Patience, not gently. “Pel Acanthus was my friend, Lamor Acanthus my shame. Those names mean a great deal to me. They mean even more to you because they’re who you are.”

“What are you doing to him?” said Sabetha. Locke clung to her, shaking. His chest felt as though it was being squeezed in iron bands.

“Ending the mysteries,” said Patience, softening her tone. “Providing the answers. This man was once Lamor Acanthus of Karthain, once Archedon Providence of my order. Once a mage even more powerful than myself.”

She held up her left arm and let the robe sleeve fall away to reveal her five tattooed rings.

“I am not a gods-damned mage,” said Locke, hoarsely.

“Not anymore,” said Patience.

“You’re making this shit up!” said Locke, enunciating each word, willing them into some sort of emotional talisman. “So you know a … a name. I admit that I’m astonished. But I am … I don’t know how old I am, exactly, but I can’t be yet thirty. Thirty! This man you’re talking about would be older than you!”

“Originally,” said Patience. “And in a manner of speaking you still are.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Twenty-three years ago, an orphan with no past appeared in the aftermath of a deadly plague. Didn’t I just tell you what happens when our most forbidden art is practiced? A dreadful backlash against life itself. Sickness. The Black Whisper that came out of nowhere. Lamor Acanthus was in Camorr, hidden away in the hovels of Catchfire. That’s where you continued your studies, using the poor and the forgotten as your subjects.”

“Oh, bullshit—”

“We know,” said Patience. “There was a sorcerous event in Camorr before the plague erupted. Several members of my order were near enough to feel it. When the quarantine was lifted, our people were there in force. We sifted Catchfire house by house, until we found our answer. Magical apparatus. The papers and diaries of Lamor Acanthus, along with his body, plainly identifiable by the tattooed rings. And so we thought the matter was ended, horribly, but ultimately for the better.

“Years passed. Then came the unpleasant business involving my son. It brought you to our attention. You and Jean were carefully examined. Particularly Jean, since our possession of his red name made things so much easier. Imagine the intensity of our surprise when he told us that his closest friend, a Camorri orphan, had confessed to the secret name of Lamor Acanthus.”

“You … told Jean your true name?” said Sabetha. Locke desperately insisted to himself that he was only imagining the hurt beneath her surprise.

“I, uh, well … shit.” His wits, smashed to paste, couldn’t seem to make the heroic effort required to rouse themselves. “I always meant to tell you. I just—”

“He told Jean a true name,” said Patience. “But there’s still another, isn’t there? You’ve got gray names under gray names, Locke. Lamor Acanthus no more gives me the key to you than Locke Lamora or Leo-canto Kosta or Sebastian Lazari does. Beneath it all is another name, the one my mentor would never have shared with another mage. So I don’t know what it is … perhaps you don’t even remember it. But you and I both know it’s there.”

“I’m not what you say I am.” Locke slumped in Sabetha’s arms, despondent. “I was born in Camorr.”

“Your body was. Don’t you see? Lamor Acanthus succeeded, after a fashion. That’s why the outbreak of plague was so sudden, so virulent. You tore your own spirit from its old body. You stole a new one. A second youth, a new wealth of years to spend honing your powers. But that’s not how it worked out.… Your memories were fragmented, your personality burnt away. You locked yourself into a body that didn’t have the gift you used to put yourself there. It took more than twenty years for us to see both pieces of the puzzle, but surely you can’t deny that they fit together smoothly.”

“I can,” said Locke. “I sure as hell can deny it!”

“Why do you think I’ve confided in you?” Patience sighed with the quiet exasperation of a teacher drilling a particularly slow pupil. “Told you what I have of magic, shown you what I have of the magi? Did you think I was just being chatty? Did you really believe you were so very special? I do need you in your capacity as my exemplar for the five-year game. But I also used that to justify bringing you here, to give us more time to study you. To give myself time to make this approach.”

“This is some cruel fucking game of yours,” said Locke.

“You’re still one of us, after a fashion,” said Patience. “You have obligations to us, and we to you. One of those obligations is the truth. If the two of you hadn’t rekindled your private affair, I could have postponed this. As it stands, you both have the right to know, and I had the responsibility to tell you.” Patience gently touched one of Sabetha’s arms. “I know the reason, you see, why he’s dreamed of redheaded women all of his—”

“Stop!” Sabetha jerked away from Patience, stood up, and backed away from Locke as well. “I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear any more!”

“Don’t tell me you believe her!” said Locke.

“Coincidence piles on coincidence until the evidence becomes too strong to ignore,” said Patience.

“Stuff it,” growled Sabetha. “I don’t … I don’t know what the hell to think about this, Locke, I just—”

“You do believe it.” Shock turned in an instant to hot anger. Confused and reeling, Locke was primed to lash out at any target he could find. Before he knew what he was doing, he chose the wrong one. “All the things we’ve done, all the time we’ve spent rebuilding this … and you believe her!”

“You told me you named yourself after a sailor,” she said, unsteadily. “Did you believe that? Do you … believe it now? How can you be sure that you weren’t just filling some hole, or having it filled by someone else’s—”

“How can you even think this?” Anger flared on top of anger, hot and sharp as a knife just pulled from flame. “You left me! You manipulated me, you fucking drugged me, and I still came back. But one story from this fucking Karthani witch and you’re looking at me like I just fell out of the gods-damned sky! Wait, no, shit—”

His remorse and better judgment arrived, late as usual, like party guests riding in just after the social disaster of the season has already erupted. Sabetha’s cheeks darkened, and she opened her mouth several times, but in the end she said nothing. She turned with all the awful, decisive grace of womanly anger, threw the balcony doors open with a slam, and vanished into the darkened house.

Locke stared after her, dumbfounded, dully listening to the drumbeat rhythm of the pulse in his temples. A moment later he leapt to his feet, grabbed the silver bucket containing the chilled wine, and flung it with a snarl against the oak cooking table. Ingredients flew, glass shattered, and ice and wine alike splashed into the brazier, where they raised a soft cloud of hissing steam.

“Thanks for your evenhanded fucking presentation, Patience.” He kicked a fragment of broken glass and watched it skitter off the edge of the balcony. “Thanks for all your kind efforts on my behalf, you … you—”

“My responsibility was to tell you the truth, not wrap you in swaddling clothes.” She raised her hood again, half-veiling her face in shadow. “Nor protect you from your own badly aimed temper. Take it from someone who was courted into a happy marriage, Master Lamora. Your style of wooing couldn’t be more perfectly designed to deliver you to a solitary life.”

“Go light yourself on fire,” said Locke, suddenly regretting that he’d smashed the only bottle of liquor he’d thought to set out on the balcony.

“We’ll speak more of this later,” said Patience. “And once the election is finished, we’ll discuss arrangements for the future.”

“I don’t believe a thing you’ve said,” Locke whispered, knowing how little conviction was in his voice.

“You refused to believe that I preserved your life in Tal Verrar for reasons of conscience. Now I give you the self-interested motive you previously insisted upon, and you refuse to believe it as well. Are you really that arrogant, that logic is as optional as a fashion accessory for you? You can certainly choose to believe that we’d entrust a normal man with even the fragments of guarded truth I’ve shown you. Or you can open your eyes. Accept that we’ve given you a chance to solve the mysteries of your past. Perhaps even a chance to redeem yourself for a terrible crime. A crime whose first victim’s stolen body you will wear like a mask until the day you die.”

Locke said nothing, staring at the mess he’d made of the ingredients for the feast he’d been happily planning to cook not a quarter of an hour earlier.

“Brood all you like,” said Patience. “Sulk all night. You’ve an uncanny talent for it, haven’t you? But in the morning, we expect that you’ll be sober, and focused, and working furiously on our behalf. My more enthusiastic young peers imagine that their colorful threats to you have escaped my notice. But now I suspect you understand how little value I place on Jean Tannen for his own sake, and how … discretionary my protection of him might be. Jean’s continued safety is entirely dependent on your discipline and inspiration.”

Patience turned and slowly strolled away into the house.

“Gods save him,” she called over her shoulder.

She left Locke standing alone on the balcony, and didn’t bother closing the doors behind her.

INTERSECT (III)

SPARK

THE OLD MAN quietly withdrew the observation spell he’d woven around Archedama Patience, the most complex work of his life, and breathed a long sigh of relief. The strain of spying, and of conveying the results of that spying in thought to his contact on the other side of the city, had tested him sorely.

This can’t be true! He could feel the fury behind the thoughts that hammered him from that contact now. Archedama Foresight was powerful, and her anger came on like the pressure of a rising headache. I’ve heard NOTHING of this! Have the other three gone MAD?

Please calm down, Archedama. I’ve had a difficult evening. They’re not mad … but they have gone too far. You see now why I had to tell you.

How has this been concealed from me?

Patience claimed the right to examine the two Camorri after the Falconer’s mutilation. I never would have known what she’d discovered if I hadn’t been there in person for Jean Tannen’s interrogation. We took him in Tal Verrar, months before the Falconer’s friends were allowed to toy with them. Only Patience, Temperance, and myself have known what Tannen told us. That’s how the secret was kept.

Lamor Acanthus returned! The matter is so huge, I can scarcely begin to ponder it. This question belongs to us all! I’ll break it wide open in the Sky Chamber!

NO! The old man felt beads of sweat sliding down his cheeks and brow. The intensity of their communication was far beyond the usual light touch of mind-speech. Patience and Temperance have too much support in the chamber. Providence will take their side in any argument. You know as well as I that the Falconer’s removal leaves you short of commanding Speakers. Your followers are dedicated, but your numbers are too few to broach this matter without preparation.

If Lamor Acanthus removed his spirit into another body, even an ungifted body, then he achieved something no other mage in history ever has.

In disgrace and disaster!

Yes. All the more reason we must examine him collectively, research his processes exhaustively. The mind and power of one man were not enough to overcome the difficulties. But what could the minds and powers of a hundred magi do? Or all of us, all four hundred? That’s how this MUST be approached!

I agree with you. I owe Patience so much; do you think I’d turn on her for anything less than a truly existential question? Please heed me, Archedama. If you bring this before the Sky Chamber without preparation it will not go well. You must attack from a position of real strength. And to do that … I daresay that we must take unprecedented measures.

Surely you can’t be suggesting—

Never. No blood must be shed, at least not without provocation. But you must assert force. You must … take control of Patience and some of her supporters, for a little while. They count on the balance of power being overwhelmingly in their favor. If you demonstrate that it is otherwise, you can then introduce the question into a genuinely receptive environment. Only that can guarantee the honest discussion this situation demands.

What you suggest could still be construed as a coup.

Only a little one. The old man smiled wryly, and passed the sensation on in his thoughts. And only for a little while. Our very future is at stake. If we let the five-year game play itself out, let Patience and her supporters stay distracted, then … then with my guidance you can move instantly, decisively. The very night it ends. If we take the other arch-magi into custody, we demonstrate power. If we then release them unharmed, we demonstrate good intentions. Then, and only then, do I believe the circumstances will be right for us to confront the mess that Patience has made, and the secrets she’s unearthed.

The night of the election, then.

Yes. The night of the election.

If you really can serve as our eyes, I promise you I’ll find capable hands to do the work.

Archedama Foresight was gone from his mind without a further sentiment, as was her way. Relieved, he rubbed his hands together to calm their shaking.

It was done, then. It was as it must be, and for the good of all his kind, he reminded himself. He’d had a long and comfortable life on account of his rings. Surely if anyone could bear the strain and the burden of what was to come, it was him.

The air of the silent room suddenly seemed to chill against his skin. Coldmarrow decided that he needed a drink very, very badly.

INTERLUDE

AN INCONVENIENT PATRON

1

“JOVANNO,” SAID LOCKE. “Did you—”

“It was me,” said Jenora, hoarsely. “He tried … he tried …”

“He tried to tear her gods-damned clothes off,” said Jean, putting his arms around Jenora. “He was on the ground before I got here.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, but … he’s drunk,” said Jenora. “He put his hands on my neck. He was choking me.…”

Locke crouched warily over Boulidazi and slid the baron’s knife from its sheath. The heaving, bleeding man made no effort to stop him. Locke had seen bloody lung-cuts before, from duels at Capa Barsavi’s court. This was near-certain death, but it wouldn’t be quick. Boulidazi could have the strength to do them real harm for some time yet. So why wasn’t he fighting back now? His gaze was distant, his pupils unnaturally wide. Blood bubbled around the makeshift weapon still jutting from his chest, and this seemed to be causing him startled bemusement, not mortal panic.

“He’s not just drunk,” said Locke. “It must be whatever you gave him.”

“Shit,” said Sabetha, slumping against the door. “This is all my fault.”

“The hell are you talking about?” said Jean.

“Boulidazi’s drink,” said Calo. “We put something in it. To keep him away from … Verena and Lucaza.”

“Shit,” repeated Sabetha, and the look on her face was too much for Locke to bear.

“Here now,” he said, “half this gods-damned company has been drunk for weeks. The twins have been out of their minds on anything that comes in a bottle or a cask. When did they ever try to rape anyone?” Locke jabbed a finger at Boulidazi. “This is his fucking fault, nobody else’s!”

“He’s right,” said Calo, setting a hand on Jenora’s wrist. “You did a Camorri thing. You did the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Jenora brushed Calo off and took Jean’s hands. “I’ve hung myself. I’ve spilled noble blood.”

“It’s not murder yet,” said Galdo.

“It doesn’t matter if he lives or dies,” said Jenora. “They’ll kill me for this. They’ll kill as many of us as they can, but me for sure.”

“It was clear self-defense,” growled Jean. “We’ll get a dozen witnesses. We’ll get the whole damn company; we’ll rehearse the story perfectly—”

“And they’ll kill her,” said Sabetha. “She’s right. It won’t matter if we have a hundred witnesses, Jovanno. She’s a nightskin commoner and we’re foreign players, and now we’re all party to wiping out the last heir of an Esparan noble house. If we get caught they’ll grind us into paste and plow us into the fields.”

“As my brother pointed out,” said Galdo, “we don’t have a corpse yet.”

“Yes we do,” said Locke quietly. His hands moved with a decisive steadiness that surprised his head. He removed Boulidazi’s dirty waist sash and gagged the baron with it. The wounded man struggled for air, but still didn’t seem to grasp what was happening to him.

“Gods, what are you doing?” said Jenora.

“What’s required,” said Locke, coldly exhilarated as his oldest reflexes, his Camorri instincts, shoved aside his muddled feelings of forbearance and pity. “If he breathes a word of this to anyone we’re doomed.”

“Oh, gods,” whispered Jenora.

“I’ll be happy to do it,” said Jean.

“No,” said Locke. He’d demanded this necessity; Chains would expect him to not pass the burden. His hands trembled as he unbuckled the baron’s thin leather belt and wound it around his hands. Then the thought of Jean, Sabetha, and the Sanzas dangling from an Esparan gibbet flashed into his mind, and his hands were as steady as temple stones. He slipped the belt over Boulidazi’s neck.

“Wait!” said Sabetha. She knelt in front of Boulidazi, who must now look tragically ridiculous, Locke realized, with the shears buried in his chest, his own sash gagging him, and a slender teenager applying a belt to his windpipe. “You can’t crimp his neck.”

“Watch me,” said Locke through gritted teeth.

“A man can be stabbed for a lot of reasons,” said Sabetha. “But if he’s pricked and strangled, it won’t look accidental.”

Her movements were tender as she grasped the shears. Her eyes were pitiless as the night ocean.

“Just hold him for me,” she whispered.

Locke unwound his hands from the belt and grabbed Boulidazi by his thick upper arms. Sabetha gave Jenora’s shears a hard shove, upward and inward. Boulidazi groaned and jerked in Locke’s arms, but without real force. Even at the moment of his death, he was locked away from the reality of it.

Boulidazi slumped, his legs jerking more and more feebly until at last he was still. Sabetha settled back on her knees, exhaled unsteadily, and held out her blood-slick right hand as though unsure how to clean it. Locke loosened the baron’s sash and passed it to her, then eased Boulidazi’s dead weight to the ground. If they could handle him carefully, Locke thought they could keep most of the blood within him, or at least upon him.

Jenora put her face against one of Jean’s arms.

“Now we can make this look like anything,” said Sabetha. “Argument, crime of passion, anything. We put him somewhere plausible and build a fable. All we’ve got to do is figure out what. And, ah, do it in the next couple of—”

Someone pounded on the door to the room.

Locke fought to keep control of himself; at the first noise it had felt like his skin was attempting to leap off his body. A quick glance around the room showed that nobody else had a firm grip on their nerves, either.

“M’lord Boulidazi?” The muffled voice belonged to Brego, the baron’s bodyguard and errand-hound. “M’lord, are you in there? Is all well?”

Locke stared at the door, which Sabetha had moved away from in order to finish off Boulidazi. Calo and Galdo were the closest to it, but even they were three or four paces away. The door was not bolted; if Brego decided to open it, even a crack, he’d be looking directly at Boulidazi’s corpse.

2

SABETHA MOVED like an arrow leaving a bowstring, and the very first thing she did was tear her tunic off.

Locke’s jaw hadn’t finished dropping before Sabetha was at the door, landing ghost-light on her bare feet.

“Oh, Brego,” she said, panting. “Oh, just a moment!”

She gestured at Boulidazi’s corpse. Calo and Galdo sprang forward to help Locke, and in seconds they managed to push the baron’s body under the bed. Jean slid a blanket partly over the room’s alchemical lamp, dimming it. A moment later Calo, Galdo, and Locke squeezed up against the wall just behind Sabetha, out of the visual arc of the door, provided it wasn’t opened all the way.

Sabetha tousled her hair with one precise head-toss, then cracked the door open to give Brego an unexpectedly fine view of a preoccupied young woman. Her tunic was pressed to her chest with one hand to cover an artful minimum of bosom.

“Why, Brego,” she said, mimicking perfect breathlessness, “you dutiful fellow, you!”

“Why, Mistress Verena, I … my lord, is he—”

“He’s busy, Brego.” She giggled. “He’s very busy and will be that way for some time. You can wait downstairs, I think. He’s in the best possible hands.”

She didn’t give him time to say anything else, but with a lascivious little wave she slid the door shut and bolted it.

A few agonizing seconds passed, and then Locke could hear Brego’s boot-steps as he moved away down the corridor. Sabetha threw her tunic back on, sank down against the door, and sighed with relief.

“We’re all gonna have gray fuckin’ hair by the time the sun comes up,” said Galdo. He and Calo had both been holding daggers at the ready; now they hid the slender bits of blackened steel again. The air in the room suddenly seemed dense with the smells of blood and nervous sweat.

“Can we get the hell out of here now?” said Jenora.

“Where do you want to go?” said Jean.

“Camorr!” she whispered. “For the gods’ sakes, I know you can do … something! I know you’re not really just actors.”

“Calm down, Jenora.” Locke stared at one of Boulidazi’s boots, sticking out incongruously from beneath the bed. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous. How would people not notice you sneaking off hours before we’re supposed to deliver the play? How could we keep you hidden on the road?”

“A ship, then.”

“If you run,” said Sabetha, “you’ll tear a hole in whatever story we invent to explain what’s happened. And you’ll leave your aunt to take all the trouble! If we can’t make the tale neat and obvious, the countess’ people will be right back to rounding up scapegoats.”

“Even if you manage to make it neat and obvious,” said Jenora, “we’re all crushed. We’re liable, remember? To the ditch-tenders, the confectioners, the alemongers, the cushion-renters. Without the play, we’ll be so far in default to all of ’em we might as well go turn ourselves in at the Weeping Tower now.”

“What about acts of the gods?” said Calo. “Surely you wouldn’t be liable if a hurricane blew in. Or the Old Pearl collapsed.”

“Of course not,” said Jenora. “But whatever powers you have, I doubt they extend that far.”

“Not that far, no,” said Calo. “But the stage is made of wood.”

“A fire! Nice one!” said Galdo. “The two of us could handle it. In, out, like shadows. Wouldn’t take two hours.”

“The stage timbers are alchemically petrified,” said Jenora. “They won’t just catch fire. You’d need a dozen cartloads of wood, like engineering a bloody siege.”

“So we can’t destroy the Pearl,” said Sabetha.

“And we can’t run,” said Jean. “It’d invite all kinds of trouble, and it’s not likely any of us would make it home.”

“And if we stay but don’t do the play, we all get thrown into chains for debt,” said Locke. “Debt at the very least.”

“So there’s only one sensible course of action,” said Sabetha.

“Grow wings?” said Calo.

“We have to pretend everything’s normal.” Sabetha counted off items using her fingers as she spoke. “We have to get Brego out of the damned building so we can have some room to move. We have to do the play—”

“You’re cracked!” said Jenora.

“… and once we’ve done it, then we let the world in on the fact that Boulidazi’s dead, in circumstances that don’t incriminate anyone we care about.”

“What are we going to do with the son-of-a-bitch’s corpse?” Galdo kicked the nearest boot for emphasis. “You know what it’ll smell like if we treat it as a keepsake until tomorrow night.”

“And it’s gonna be ass-ugly,” said Calo. “Any dullard will see the wound’s not fresh.”

“That’s where fire comes in,” said Locke. “We can burn him! Cook him until nobody can tell whether he died an hour or a week ago.”

“How can we control it?” said Jean. “If we burn him beyond recognition …”

“No worries.” Locke held up the knife he’d taken from Boulidazi, the same one the baron had set against his cheek. Its blade was all business, but the hilt was set with black garnets and a delicate white iron cloisonné. “This and all his other baubles will make his identity very plain.”

“Where are we hiding it … I mean, him?” said Jenora.

“No, you mean it,” said Jean, smiling grimly.

“For the smell … I suppose I have pomanders and some rose dust we can douse the body with.” Jenora was still far from settled, but her resolve seemed to be strengthening. “That should help it keep. For a day, at least.”

“Good thought,” said Calo. “As for where, I suppose it’s too easy just to keep him shoved under this bed?”

“Out of the gods-damned question!”

“We could have Sylvanus sit on it all night,” said Locke. “He wouldn’t notice a damn thing until he’d sobered up again. Alas, everyone else would. Let’s hide him with the props and costumes.”

“Let’s hide him as a prop,” said Sabetha. “We’ve got a play full of corpses. Cover him in something suitable, throw a mask on him, and as far as anyone knows, he’s just scenery! That way we can keep him with us—”

“… and not have to worry about anyone finding him while we’re away at the Pearl!” said Locke. “Yeah. That leaves one last problem.… He’s got a pile of gentlemen and retainers expecting to share his company at the play.”

“Hate to add turds to the shit-feast,” said Calo, “but that’s not the last problem. What do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?”

“Why do we tell the rest of the troupe about this?” said Jenora.

“I’m not best pleased to say it, but we’ve got to bring them in,” said Sabetha. “They’ll be everywhere, in and amongst the props and costumes. If we don’t have their cooperation, we’re sunk.”

“How do we make them cooperate?” said Jean.

“Make them complicit,” said Sabetha. “Make sure they understand it’s their necks in the noose as well, because it is.”

“Singua solus,” said Galdo.

“Just the thing.” Sabetha put one ear against the door and listened carefully for a moment. “Singua solus.”

“What’s that?” said Jenora.

“It’s an old Camorri tradition for when a bunch of people are planning something stupid,” said Locke. “Actually, we have a lot of traditions for that. You’ll find out.”

“Giacomo, Castellano,” said Sabetha, “how drunk are you?”

“Nowhere near drunk enough,” said Calo.

“We’ve been in here long enough,” said Sabetha, “so you two get down to the common room and round up all the company members. Slap their drinks out of their hands if you have to. Get them off to bed. We need them as right and rested as possible when we spring this surprise on them.”

“Take drinks away from Jasmer and Sylvanus,” sighed Galdo. “Right. And while we’re at it, we’ll run off to Karthain and learn sorcery from the—”

“Get,” said Sabetha. “I’ll peek outside first in case Brego’s still lurking.”

It was another ominous sign of the depths of the waters they were swimming in that neither of the Sanzas had any further quips or complaints. Sabetha eased the door open, scanned the hallway, and nodded. The twins slipped out in a flash.

“Jenora,” said Sabetha, “in the company’s papers, do you have anything signed by Boulidazi? Anything he scrawled on?”

“Why, yes … yes.” She pointed at a leather portfolio in a far corner. “All the papers assigning his shares in the company, and some notes of instruction. He is … was literate. He liked to make a show of it.”

“I know.” Sabetha snatched up the portfolio and tossed it onto the bed next to Jean and Jenora. “Sift through it and get those papers for me. I don’t have much time to practice, but I should be able to scribble something close to his hand. He’s supposed to be drunk anyway. And … exhausted.”

“It seems the dead can speak,” said Locke, embarrassed he hadn’t thought of forging notes from the baron himself.

“Well enough to get rid of Brego,” said Sabetha. “And modify the baron’s instructions to his household so they don’t expect him until long after the play tomorrow night. Now, Jenora—are your pomanders with the other props?”

“Yes.”

“Thank the gods for small favors. All we have to do, then, is move him once and get him perfumed, and we should be safe enough until we assemble the company tomorrow.”

Locke nodded. It was three doors down to the room where the good props were being kept. Assuming Jean helped, they could heave even a sack of muscle like Boulidazi that far in seconds. But what a crucial few seconds! Locke took up a tattered blanket from the bed to use as a shroud.

Jean seemed to follow his thoughts. He hugged Jenora, and whispered something in her ear.

“No,” she said. “No, I’ll not be made a child on account of that … that fucking pig. Let me help you.” With Jean’s aid, she stumbled shakily to her feet and made an effort to straighten her torn tunic.

A few moments later they made the move. Jenora led the way, with Locke and Jean hauling the shrouded corpse, and Sabetha covering the rear, light-footed and wide-eyed. The sounds of shouting and carousing echoed from the common room. Jean bore Boulidazi’s weight with ease, but Locke was straining and red-faced by the time Jenora swung the prop-room door open for them.

Another instant and it was done. Locke tore the blanket from the corpse and wadded it up before it could soak up too much blood. Boulidazi lay there with the strange limpness of the freshly dead, like a sand-filled mannequin with a dumbstruck expression on its face.

“One of us has to stay,” said Locke, reluctantly. “This is too dangerous to leave lying around unguarded. One of us has to bar the door and spend the night.”

“Look,” said Jean, “I would, but—”

“I understand.” Locke stifled a groan as he realized there was only one candidate for the job he proposed. “You should be with Jenora. Get out of here, both of you.”

Jean squeezed his shoulder. Jenora, carefully avoiding even brushing against the baron’s corpse, reached past Locke and drew a battered alchemical globe out of a pile of cloth scraps. She shook it to kindle a dim light, then handed it to him. In a moment she and Jean were gone.

“Thank you,” whispered Sabetha. The sympathy and admiration in her eyes were too much for Locke to bear. He turned away and scowled at Boulidazi’s corpse, then found himself unable to resist as Sabetha drew him back for a brief, tight embrace. She touched her lips to his for the length of a heartbeat.

“I’ve got notes to write,” she said, “but you haven’t escaped. This is just a postponement. We’ll have another chance. Another another chance.”

He wanted to say something clever and reassuring, but he felt distinctly wrung dry of wit, and managed only a forlorn wave before she slid the door quietly shut. Locke bolted it with a sigh.

Finding Jenora’s supply of rose dust and pomanders took only a few moments, as most of the costumes and junk in the room had been organized for easy packing. Locke gagged and stifled a sneeze as he shook a few puffs of sweet-scented alchemical powder onto the baron’s body.

“Pleased with yourself now, shitbag?” Locke whispered. His anger grew, and with a snarl he kicked Boulidazi’s corpse, raising another faint puff of rose dust. “Even dead you’re still fucking with my intimate affairs!”

Locke put his back to a wall and slowly sank down, feeling the strength ebb from his legs along with his fury. What a place to spend a night! A dozen phantasma masks stared down at him from the walls. A dozen imaginary dead forming a court for one very real corpse.

Locke closed his eyes and tried to blot the image of the death-masks from his mind. Under the cloying odor of roses, he could still make out the faintest scent of Sabetha, clinging to his lips, hair, and skin.

Groaning, he settled in for the worst night of so-called rest he’d had in years.

3

“WHAT IN all the shit-heaped hells have you yanked us out of bed for, Camorri?”

Jasmer Moncraine looked rather trampled at the tenth hour of the following morning. Sylvanus was only a certain percentage of a human being, Donker seemed to be silently praying for death, and Bert and Chantal were using one another as buttresses. Only Alondo, of all the night’s ardent revelers, seemed to be mostly intact.

The company was gathered in Mistress Gloriano’s largest room. The Gentlemen Bastards had spent the better part of an hour chasing wastrels, prostitutes, parasites, and curiosity-seekers out of the inn. The company’s bit players had been given stern instructions to gather at the Pearl itself. With a barred door and a nearly empty building, their privacy for the next few minutes was as certain as it could be.

“Our lord and patron has done something we need to discuss,” said Sabetha. She and the other Camorri, along with Jenora, formed a wall between everyone else and the room’s table. On that table rested a shrouded and scented object.

“What’s he done, commanded us to pour rose dust down our tunics? Gods’ privates, that’s some reek,” said Moncraine.

“What we have to show you,” said Jenora, her voice quavering, “is the most important thing in the world.”

“On your honor,” said Locke, “on your promises to one another, on your souls, you must swear not to scream or shout. I’m deadly serious. Your lives are at stake.”

“Save the drama for the stage, and for after noon,” yawned Chantal. “What’s this about?”

Locke swallowed the dry air of his suddenly spitless mouth and nodded. The human wall in front of the shrouded corpse broke up; Jean and the Sanzas pushed through the company and took up a new guard position at the door. When they were in place, Locke uncovered the baron’s body in one smooth motion.

There was dead, ghastly silence, an all-devouring vacuum of dread. Moncraine’s face did things that Locke would have sworn were beyond the powers of even a veteran actor.

Donker stumbled into a far corner of the room, braced himself against the wall, and threw up.

“What have you done?” whispered Moncraine. “My gods, gods of my mother, you’ve fucking killed us. You fucking little Camorri murderers—”

“It was an accident,” said Jenora, wringing her hands together so hard that Locke could hear her knuckles cracking.

“An accident? What, what, he … stabbed himself in the gods-damned heart?”

“He was drunk,” said Sabetha. “He tried to rape Jenora, and she defended herself.”

“You defended yourself?” Moncraine peered slack-jawed at Jenora, as though she’d just then appeared out of thin air. “You witless cunt, you’ve done for us all. You should have enjoyed it as best you could and let him stumble on his way!”

Sabetha glared, Chantal blinked as though she’d been slapped, and Jenora took an angry step forward. Curiously enough, the fist that slammed into Moncraine’s jaw half a second later belonged to Sylvanus.

“You forget yourself,” the old man barked. “You who might have killed the useless boor weeks ago, if you’d had anything but empty air in your hands! You faithless fucking peacock!”

Sylvanus moved past Jasmer, who was holding a hand to his jaw and staring wide-eyed at the old man. Sylvanus gathered spit with a phlegmy rumbling noise, then spat a pinkish gob on the dead baron’s breast.

“So it’s our death lying here before us,” he said. “So what? There’s few advantages to being a friend of Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, but at least there’s this. If you say you had to do it, Jenora, I believe you. If you killed the miserable shit to keep your honor, I’m proud of you for it.”

Jenora seized the old man in a hug. Sylvanus sighed reflectively and patted her on the back.

“Jenora,” said Moncraine. “I’m … I’m sorry. Andrassus is right. I did forget myself. Gods know I’ve got no business talking about restraint in the face of … provocation. But now we’ve got to scatter. We’ve got two or three hours, at best. There’s hundreds of people expecting us to be at the Pearl by midafternoon.”

“I can’t run,” gasped Donker, rising from his misery and wiping his mouth on a tunic sleeve. “I can’t leave Espara! This is madness! I’m not even … let’s explain ourselves, let’s say it was all an accident, they’ll understand!”

Locke took a deep, steadying breath. Donker was the one he’d been afraid of; with him it all came down to how much he truly cherished his cousin.

“They won’t understand a damned thing,” growled Bert. “They’ve got a heap of foreigners, players, and nightskins to punish at will.”

“Djunkhar, Bert’s right. They don’t have to care if anyone’s innocent,” said Locke. “So nobody’s running or confessing. We have a plan, and you’re all going to swear an oath by it if you want to be free and alive at the end of the day.”

“Not me. I’m leaving,” said Jasmer. “Dressed as a priest, dressed as a horse, dressed as the fucking countess if I must. There’s ways out of the city that aren’t past guarded gates, and unless your plan involves a Bondsmage, I’m for them—”

“Then we’ll have two corpses to lie about instead of one,” said Sabetha.

Calo and Galdo reached into their tunic sleeves, taking care to be as obvious as possible.

“You puppies do love to give the fucking orders,” said Moncraine. “This is madness and fantasy! We don’t play games with this corpse. We run from it as fast as we still can!”

“You bloody coward, Jasmer,” said Jenora. “Give them a chance! Who pried you out of gaol?”

“The gods,” said Jasmer. “They’re all perverts and I seem to be their present amusement.”

“Enough! This is singua solus now,” said Locke. “It means ‘one fate.’ Does everyone understand?”

Moncraine only glared. Chantal, Bert, and Sylvanus nodded. Donker shook his head, and Alondo spoke: “I, uh, have to confess I don’t.”

“It works like this,” said Locke. “Everyone here is now party to murder and treason. Congratulations! There’s no backing gently out of it. So we go straight on through this business with our heads held high, or we hang. We swear ourselves to the plan, we tell the exact same lies, and we take the truth to our graves.”

“And if anyone reneges,” said Sylvanus, slowly and grimly, “should anyone think to confess after all, and trade the rest of us for some advantage, we swear to vengeance. The rest of us vow to get them, whatever it takes.”

“Mercy of the Twelve,” sobbed Donker, “I just wanted to have some fun onstage, just once.”

“Fun must be paid for, Cousin.” Alondo took him by the shoulders and steadied him. “It seems the price has gone up for us. Let’s show the gods we’ve got some nerve, eh?”

“How can you be so calm?”

“I’m not. I’m too scared to piss straight,” said Alondo. “But if the Camorri have a plan it’s far more than I’ve got, and I’ll cling to it.”

“The plan is simple,” said Sabetha, “though it’ll take some nerve. The first thing you need to realize is that we’re still doing the play tonight.”

Their reactions were as Locke expected: panic, shouting, blasphemy, and threats, more panic.

“THIRTEEN GODS,” shouted Calo, silencing the tumult. “There’s one way out and no way back. If we don’t go onstage like nothing’s wrong, we can’t escape. You’re in our hands now, and we’re your only chance!”

“We piss excellence and shit happy endings,” said Galdo. “Trust us and live. Listen to Lucaza again.”

Locke spoke quickly now, succinctly, and was viciously dismissive to questions and complaints. He outlined the plan in every detail, just as they’d conjured it the night before, with a few twists he’d thought up during his long vigil. When he was finished, everyone except Sylvanus looked as though they’d aged five years.

“This is even worse than before!” said Donker.

“Unfortunately, you can see that you’re indispensable,” said Locke. “You might have signed on to get killed onstage, but you’ll get killed for real if you don’t play along.”

“What … what the hell do we do with the body?” said Chantal.

“We burn it,” said Sabetha. “Make it look like an accident. We have a plan, for after the play. We roast him just enough to hide the real cause of death, but not enough to prevent identification.”

“And the money?” said Jasmer, his voice dry and tense. “We won’t get a second show with a dead patron. Even if we’re absolved from paying damages to all the vendors, we’re in the hole. Deep.”

“That’s my last bit of good news,” said Locke. “We have copies of the baron’s signatures, plus his signet ring. We collect all the money from the first show; then we come back here. We have you, Jasmer, sign a false receipt from the baron for everything he’s owed, just as if he’d taken it first, as was his right. Verena will forge his signature. Then he dies in a fire, the money goes quietly into our pockets, and we act like we have no idea what the hell Boulidazi did with it before he died.”

“We collect the money?” said Moncraine.

“Of course,” said Locke. “We figured Jenora could take charge of it—”

“We can’t collect the money,” said Moncraine. “It’s one of the things Boulidazi and I were arguing about last night before he got too drunk to think! He’s got someone coming in on his orders to handle all the coin!”

“What?” said Locke and Sabetha in unison.

“Just what I said, you fucking know-it-all infants. Boulidazi might be coffin meat, but he’s got a hireling already assigned to collect the money for him. None of us here will be allowed to touch a copper of it!”

CHAPTER TEN

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: FINAL APPROACHES

1

“YOU’RE AS WELCOME as a scorpion in a nursery,” said Vordratha, meeting Locke with a glare and a wall of well-dressed toughs at his back. As was becoming routine, Locke had been halted before making it halfway across the entry hall of the Sign of the Black Iris.

“I need to see her,” panted Locke. His flight across the city had not been dignified or subtle; he’d stolen a horse to make it possible, and bluecoats were probably scouring the Vel Verda as he spoke.

“Why, you’re the very last person in Karthain who’d be allowed to do so.” Vordratha’s smirk split his lean face like a sword wound. “Her orders were explicit and vehement.”

“Look, I know our last encounter was—”

“Unpleasant.” Vordratha gestured. Before Locke could turn to run, the Black Iris guards had him pinioned.

“Remember, Master Vordratha, that you’d as good as confessed your intentions to have us beaten and left in an alley,” said Locke. “So if our conversational options were narrowed you’ve only yourself to blame!”

“The mistress of the house specifically desires not to see you.” Vordratha leaned in close; his breath was like a hint of old spilled wine. “And while I am charged not to harm you, I’d argue that I’m not responsible for anything that happens between your leaving my custody and hitting the pavement.”

Vordratha’s guards pushed Locke outside and heaved him in an impressive arc that terminated in a bone-jarring impact with the cobblestones. His feelings warred bitterly over his next move, pride and desire against prudence and street-reflexes, the latter winning out only when he realized how perilously close he was to carriage traffic and how many witnesses were on hand to see him get crushed by it. Groaning, he crawled back to the curb.

His stolen horse was gone, and the Black Iris stable boys leered at him knowingly. It was a long, painful walk to a neighborhood where a coach would deign to pick him up.

2

“… AND THAT’S the whole gods-damned mess,” said Locke, his fingers knotted around a glass that had once contained a throat-scorching quantity of brandy. “I found a ride, came straight back, and here we are.”

It was past midnight. Locke had returned, sequestered Jean in their suite, and with the help of large plates of food and a bottle of Josten’s most expensive distilled spirits he’d unrolled the whole tale.

“Do you really need me to tell you that the bitch was lying?” said Jean.

“I know she was lying,” said Locke. “There have to be lies mixed in somewhere. It’s the parts that might be true that concern me.”

“Why not assume it was ALL lies?” Jean ran his fingers rapidly over his temples, attempting to massage away the dull pain still radiating from his plastered nose. “Bow-to-stern bullshit! Gods damn it, this is what you and I do to people. We talk them into corners where they can’t tell truth from nonsense.”

“She knows my name. My actual name. The one I—”

“Yes,” said Jean. “And I know who told her.”

“But I only ever—”

“That’s right.” Disgust burned like bile at the back of Jean’s throat, and he tapped his own chest with both hands. “They said they opened me like a book in Tal Verrar and took everything they wanted. Therefore, I must have given them that name. Think! The rest of Patience’s story was most likely built around it.”

“That leaves the question of the third name.”

“The one Patience claims is deeper than the one you gave me? Is it even there?”

Locke rubbed his shadow-cupped eyes. “I don’t … I don’t know. It’s not a name at all. Just a feeling, maybe.”

“About what I expected,” said Jean. “Do you really remember ever having that feeling, before tonight? It strikes me as a ready-made bluff. I have all manner of strange unsorted feelings in my heart and head; we all must. She didn’t give you half a particle of telling evidence! All she did was plant a doubt that you could gnaw on forever, if you let yourself.”

“If I let myself.” Locke tossed his glass aside. “All my life I’ve wondered where the hell I came from. Now I’ve got possibilities like an arrow to the gut, and I absolutely do not have time to fuss over them.”

“Possibilities,” sighed Jean. “In faith, now, even if they were true answers, would you really want this particular bunch? I realize it’s easy for me to say … knowing when and where I was born—”

“I know where I’m from,” said Locke. “I’m from Camorr. I’m from Camorr! Even if everything she said was true, that’s all I give a barrel of dry rat shit about. That and Sabetha.” Locke stood, the lines of his face grimly set. “That, and Sabetha, and beating the hell out of her in this idiotic election. Now—”

Someone knocked at the door, loudly and urgently.

3

LOCKE WATCHED as Jean unbolted it with customary caution. There stood Nikoros, unshaven, his eyes like fried eggs and hair looking as though it had been caught in the spokes of a wagon wheel. He held a piece of parchment in a shaking hand.

“This just came in,” he muttered. “Specifically for Master Lazari, from a Black Iris courier at the AHHHHHHH—”

This exclamation erupted out of him as Locke darted forward and seized the letter. He snapped it open, noting the quick familiar strokes of Sabetha’s script:

I wish I could write your name above and sign my own below, but we both know what a poor idea that would be.

I know my refusal to see you must have been painful, and for that I apologize, but I believe I was only right. My heart is sick with this strangeness and these puzzles. I can barely tame words to make whole thoughts and I suspect you could hardly be accused of being at your best, either. I don’t know what I would do were you in arm’s reach; what I might ask, what I might demand for comfort’s sake. The only certainty is that the terms of our employment are not relaxed, and we are both in the severest danger if we tread carelessly. Were we together, at this moment, I don’t imagine we could possibly tread otherwise.

I don’t understand what happened this evening. I know only that it scares me. It scares me that your handler, for any reason, has taken such an interest in telling us so much. It scares me that there are things in motion around you that would appear to tie us both to such secrets and obligations.

It scares me that there may be something still hidden even from yourself, some elemental part of you that might yet tumble like a broken wall, and I am haunted by the thought that when next I find you looking at me it might not be with the eyes I remember, but with those of a stranger.

Forgive me. I know that you would be made as anxious by my silence as by my honesty, and so I have chosen honesty.

I have let feelings I once thought buried come back with real power over me, and now I find myself in desperate need of detachment and clear thoughts. Please don’t try to return to the Sign of the Black Iris in person. Please don’t come looking for me. I need you to be my opponent now more than I need you to be my lover or even my friend. In this I speak for us both.

“Ah, damn everything,” Locke muttered, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “Gods damn everything.” He collapsed back into his chair, brows knit, and let his gaze wander aimlessly over the wall. The most awkward sort of silence settled over the room, until Jean cleared his throat.

“Well, ah, Nikoros. You look like you’ve been thrashed by devils,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Business, sir, business. So much of it. And I … I … forgive me, I’m going without … the substance we’ve discussed.”

“You’re weaning yourself from that wretched dust.” Jean clapped Nikoros by the shoulders, a gesture that made the smaller man wobble like aspic. “Good! You were murdering yourself, you know.”

“The way my head feels, I half wish I’d succeeded,” said Nikoros.

Locke’s curiosity drew him back to the present, and he studied Nikoros. The Karthani was on the come-down from black alchemy for sure; Locke had seen it a hundred times. The misery would shake Nikoros for days like a cat playing with a toy. It might be wise to cut the poor fellow’s duties … or even to chain him to a wall.

Hells, Locke thought, if I get any more twisted out of my own skin they might have to shackle me next to him.

“Lazari,” said Jean, “now, if that letter’s what I think it is … Is it, shall we say, a finality? Or just an interruption?”

“It’s a knife to the guts,” said Locke. “But I suppose … well, I suppose I can view it as more an interruption.”

“Good,” said Jean. “Good!”

“I suppose,” muttered Locke. Then, feeling an old familiar heat stirring in his breast: “Yes, I really do suppose! By the gods, I need noise and mischief. I need fuss and fuckery until I can’t see straight! Nikoros! What have you been doing all night?”

“Uh, well, I just came back from surveying the big mess,” said Nikoros. “Big and getting worse. Not just for us, I mean. For the whole city.”

“I’m losing my ability to tell one mess from another around here,” said Locke.

“Oh! I mean at the north gate, sirs, and the Court of Dust. All the refugees out of the north.”

“Oh. OH! Gods, the bloody war,” said Locke. “I’d half forgotten. What kind of refugees?”

“At this point, the sort with money, mostly. The ones that fled before the fighting gets anywhere near. And their guards, servants, and the like. All stacking up at inns until they can plead for residence—”

“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.”

4

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!”

5

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.”

Jean and Allaine exchanged the quickest possible courtesies; then she continued:

“Master Via Lupa sent us out an hour before sunrise, five of us on horseback, north from the Court of Dust. We were supposed to spot Vadran swells on the road. Introduce ourselves, make our offers, get them in the bag for the Deep Roots before they even hit the city.” She pulled her leather gloves off and slapped them against her leg. “We planned to be out until midafternoon, but just after sunup we were overridden by bluecoats, lots of them, not sparing their horses.

“They said they had an emergency directive from the Commission for Public Order. No Karthani citizens allowed more than a hundred yards north on the road, because of ‘unsettled conditions.’ They said we could either ride back under escort or walk back under arrest. So that’s it, and here I am again.”

“Are you sure they were real constables?” said Jean.

“No foolery there,” said Allaine. “They had the papers from the Commission, and I recognized a few of them.”

“You did well,” said Jean. “If you’d tried to argue you’d probably be trudging back home under guard right now. You and your fellows get some breakfast, and leave this with us.” Jean watched her depart, then turned to Nikoros. “The Commission for Public Order?”

“A trio of Konseil members. Chosen by majority vote of the larger body. A sort of committee to run the constabulary.”

“Shit. I suppose it’d be silly of me to ask what party those three belong to.”

“It would,” said Nikoros. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We’ll just have to continue our diplomatic efforts within the city gates,” said Jean. “No worries. I’ll send Allaine and her crew out to join that party once they’ve eaten. As for you: bed. Don’t say anything, just go to your chambers and go to bed, or I’ll throw you off this balcony. You and Master Lazari both need it. I can call the tune for this dance for a few hours.”

After Nikoros crept gratefully off to his rest, Jean sifted the papers he’d left, noting new developments as well as familiar problems. He wrote orders of his own, passed them to couriers, received routine inquiries, and drank several different varieties of coffee, all freshly boiled and scalding, while the pale fingers of autumn light from the windows swung across the room.

Just after noon, the front doors banged open. Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson Epitalus swept through the crowd and up the stairs, trailed by an unusually large bevy of attendants. Jean set down his coffee and paperwork, then rose to greet them.

“You!” hissed Dexa as she crested the last step, striding forcefully toward Jean. “You and Lazari have rashly placed us in a position of the most profound and untenable embarrassment!”

Jean squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and spread his hands disarmingly.

“I can see we have a misunderstanding in progress,” he said. “Well, I’m here to instruct and condole. Everyone who isn’t a member of the Konseil is dismissed.”

Some of the attendants looked uncertain, but Jean took a step forward, smiling, and shooed them off, as though dealing with children. In a moment he and the two Konseillors were alone on the private balcony, and Jean’s smile vanished.

“You will never again address me in that fashion,” he said, his voice low and even but not even remotely polite.

“On the contrary,” said Dexa, “I intend to take your skin off by means of verbal vitriol. Now—”

“Damned Superstition Dexa,” said Jean, stepping in to loom over her without subtlety, “you will lower your voice. You will not create a scene. You will not confuse and demoralize the party members below. You will not allow our opponents the satisfaction of hearing about any disarray or dissension here!”

She glared at him, but then, through the force of argument or sorcerous conditioning or both, she caught hold of her temper and nodded, grudgingly.

“Now,” said Jean. “I will listen to anything, even the most vicious chastisement, so long as it is delivered quietly and we preserve our outward show of amity.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re entirely correct. But you and Lazari have loaded our credibility on a barge and sunk it in the lake with this business of collecting strays!”

“Wealthy, well-connected strays,” said Jean. “All of whom will be grateful for their places here, and will show their gratitude by voting—”

“That’s just it,” interrupted Firstson Epitalus, “they won’t. Show it to him, Dexa.”

“We were summoned to an emergency meeting of the Konseil just over an hour ago,” said Dexa, taking several folded sheets of paper out of her jacket and passing them to Jean. “The Black Iris convened it and barely managed to scrape the letter of the law in sending out notices. They pushed an emergency directive through by simple majority vote.”

“In light of unforeseen developments,” muttered Jean out loud as he read the tightly scripted legal pronouncements, “and the influx of desperate and diverse refugees … steps necessary to secure the sanctity of the Karthani electoral process … urgently and immediately bar all such refugees from enfranchisement as voting citizens … period of three years! Oh, those cheeky sacks of donkey shit!”

“Quite,” said Dexa. “Now, proceed to the fine details.”

“All constables empowered …” Jean read, skimming irrelevancies and flourishes, “… therefore this directive shall be considered in effect … noon! Noon today! A few damn minutes ago.”

“Yes,” said Epitalus. “Seems it wasn’t quite such an urgent and immediate need that they didn’t want to be sure all of their own Vadran newcomers were registered first.”

“Hells,” said Jean. “I only sent off about half a dozen of ours. We thought we’d have all day! How many new voters did they buy?”

“Our sources say forty,” said Dexa. “So for all your galloping about in the middle of the night, you’ve earned us six votes and the opposition forty, and now we have six dozen of our cousins from the north to store like useless clothes! How do you propose we get rid of them?”

“I don’t.”

“But that’s simply—”

“We made promises to aid and shelter them in the name of the Deep Roots party,” said Jean. “Do you know what happens when that sort of promise goes unkept? How willing do you think Karthani voters will be to put their trust in us if we’re seen kicking respectable refugees back out into the cold before the eyes of the whole city?”

“Point taken,” sighed Dexa.

“If we can’t use them as voters,” said Jean, “we can still take their money in exchange for our help. And we can use them to grow sympathy. We’ll circulate some exaggerations about these people being chased out of their homes. Families murdered, houses burned, inheritances usurped—all that sort of thing. We’re good with stories, Lazari and me.”

“Oh yes, quite,” said Dexa, all the fight leaving her voice at last. “I wager you must know best, after all.”

Jean frowned. This sort of sudden lassitude had to be some sort of friction between Dexa’s conditioning and her natural inclinations. Now it was time to put her and Epitalus back together.

“You wouldn’t have hired us if you hadn’t wanted the best in a very unusual business,” said Jean. “Now, if you’ve got no further plans for the moment, I could use your advice on some of these situations around the city.…”

Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working façade seemed plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid having his wits plastered over.

Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced unself-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of coffee.

“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest things just now.”

Jean passed him the papers from Dexa and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:

These two were upset. Fixed now. Used argument and drink. More of latter.

“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that to me. I’ve got to hit back.”

He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors to lean in closer to him.

“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond the feathers in their own nest?”

“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.

“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial or otherwise.”

“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”

“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”

“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods know where that came from. He’s got no real politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil seat often attracts.”

“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest I go about it?”

“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates. Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the Lady Emerald. If one of Nikoros’ contacts carried him a sealed letter on some boring point of nautical business, you’d have his attention and you wouldn’t need to fly Deep Roots colors anywhere near him.”

“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his empty mug. “I have my next mission.”

6

THREE DAYS later, a lean and scruffy man in a paint-spattered tunic emerged from the misty greenways of the Mara Karthani, where hanging lanterns swayed in the rain and Therin Throne statues in crumbling alcoves gave themselves up slowly to the elements.

Abutting the centuries-old park on its eastern side was the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris, Black Iris Konseil representative for the Bursadi District. The scruffy man knocked at the tradesfolk entrance and was let in by a dark-skinned hillock of a woman, gray-haired but dangerously light on her feet. The scuffed witchwood baton swinging from the woman’s belt looked as though it had met some skulls in its time.

She led the newcomer, still dripping wet, through the richly furnished passages of the house to a small, high-ceilinged chamber where warm yellow light fell like a benediction. This illumination had nothing to do with the natural sky, of course—it was an arc of alchemical lamps above stained glass engraved with common symbols of the Twelve.

The woman shoved the lean man up against one wall of the chamber, and for an instant he feared treachery. Then her strong, capable hands were sliding down his sides in a familiar fashion. Her search for weapons was thorough, but she was obviously unacquainted with the old Camorri trick of the hiltless stiletto dangled at the small of the back from a necklace chain.

Locke had no illusions of kicking down doors and leaving a swath of dead foes in his wake if complications arose, but even a nail-scraping of an arsenal was a reassuring thing to have on hand.

“He’s not armed,” said the woman, smiling for the first time. “Nor any threat if he were.”

A middle-aged Therin man with pale hair and a seamy pink face entered the room. He and the woman traded places as smoothly as stage actors, and she eased the door shut on her way out.

“You can remove that nonsense on your head,” said the man. “At least, I presume it’s nonsense, if you’re who you ought to be.”

Locke pulled off his sopping wig of black curls and his ornamental optics, thick as the bottoms of alchemists’ jars. He set them down on the room’s only table, which had but one chair, on Lovaris’ side.

“Sebastian Lazari,” said Lovaris as he sat down with a soft grunt. “Lashani prodigy with no genuine history in Lashain. Doctor without accreditation. Solicitor without offices or former clients.”

“The backtrail’s not up to my usual standards,” said Locke. “No loss to admit it, since I didn’t do the work myself.”

“You and your bigger friend are interesting counterparts to the lovely Mistress Gallante,” said Lovaris. “Though obviously not from the same place.”

“Obviously,” said Locke.

“I think you’ve come north from your usual habitations, Master Lazari. I heard rumors a few months ago, when the Archon of Tal Verrar took that long fall off a narrow pedestal. Word was a few captains of intelligence managed to duck the noose and get misplaced in the shuffle.”

“My compliments,” said Locke. “But, ah, you might as well know I didn’t leave anyone behind me interested enough to chase me down, even if your … entertaining theory were to reach the proper ears.”

“Nor shall I waste my time contacting them. The election will be past before a letter could even reach Tal Verrar. No, nothing we say here will be heard by anyone else, save my forebears.” Lovaris gestured at the ornately carved nooks and drawers decorating the walls of the chamber. “This is my family’s memorial vault. Seven hundred years in Karthain. We predate the Presence. As for you, well, I’ve brought you here in answer to your interesting note because I wish to inconvenience you.”

“I’m sure your line hasn’t survived for seven centuries by refusing to carefully examine fresh opportunities,” said Locke. “My note asked for nothing but this meeting. You have no idea what I’m about to offer you.”

“Oh, but I do.” Lovaris smiled without showing teeth. “You want me to consider a turn of the coat. Specifically, you want me to wait until all the votes are safely counted and I’m back in for the Black Iris. Then and only then would I announce that my conscience had forced me to join ranks with the Deep Roots. I understand you’ve promised to invent a convincing story, but you haven’t told anyone else what it is yet.”

Locke wanted to scream. Instead he pretended to study the nails of his right hand and disguised his next deep, calming breath as a bored sigh.

“I’ll have a passable excuse for you,” he said. “And you would find the experience personally enriching.”

“So I hear,” said Lovaris. “Ten thousand ducats in gleaming gold. I supply a chest; you fill it before my eyes. On election night, the chest is to be kept at an allegedly neutral countinghouse by an equal number of my people and yours, until I undertake my public metamorphosis. Once I do so, your people walk away and leave mine the gold.”

“Elegant, don’t you think?” Locke wanted to punch the wall. This was too much. Lovaris had information from confidential conversations with Locke’s half-dozen most trusted associates, information just a day or two old. Still, Locke had stayed calm through worse. “Come now, Lovaris, we both know you’re no ideologue. The whole city knows it. Nobody’s going to be particularly surprised or hurt, and ten thousand ducats will buy an awful lot of anything.”

“Do I look like a stranger to money?” said Lovaris.

“You look like a man of a certain age,” said Locke. “How many more pleasant and healthy years will the gods give you? How much more pleasant and healthy could they be with that extra ten thousand to ease your way?”

“There is a more practical concern,” said Lovaris. “Accepting a bribe is technically an amputation offense, perhaps even a capital one if state interest can be invoked. Nobody pays attention to routine little exchanges, but ten thousand ducats is a very awkward mass of coin, and it doesn’t fit any of the usual patterns. If I did this, I would be hounded by the Black Iris. I’d be the one man in Karthain to whom the bribery laws would be applied! The only place that money could vanish to is my cellars. I wouldn’t be able to join it legally with my countinghouse funds for years, and that’s damned inconvenient. Nor can I simply take a letter of credit, for even more obvious reasons.”

“If you can assume that I’m good for ten thousand in cold metal,” said Locke, “why don’t I leave it to you to dictate how I can best conceal the transfer of funds to you?”

“I think not.” Lovaris rose and stretched. “The most important point to consider is that your little scheme is only worth the trouble if we Black Iris win the election by exactly one Konseil seat. If you win, you’ve no need to buy me at all, and if we win by two seats or more, my turning can’t shift the majority. Frankly, it’s all immaterial, because I don’t believe you’re going to win. I don’t believe you’re going to lose by so little as one seat. You’re correct that I’m no slave to ideology, but it would be tedious and stupid to suddenly find myself on the side of the minority.”

“Many interesting things could happen between now and the election,” said Locke.

“A hazy platitude. You might as well be conducting your business in public squares, Lazari. I’ve revealed how extensive our intelligence is because I want you to understand that you’re over the barrel.”

“Fair enough,” said Locke. “This, then, is the point in the conversation where I say ‘twenty thousand.’ ”

“Ten thousand would be awkward enough. You expect me to be enthusiastic about trying to hide twice as much? The money’s only an enticement if it can reach my pockets invisibly, and if I’m still relevant to Karthani politics after I’ve earned it. No, Master Lazari, I won’t pretend I’m not ultimately for sale in some fashion, but you are not offering any sort of price I’m looking for. Now, before I have you escorted out, do you want a moment to put your wet disguise back on? For formality’s sake, if nothing else?”

7

A LEAN, scruffy man in a paint-stained tunic left the tradesman’s entrance of the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and hurried west, back into the cool green maze of the Mara Karthani. Subtle signs had been laid since his last passage, knots of brown cloth tied around hedge branches at knee level, and the man followed them rapidly through twistings and turnings, through brick arches hung with yellowing vines, to the statuary niche where Jean Tannen waited.

Jean, clad in a sensible hooded oilcloak, was sitting on a bench beside the likeness of some forgotten scholar-soldier of the old empire, a stern woman carved in the traditional mode, carrying the raised lantern of learning in one hand and a clutch of barbed javelins on the opposite shoulder. Jean pulled out a second oilcloak and swept it over Locke’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Locke, pulling off his wig and optics. “We’ve got a serious hole in our security. Lovaris knew I was coming.”

“Damn,” said Jean. “Do you want me to roust those grandmothers Sabetha’s got up on the rooftops after all?”

“Gods, they’re harmless. Just there to taunt us. Our problem is someone inside Josten’s. Lovaris had full details of my plan and my offer, things I’ve only mentioned to a handful of people, in privacy, in the past couple of days! Is there any place an eavesdropper could have their way with the Deep Roots private gallery?”

“I spent hours going over all the cellars, all the bolt-holes,” said Jean. “There’s nowhere close enough, not above or below. And the noise of the place … no, I’d stake my life on it. It’d take— Well, it’d take magic.”

“Then I’m off to hunt the rat,” said Locke. “And since my first approach bounced right off the fatuous fucker’s self-satisfaction, you’ll have to visit Lovaris and try our second approach.”

“Second approach, right.” Jean rose from the bench. “You sure our budget can bear the strain?”

“It’ll take us down to the dregs, and an emergency few thousand, and those donations from our Vadran refugees,” said Locke. “But there’s not much else to spend it on at this point, is there?”

“So be it,” said Jean. “If he bites, I’ll start visiting jewelers tonight. I’ve picked some discreet ones.”

“Good. I’d say diamonds and emeralds, mostly, but you’ve got a sharp eye. Trust your own discretion.”

“And we’ll need a boat,” said Jean.

“Already thinking on it!” Locke tapped his own forehead. “But let’s cover first, second, third, and fourth things before we go chasing down fifths or sixths, eh?”

“Gods keep you,” said Jean. “Don’t trip over your feet on the way home. What are you going to do about our rat?”

“Well, since someone we trust is feeding my confidential instructions to Sabetha,” said Locke, “I reckon I might feed some confidential instructions to all the people we trust.”

8

THAT NIGHT, as a hard rain beat down outside, Locke put his arm around Firstson Epitalus and drew the old man into a whispered conversation in the Deep Roots private gallery.

“You know more about the Isas Thedra than I do,” said Locke. “I need a quiet, out-of-the-way place in your district to store some barrels of fire-oil. A shack, a cellar. Somewhere nobody will disturb, at least not before the election.”

“Fire-oil? What’s this for, Master Lazari?”

“I’m going to see to it that our Black Iris friends have a fairly damaging fire a few nights before the election at one of their Bursadi District properties. I’ll take pains to see that nobody gets hurt. I just want them to lose some papers and some comforts.”

“Capital!” Epitalus thumped his cane on the floor approvingly. “Well, in that case, there’s an outbuilding on my own estate. The old boathouse. I’m not using it at all.”

“Good. One more thing, Epitalus. This is absolutely, vitally secret. Speak of this to no one. Am I clear?”

“As an empty glass, Master Lazari.”

The reference left them both thirsty. They toasted the frustration of the Black Iris with small glasses of cinnamon lemon cordial, and then Jean reappeared from his errand, shrugging himself out of his rain-slick oilcloak. Locke waved Epitalus off, then conversed in whispers with Jean.

“We’re on,” said Jean. “I think Lovaris was perversely pleased by the idea of us doing our part tonight, in the rain.”

“Of course. He’s a miserable sack of smugness. When?”

“Hour before midnight.”

“Not much time if we’re going to be careful.”

“Time enough for me to arm myself with dinner and coffee,” said Jean.

“Then I’ll get the things we need from our rooms,” said Locke. “You plant yourself in front of a fire and eat— Damn, here come Dexa and Nikoros, just the people I can’t miss.”

The two Gentlemen Bastards separated, Jean headed for the kitchens and Locke headed to intercept his targets and guide them up to the private gallery. He begged a moment alone with Nikoros first.

“Look, uh, Master Lazari, here’s the latest reports,” said Nikoros, fumbling with his satchel as Locke pushed him toward a quiet corner. “We had a break-in last night at Cavril’s office in the Ponta Corbessa, nothing major, but I suspect they got away with some confidential minutes and voter lists. Our delegations to the temples paid for a public sacrifice for each of the Twelve. A lash and a silver compass for Morgante, a silk shroud for Aza Guilla, a dove’s heart for Preva—”

“Nikoros,” said Locke, “I’m devout. I know the usual sacrifices. Just tell me there were no complications.”

“Well, ah, the rain probably cut down on the crowds, but they all went well. The whole city knows we’ve done our duty to the gods and asked their blessing.”

“If nobody got struck by lightning, I’m content. Now, I need you to get something for me. A hiding place. A shack, a cellar, a hole, anything, preferably deserted or disused. Near the Vel Vespala, as close to the Sign of the Black Iris as you can safely get. Do you know any spots?”

“I, well, let me think.” Nikoros rubbed his eyes and muttered to himself. “There’s a foreclosed chandlery that doesn’t have a new tenant, about three blocks from the Sign of the Black Iris. What should I do with it?”

“Just get me the place and I’ll do the work,” said Locke. “I’m going to repeat my stunt at the Enemy Tavern, smoke it up with harmless alchemy, only this time it’s going to last hours and it’s going to hit ’em at the worst possible time. I’ll decide when that is, but I need my fire-oil and powders stored nearby. This chandlery sounds perfect.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“And Nikoros,” said Locke, “this is the deepest, darkest sort of secret. Don’t write any notes or take any minutes on it. Keep this between you and me and the gods. Absolutely nobody else. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Master Lazari.”

“Good. Off on your other business, now, and send Dexa over to me as you go.”

“Master Lazari,” she said, waving her cigar at him. “You look busy. Can’t say I disapprove. What did you want to see me about?”

“What we’re going to discuss must remain absolutely confidential,” whispered Locke, leaning in so close he was immersed in tendrils of her smoke. “You know the Isas Mellia better than anyone. I need you to find me a shack, or a cellar, a bolt-hole of just about any sort, where I can store a certain quantity of …”

9

AN HOUR before midnight the rain flashed down like silver harp-strings against the darkness. A lean man and a burly man stood beneath a snuffed lantern at the edge of the Mara Karthani. They watched the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and shivered under their oilcloaks.

“There she is,” said Locke.

A heavy dark shape, sensibly dressed like themselves, emerged from the tradesfolk entrance and walked away from them, north, in the direction of the city streets.

“And if this is a trap?” said Jean.

“I took a precaution.” Locke knelt to lift a light wooden crate onto his shoulders. Jean picked up another. “There should be a carriage running one green alchemical lamp about a block north of the manse. Two of our drivers and two of our guards watching for trouble. If we come running, they’ll snatch us up and get us home.”

“Good thought,” said Jean. “Assuming we can run. I hope this is the last risky stupidity we dive into before this mess is over. I’m not sure we can get much less cautious than this.”

“May the Crooked Warden bless us for keeping Him entertained,” said Locke. “Let’s go. What kind of house-breakers would we be if we didn’t keep our appointment?”

10

TWO MORE nights and the weather moderated. The sky took back its rain, and the soft brisk wind off the Amathel felt like the kiss of cool silk. Milky moonlight spilled down on the Vel Vespala as Jean Tannen approached the Sign of the Black Iris, calmly and openly.

The foyer guards, not in the market for fresh concussions, actually held the inner doors open for him. Then came Vordratha.

“One of us must be dreaming,” he said, halting Jean three paces into the lobby. “And I’m quite certain I’m awake, so I suggest you sleepwalk your silly ass back to someplace they don’t mind your smell.”

“I’m here as an ambassador,” said Jean. “Touching on a personal matter of Mistress Gallante’s. Of course, I don’t have an appointment, but she’ll want to see me anyway.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Vordratha, “you’re free to kneel and kiss one of my boots, in which case I might possibly consider relaying your petition.”

“Friend Vordratha,” said Jean with a smile, “in your capacity as Verena’s majordomo and all-around mirthless damp prick, you deserve congratulations. In your capacity as any sort of meaningful opposition to my fists, you’re half a second of easy work.”

“You’re a crude bastard, Callas.”

“And you’re still favoring lamentably tight breeches.” Jean feigned a yawn. “I’ll take the same two hostages my colleague did. I invite you to ponder the difference in our sizes and proportional strength of grip.”

Vordratha showed Jean to the now-familiar private dining hall, warned him that the wait might be lengthy, and slammed the door behind him.

Time passed, and Jean paced quietly, alert for trouble. He estimated it was a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Sabetha came in.

She was dressed mostly in black, black tunic and breeches under a heavy mantled black coat with silver buttons and chasings. Her hair was loose and wind-whipped, her white scarf hanging in folds around her neck, her boots covered in fresh mud.

Not for the first time, Jean felt a strange sense of displacement as his memories of Sabetha tangled with the woman before his eyes. It was like looking at a reverse ghost, a reality somehow less tangible than the recollections five years gone. He’d lived those five years so gradually, but to his eyes she’d received them all at once, and in studying the new lines time had sketched for her he felt the faint tug of his own passing years, like a weight in his heart. How much older did he look to her?

He took a deep breath, banishing the broody thought. While Jean was often bemused by the philosophical notions that made free with his heart and head, long hours of tutelage in arms had also given him the trick of shoving such notions aside, cubbyholing them for contemplation once he’d survived his immediate responsibilities.

Sabetha pressed herself back against the door, closing it, and folded her arms.

“If this continues,” she said, “Vordratha might become the first man in the history of the world to have himself made into a eunuch for reasons of self-defense.”

“In fairness,” said Jean, “I can’t imagine he’s ever found much use for the blighted things.”

“He’s a devoted father of seven.”

“You’re joking!”

“I was as surprised as you. Seems he’s equally dedicated to his children and his career as a professional asshole. Please don’t actually hurt him again.”

“My oath to the Crooked Warden,” said Jean. He pulled an envelope from within his coat. “Now, to why I came. This— Well, I don’t want to speak for him. But you ought to know it’s taken him a few nights to finish this. Much lost sleep and many false starts.”

“As it was in the beginning, I suppose.” She took the envelope with a hand that shook just enough for Jean to notice, then slipped it into her coat. “And … is that it, then?”

Had the question sounded tired, Jean would have taken it for a dismissal, but Sabetha sounded wistful, almost hurt. He cleared his throat.

“Diplomacy and curiosity don’t always mix,” he said. “We’re not strangers, Jean.”

Jean slipped off his optics and made a show of polishing them against a coat sleeve while he considered his words.

“All I can see,” he said at last, “is two people I care for being divided and ruled by the words of a stranger. This bullshit of Patience’s! I’m sorry. I didn’t come to lecture you. But surely you can—”

“You delivered his letter,” said Sabetha. “Now you’re inquiring into his business. Is Jean even here right now? Jean I could speak to, but Locke’s … legate to my court, that man’s business is dispensed with and the door is open.”

“Again, I’m sorry.” Jean realized that their physical situation had the look and feel of a standoff; so long as they both remained on their feet informality and relaxation would be difficult to kindle. He eased himself into a chair. “You know that I worry about him. I worry about the pair of you. And I regret that I haven’t, ah, exactly paid you a social call since our return. When you first invited us here, I was a little cold.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“That’s kind of you to suggest.”

“And then I dropped twenty hirelings on your head and packed you off to sea.” Sabetha sat down and crossed her legs. “It couldn’t have helped. I hope you don’t think I was pleased you broke your nose.”

“You provided us with a comfortable ship,” said Jean. “Leaving it in the middle of the night was our decision. I was annoyed at the time, but I know it was just business.”

“Maybe there’s been a little too much ‘just business.’ ” Sabetha fussed self-consciously with her gloves. “I kept your hatchets as a sort of assurance, and then as a sort of joke, and then I handed them to Locke like you were some kind of … hireling. I would not have desired to give that impression.”

“Gods, Sabetha, I’m not made of porcelain! Look, we’re not— We haven’t been bad friends, merely absent ones, long apart. And if there are more difficult possible circumstances for a reunion, I’ll eat my boots. Cold. With mustard.”

“Now who’s being kind?” she said. “I’ve missed you. Personally and professionally.”

“I’ve missed you,” said Jean. “Sharp edges and all. Life was always better with you around. Everyone around you catches your light. We’re doing it now, even across the city, working against you. I haven’t seen him like this … well, not for a long while. Sick with worry and totally exhilarated.”

“The conversation turns to our mutual friend again.”

“Yes. I mean— Look. Let me say this much, please.” Jean took a deep breath and pushed on before she could interrupt. “He and I had a dangerous misunderstanding in Tal Verrar. We both looked at the same thing, and we both made bad assumptions that led us in opposite directions. We got lucky, but bad assumptions … they’re a possibility to be aware of, you see?”

“Jean.” She spoke haltingly, each word crisp and fragile. “You must trust … do I seem at ease to you? Do I seem wholly myself? You must trust that I have reasons, urgent reasons for my behavior, and that they are as much to my grief as they are to his—”

“Stop.” Jean raised his hands placatingly. “Sabetha, however damned foolish I think you’re being, you do have a right to your own judgment. I don’t like the judgment, but I’ll respect the right, all the way to my grave. I’ve said my piece.”

“Thank you,” she said, and her smile warmed him like a fire. “It seems you and he have both grown more diplomatic since we parted.”

“We’ve made second careers out of finding excuses not to murder one another. It’s had a salutary effect on our manners.” Jean found his feet again and held out his hand. “Sister Bastard, I’d like to detain you longer and make my job that much easier, but I imagine we’re being watched. We can’t afford to try the patience of our employers.”

“Brother Bastard.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I wish I didn’t have to agree. Thank you for talking to me.”

“I hope we get to do it again.”

“One day at a time,” she said, softly. “Until we find out what’s waiting at the end of all this. But hope is a good word. I hope you’re right. About everything.”

“Is there any message I can take back for you?”

“No,” she said. “Whatever there is to say, I’ll say it myself, in my own time.”

They embraced, and Jean swept her off her feet. She laughed, and he turned the sweep into a complete twirl that ended with her elegantly set down atop a table. He bowed.

“I return madam to the pedestal on which she usually resides.”

“You cheeky lump! And here I was almost feeling sorry about trouncing the bright red fuck out of you in the election.”

“Tsk. Whatever you are, you’re not the least bit sorry,” said Jean, waving as he let himself out. “As you said … we’re not strangers.”

11

THE ROOM, so warmly lit, so invitingly decorated, felt cold after the door closed behind Jean. Strange how the empty seats and unused tables suddenly contrived to give the place the air of a deserted temple. Sabetha had never felt so isolated here before.

She leapt off the table and landed softly on the toes of her boots, scarf and coat rustling. The envelope was out of her pocket before she knew it, hands moving faster than the thoughts that usually ruled them.

“Of course I’m not alone,” she said. “You’re here.”

The room was still. The bustle of Black Iris business could be heard only faintly through the floor.

“I am a grown woman having a conversation with an envelope,” she muttered several heartbeats later.

He was there like smoke, like a ghost in the room, like a scent in her clothing. It had been so long that she had forgotten the actual scent, only that she remembered carrying it. Remembered wanting it, then not wanting it, then wanting it again despite herself.

There were two Lockes, she thought, turning the envelope back and forth in her hands. Two real Lockes under all the faces he wore in the course of his games. One of them put such a sweet sharp ache in her heart she could scarcely believe that a younger, softer Sabetha had sealed the feeling away and managed to leave. That man broke all the patterns of law and custom and dared the world to damn him for it.

The other Locke … that man was bound tight to those patterns, their absolute prisoner. He would do thus because thus was the way it always had been in Camorr, or the way it had always been for a garrista, or for a priest, or a Right Person, or a Gentleman Bastard. The reasons were endless, and he would cling to them viciously, thoughtlessly, tangling everyone around him into the bargain.

Even his eyes seemed different, when he was that second man. And that was a problem.

If there were two, might there not be three? Patterns behind the patterns, secrets behind the secrets, new strings to dance on, and these ones leading all the way back to the Bondsmagi of Karthain. Another Locke, unknown even to himself. What would become of the Lockes she knew if that stranger inside them was real? If he woke up?

“Which one of you wrote this?” She sniffed gently at the envelope, and the scent of it told her nothing.

Everything about the room was suddenly wrong. She didn’t want to be here in this quiet citadel, this orderly heart of her temporary power. The business between her and Locke was thieves’ business; she needed a thief’s freedom to face it. And a thief’s most comfortable roof was the night sky.

She swept an alchemical globe into her coat pocket and shook her boots off, scattering flakes of drying mud on the floor. Barefoot, she padded to one of the room’s tall windows and cracked it open.

Sabetha had adjusted the lock mechanism herself and rehearsed the process of slipping out many times; she’d mentally mapped four distinct routes around and down from the roof of the Sign of the Black Iris. The stones beneath her feet were cool but not yet unbearably cold.

Up she went, night breeze stirring her hair, soft moonlight showing all her possible paths. The world of streets, alleys, horses, and lamps receded below her, and she grinned. She was fifteen again, ten again, hanging on ancient stones with nothing but skill between herself and the fall.

She was on the roof, quiet as a sparrow’s shadow, heart pounding not with exertion but with the thrill of her own easy competence and the anxious mystery of the envelope.

Her rooftop sentry, crouched in the shadow of a tall chimney, all but exploded out of his shoes when Sabetha’s hand fell lightly on his shoulder.

“Take a break,” she whispered, straining to keep the sound of her smile out of her voice. “Get some coffee and wait below for me to come fetch you.”

“A-as you say, Mistress Gallante.” To his credit, he was tolerably silent as he moved off. Not a patch on a proper Camorri skulker, but willing to make an effort.

Sabetha settled into his spot, pulled the alchemical light from her pocket, and once again turned the envelope over and over between her fingers.

“Get on with it,” she said, knowing it was empty theater for an audience of one. “Get on with it.”

Minutes passed. Silver cloud-shadows moved and blended across the dark rooftops. At last she found her hands taking the initiative from heart and mind again. The seal was cracked before she knew it, the letter slipped out. The handwriting was as familiar as her own. Her teeth were suddenly chattering.

“Dammit, woman, if you’re vulnerable to him it’s because you wanted to let yourself be vulnerable. Get on with it.”

Dear Sabetha, she read:

I have instructed J. to put this into your hands directly and so presume to write your name, selfishly. I want to say it out loud, over and over again, but even alone in this little room I am afraid of sounding like a lunatic, afraid that you would somehow be able to sense me making a damned idiot of myself. At least, having written it, I can stare at it as long as I like. It keeps snatching my attention away. How can any other word I write expect to compete? This is going to be a long night.

I suppose it’s true to the peculiar course of our courtship that so much of my courting takes the form of apologies. I like to think I have some talent for them; gods know I’ve had so many opportunities and reasons to practice.

Sabetha, I am sorry. I have put my recollection of everything said and done since I came to Karthain under a magnifying lens, and I realize now that when I returned after escaping from your arranged vacation, I said some things I had no right to say. I took offense at your deception. I confused the business with the personal, and piled self-righteousness high enough to scrape the ceiling. For that, and not for the first time, I am deeply ashamed. It was wrong of me to throw such a fit.

Sabetha sucked in cool air with an unseemly gasp, suddenly realizing she’d been holding her breath. What had she expected? It certainly wasn’t this.

Once, you will recall, I told you that I gave you my absolute trust as my oath-sister, my friend, and my lover. Absolute trust is something that can only be given without conditions or reservations, something that can only be rescinded if it was meaningless in the first place.

I do not rescind it. I cannot rescind it.

You tricked me fairly, using something I gave you freely. I am a fool for you not merely by instinct but also by choice. I apologize now, not to beg for sympathy, but because it is an obligation of simple truth and affection I owe you before I have the right to say anything further.

I have pondered so long and furiously on Patience’s claims about my past that I have become thoroughly sick of the question. Though I desperately pray for the ultimate vindication of J.’s skepticism, I must admit I have no explanation that strikes me as convincing. There are shadows in my past that my memory cannot illuminate, and if you find that disturbing, I beg you to believe that I don’t blame you. Patience’s story has given us both a hard shock, and how I ought to deal with it is still something of a mystery.

How you deal with it, I must and will leave to you, not out of despair or resignation but in deference to my conscience, that broken clock which I believe is now chiming one of its occasional right hours. I will not question your reasons. It is enough for you to tell me that you wish to keep this distance between us, and it will always be enough. Know that a single word will bring me running, but unless and until it pleases you to give it, I will expect nothing, force nothing, and contrive nothing contrary to your wishes.

I desire you as deeply as I ever have, but I understand that the fervor of a desire is irrelevant to its justice. I want your heart on merit, in mutual trust, or not at all, because I cannot bear to see you made uneasy by me. I have failed and disappointed you often enough before. Not for all the world would I do so again, and I leave it to you to tell me how to proceed, if and when you can, if and when you will.

Willingly and faithfully yours,

Locke Lamora

She turned the letter over, feeling ridiculous, looking for some other note or sentiment or mark. That was all there was; no pleading, no excuses, no demands or suggestions. Everything was now left to her, and that more than anything brought a tight cold pressure to her chest and left her shaking.

Failed her? She supposed that was true, if a touch ungenerous. The natural process of growing up was to stumble from failure to failure, and all the Gentlemen Bastards had been prodigies of survival, not sensitivity. But disappoint her? The trouble with the skinny, bright-eyed bastard was that he kept refusing to do so.

This letter was the work of the better Locke, the learning and giving Locke, the man who listened to her. Listened to her … What a banal sentiment it seemed in itself, but she’d been a woman of the world long enough to learn its rarity and desirability. It was amusing to use men like Catch-the-Duke pieces, but dupes listened with an ear for the main chance, for their own desires to be repeated back to them. After her years in the Marrows and this sojourn among the “adjusted,” by the gods, Locke’s company was more addictive than ever—a man who was proud and unpredictable and framed himself to her desires out of love and friendship, rather than her own subterfuge.

The corners of her vision misted. She rubbed the nascent tears away with her fingers, not gently, and sniffed haughtily. Gods damn this whole stupid mess! Her heart was opened again like an old wound, but what was coming next? What did the Bondsmagi mean to happen to that man she loved?

Was she being selfish in holding him at a distance, or was she being sensible, shielding herself against the worst that might be coming, and soon?

“Crooked Warden,” she whispered, “if your sister Preva has any meaningful revelations that she’s not using at the moment, would you let her know that I’m willing to be moved?”

Sabetha sighed. Be moved, certainly, but not move. Let the night be hers for a few more minutes. Let the business of the Black Iris click on like clockwork. Let the magi sit on their own thumbs and spin. She read Locke’s letter again, then stared out at the city, thoughts churning.

The rooftop tapestry of moonlight and shadows and softly curling chimney smoke comforted her, but it had no answers to give.

12

TWO NIGHTS later, Locke and Jean sat together in the Deep Roots gallery at Josten’s, dining on birds-a-bed (large morsels of several kinds of fowl on flaked pastry mattresses stuffed with spiced rice and leeks, then given “covers” of onion and sour cream sauce). To wash this down they had flagons of sharp ale and piles of the usual notes and reports, which they discussed between bites.

Less than a week remained, and the situation was spiraling appealingly out of control. Offices were being vandalized on both sides, party functionaries harassed or arrested by bluecoats on laughable pretexts, speakers and pamphleteers having shouting matches in the streets. Locke had dispatched a team of black-clad functionaries to hand out commemorative Black Iris treacle tarts in several marketplaces. The alchemical laxative mixed into the treacle was slow-acting but ultimately quite forceful, and many of the recipients had publicly expressed their lack of appreciation for the largesse of the Black Iris.

Despite this, the odds commonly given remained eleven to eight in the Black Iris’ favor. However much Locke would have liked to shift this as far as possible with childish prankery, there was, realistically, nobody left in the city yet willing to accept baked sweets from a stranger.

“Oh, sirs, sirs!” Nikoros appeared, still looking like a man fresh from a sleepless week on the road. “I have … I am so sorry to intrude on your dinner, but I have some unfortunate news.”

“First time for everything,” said Locke lightly. “Go on, then, shock us.”

“It’s the, ah, the chandlery, Master Lazari. The one that you asked me to secure … in the Vel Vespala, and the one where you and Master Callas packed away all the, ah, you know, alchemical items. Two hours ago, stevedores in Black Iris livery entered the place and cleaned it out. They hauled everything away on drays to a location I haven’t yet discovered.”

Locke’s fork hung in the air halfway to his lips. He stared at Nikoros for a second, then shared a brief, significant gaze with Jean. “Ah, damn,” he said at last, and took his bite of chicken. “Mmmm. Damn. That’s a fairly expensive loss. And a fine trick yanked right out of my sleeve.”

“My most sincere apologies, Master Lazari.”

“Bah. It’s none of your doing,” said Locke, wondering just what had made thoroughly subservient eager-puppy Nikoros, of all people, turn coat. Something to do with Akkadris withdrawal? Some failure of Bondsmagi sorcery? Poor old Falconer, tongueless and fingerless and comatose, was something of an argument against their infallibility.

“Still,” Locke continued, “the opposition seems to have a damnable grasp of where we’re hiding our good toys these days. I want you to secure us a boat.”

“Ah, a boat, Master Lazari?”

“Yes. Something respectable. A barge, maybe a small pleasure yacht if a party member has one available.”

“Very, uh, likely. May I ask to what end?”

“We took something from one of the Black Iris Konseil members,” said Jean. “Family heirlooms of significant … sentimental value. We’ll return them after he’s done us a favor.”

“And we need the items in question to be absolutely secure until after election night,” said Locke. “I’m not sure I can trust our current bolt-holes, so let’s try putting them on the water, in something that can move.”

“I’ll get on it immediately,” said Nikoros.

“Good man,” said Locke, forking another bite of chicken. “Minimal crew, trusted sorts. They won’t need to know what the boat is carrying. Master Callas and I will load the items ourselves.”

Nikoros hurried away.

“I wasn’t expecting it to be him,” whispered Jean.

“Nor me,” said Locke. “And I’m dead curious to find out how she did it. But at least we know. And now we pin our hopes on the boat.”

“To the boat,” said Jean. They raised their ale flagons and drained them.

13

THE NIGHT before the election, Locke leaned on a wall high atop the northernmost embankment of the Plaza Gandolo, looking out across the softly rippling water of the river and the lantern-lights running across it like a hundred splashes of color on a drunken artist’s canvas.

To his left loomed the Skyvault Span, swaying and singing suspension bridge, its four anchor towers uniquely crowned with balconies and sealed doors. Those doors were invisible from Locke’s position hundreds of feet below, but he’d listened to Josten describe them not an hour before.

According to the innkeeper, the doors were as impervious to human arts as most Eldren legacies, but a team of scholars and workers had once erected a climbing scaffold and tried to study them closely.

“Hundred and fifty years ago, maybe. Eight folk went up,” Josten had muttered after looking around the bar. “Six came down. No bodies were ever found, and none of the survivors could say what had happened. For the rest of their lives, they had dreams. Bad ones. They wouldn’t talk about those, either, except one woman. Confessed to a priest of Sendovani before she died. Young, like all the rest. They say the magi and the Konseil suppressed the hell out of whatever that priest wrote down. So it’s just as well that Elderglass doesn’t need maintenance, my friend, because nobody in Karthain has climbed the Skyvault Span since.”

“Bloody charming,” muttered Locke, staring up at the elegant dark silhouettes blotting out stars and clouds. Gods, he was reciting horror stories to himself. Hardly suave and collected behavior. He needed to calm down, and he hadn’t had the foresight to bring a quarter-cask of strong wine.

Footsteps scuffed the stones behind him, and he whirled, neither suave nor collected.

Sabetha was alone. She wore a dark scarlet jacket over chocolate-brown skirts, and her hair was tightly bound around her lacquered pins.

“You look as though you’ve been listening to the stories about this bridge,” she said.

“My, ah, tavern master,” said Locke. “When I got your note, I asked him if he knew anything about the spot you picked.”

“Seems it’s not a popular corner of the district.” She smiled and moved closer. “I thought we could do with a bit of privacy.”

“Haunted Eldren detritus does tend to secure that. Sly woman! I would have gone with something like a private chamber at a fine dining establishment, but I suppose I’m hopelessly conventional.” A carriage rattled past, onto the creaking deck of the bridge. “What’s on your mind?”

“I appreciated your letter,” she said, gliding closer with that seemingly effortless dancer’s step that made it look as though a wind had just nudged her along. “And I don’t mean that as the usual oatmeal-tongued sort of polite acknowledgment; I appreciated what you said and how you said it. I’m beginning to think I might have been … hasty in the way I treated you. When you first arrived in Karthain.”

“Well, ah, even if drugging me and putting me on a ship was something of a personal misstep, I think we can agree it was a valid approach from a professional perspective.”

“I admire that equanimity.” She was within arm’s reach now, and her hands were around his waist. He couldn’t have defended himself if he’d wanted to. “I’m not … uneasy with you, you know. It’s not you, it’s …”

“I know,” said Locke. “Believe me, I understand. You don’t have to—”

She slipped her right hand up behind his neck and pulled him so close there wasn’t room for a knife blade to pass between them. Next came the sort of kiss that banished the world to distant background noise and seemed to last a month.

“Well, that you can do,” Locke whispered at last. “If you feel you have to. I’ll, ah, grudgingly refrain from stopping you.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” said Sabetha, running her fingers through his hair. “Not much left now but the casting and counting of the ballots. Were you planning on attending the last big show at the Karthenium?”

“Can’t miss it,” said Locke. “Too many hands to hold. Yourself?”

“There are private galleries looking down on the grand hall. Once you’ve given all your children suitable pats on their heads, why don’t you and Jean join me to watch the returns? Ask any attendant for the Sable Chamber.”

“Sable Chamber. Right. And, ah, now you seem to be wearing that ‘there’s something amusing I’m not telling Locke’ face.”

“As it happens, I did hear the most fascinating thing.” She took his hand and led him to the very edge of the embankment wall. “One of my Konseil members privately complained that someone broke into his manor and, if you can believe it, stole the reliquary shelves from his ancestral chapel.”

“Some people should learn to lock their doors at night.”

“I found myself pondering the purpose of such an unorthodox acquisition,” said Sabetha. “I concluded that it must, in all probability, be an attempt to exercise some sort of hold on a man for whom the theft of less personal trinkets would have no real meaning.”

“I’m disheartened to learn that your speculations took on such a cynical character.”

“Konseillors of Karthain shouldn’t have to worry about outside influence on the eve of an election. Don’t you agree? I felt compelled to make inquiries and issue instructions to the constabulary. Merely as a matter of routine civic duty, of course.”

“Everyone knows your deep attachment to the civic health of Karthain goes back quite a few minutes,” said Locke.

“There it is! Nearly on time.” Sabetha pointed down to the water, where a canopied pleasure barge emerged from under the Skyvault Span. A long black constabulary launch was lashed alongside the barge, and bluecoats with lanterns and truncheons were swarming it. “That’s the Plain Delight. Belongs to a friend of one of your Deep Roots Konseillors, I believe. I also believe that the reliquary shelves in its hold will be back in the hands of their proper owner before the sun comes up. Any particular comments?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that you’re a sneaky, sneaky bitch,” said Locke.

“You’re my favorite audience.” Sabetha leaned in and kissed him again, then broke off with a grin. “Sable Chamber, tomorrow evening. I can’t wait to see you. And I’ll have a discreet escape route prepared, since I think a lot of irate Deep Roots supporters are going to be looking for you once the ballots are counted.”

INTERLUDE

DEATH-MASKS

1

THE NEXT SOUND in the room was that of Donker attempting to fling himself at the door, only to be caught and pulled back by the combined efforts of Alondo and the Sanza twins.

“Gods damn it, you brick-skulled hostler,” Jasmer growled. “If the rest of us have to suffer through this farce, then so do you!”

“What’s the name of this hireling of Boulidazi’s?” said Locke.

“Nerissa Malloria,” said Jasmer. “Used to be a lieutenant in the countess’ guard. Now she’s sort of a mercenary. Hard as witchwood and cold as Aza Guilla’s cunt-plumbing.”

“Where’s she meant to take the money after the play?” said Locke.

“The hell should I know, boy?” Jasmer ran his hands slowly over his rough stubble. “His lordship might’ve been screwing me, but it wasn’t the sort of affair where we had pillow talk afterward, know what I mean?”

“I’d bet my life he’d have told her to bring the money to his countinghouse,” said Jenora. “It’s at the Court of Cranes, not far from his manor.”

“No retrieving it from there,” said Sabetha. “I’ll have to work up another note in Boulidazi’s hand and send her somewhere more private.”

“She will still expect to deliver the money to him,” yelled Moncraine. “And she’ll expect a signed receipt, and she will rather expect him to have a PULSE when he signs it!”

“Well, she’s not working for the countess now,” said Sabetha. “She’s not an agent of the law. She’s Boulidazi’s by hire, and she’ll bend to his eccentricities. All we need to do is contrive some that will make her leave the money and go away satisfied.”

“Well, Amadine, Queen of the Shadows, what do you suggest?” Jasmer waved his hands in elaborately mystical gestures. “Magic? Pity I’m only a sorcerer onstage!”

“Enough!” shouted Locke. “The sand is running into the bottom of our glass, and no fooling. Leave the details of the money switch to us, Jasmer. This company needs to move to the Pearl in good order, and all of you need to act as though the play is the only care you have in the world. Stout hearts and brave faces! Out!”

The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company shuffled from the room in mingled states of shock, hangover, and grim resolve. The Sanza twins followed; it had been Sabetha’s suggestion that after the meeting they lurk conspicuously, leaving as few opportunities as possible for anyone to slip away.

“Any ideas toward parting this Malloria from the money?” whispered Sabetha.

“I’ve got one notion,” said Locke. “But you might not appreciate it. We’d need you to play the giggling strumpet again.”

“I’d rather do that than hang!”

“Then we need to find out what the best bathhouse in the city is, and ensure that Baron Boulidazi has a reservation there after the play is finished.” Locke rubbed his eyes and sighed. “And please remember that I did warn you. I think this is going to work, but it’s not going to have more than a scrap of dignity.”

2

“DEMOISELLE GALLANTE, I don’t understand!” Brego looked uncomfortable in finer-than-usual clothes, and he gestured with clenched fists as he spoke. “Where the devils has he got off to? Why won’t he simply—”

“Brego, please,” said Sabetha. “I know where his lordship is meant to be later. As for the present, you know as much as I! Didn’t his notes give you instructions?”

“Yes, of course they did, but I’m uneasy! I’m charged with m’lord’s personal safety, and I wish that I could—”

“Brego!” Sabetha was suddenly cold and stern. “You surprise me. If you have clear directions from the Baron Boulidazi, why are you in difficulty about following them?”

“I … I suppose I have no, ah, difficulty, Demoiselle.”

“Good. My own duties are about to become rather overwhelming.” Sabetha kissed her fingers and touched them to Brego’s cheek. “Be a dear and look to your business. You’ll see what our lord is playing at soon enough.”

The company had left the yard of Gloriano’s, arrayed in some semblance of a spectacle. Three black horses had been loaned by Boulidazi, caparisoned in his family colors, red and silver. Sabetha sat the first, sidesaddle, and Chantal walked beside her holding the reins. Behind them came Andrassus, tended by Donker, and Moncraine, tended by Alondo. The players on horseback wore their costumes, and Alondo wore a hooded mantle and a linen mask that left only his eyes bare. A cruel thing in the heat, but it couldn’t be helped.

The wagon, driven by Jean and Jenora, had also been draped in red and silver and was piled high with props and clothing. At the very bottom of the pile, shrouded and well-dusted with scents and pomanders, lay the corpse of the company’s patron. Galdo walked in the rear, juggling stingingly hot alchemical balls that spewed red smoke, while Locke and Bert led the column waving red pennants.

Brego hurried off to his duties as Calo, perched adroitly atop the rear of the wagon, began to shout:

“Invitation! Invitation!

Hear our joyous declamation!

The gods are kind to you today!

Cast off your toil and see a play!”

Calo sprang backward from the cart, turned in the air, and landed on his feet, neatly taking up the juggling of the smoke balls, which Galdo passed to him without a break in their rhythm. Galdo then vaulted into Calo’s spot and proclaimed:

“At LAST, dear friends, at LAST, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company returns in triumph to the OLD PEARL! Come see! There’s a place for YOU this afternoon! Don’t find yourself bereft! Don’t end the day mocked by your friends and turned out of your lover’s bed as a simpleton! Hear the legendary Jasmer Moncraine, ESPARA’S GREATEST! LIVING! THESPIAN! See the beautiful Demoiselle Verena Gallante, THE THIEF OF EVERY HEART! Behold the luscious Chantal Couza, the woman who will MAKE YOUR DREAMS HER HOME!”

So they continued, in this vein and in close variations, as the procession wound its way through the humid streets of Espara. The sun blazed behind thinning white ramparts of cloud, promising a fantastic afternoon’s light for the play, but little mercy for those who would strut the stage.

3

A BOLD green Esparan banner fluttered from the pole beside the Old Pearl, and the theater was surrounded by noise and tumult. Alondo had explained to Locke, a few days before, how a major play attracted an ad hoc market of mountebanks, charlatans, lunatics, minstrels, and small-time merchants, though only those that made proper arrangements with the company and the envoy of ceremonies would be allowed within ten yards of the theater walls.

“Are you smarter than my chicken?” cried a weathered, wild-haired woman holding a nonplussed bird over her head. At her feet was a wooden board covered with numbers and arcane symbols. “Lay your bets! Test your wits against a trained fowl! One coppin a try! Are you smarter than my chicken? You might be in for a surprise!”

Alas, Locke found no time to dwell on the question. The Moncraine-Boulidazi procession had to move on. Beyond the chicken woman moved the expected beer vendors with wooden cups chained to kegs, the trenchmen with shovels and buckets, the jugglers both clumsy and talented. There were harpists, shawm-players, drummers, and fiddlers, all wearing cloth bands around their heads with pieces of paper fluttering in them, showing that they had paid the street musicians’ tax. There were pot-menders, cobblers, and low tailors with their tools arrayed on cloths or folding tables.

“Sacrilege! Sacrilege! Ghost-bringers and grave-robbers! May the gods stop your voices! May the gods turn your audience from the gates!” A wiry, brown-robed man whose face and arms bore the telltale scars of self-mortification approached the procession. “Salerius lived! Aurin and Amadine lived! You stir their unquiet spirits with your profane impersonations! You mock the dead, and their ghosts shall have their way with Espara! May the gods—”

Whatever the man desired from the gods was lost as Bertrand shoved him back into the crowd, most of whom seemed to share Bert’s opinion of the denouncer; the man was not soon allowed to regain his feet, and the company passed on.

At last, behind everything, came the simple wooden fence at the ten-yard mark, patrolled by city constables with staves. Within the boundary, merchants prosperous enough to afford tents had taken places against the walls of the Old Pearl. The public gate to the theater was guarded by a flinty woman in a bloodred gambeson and wide-brimmed hat. She kept to the shade, head constantly moving to survey the crowd, and she wore truncheon and dirk openly on her belt. The actual money-taking was being handled by a pair of burly hirelings.

Locke spotted Brego hurrying toward the woman, folded parchment clutched in his hands. Locke suppressed a smile. That would be the sealed orders from “Baron Boulidazi,” the ones diverting Malloria and her weight of precious metal from the countinghouse to the bathhouse.

The company halted at the north side of the Pearl, where Moncraine’s half-dozen hired players lounged under an awning. They leapt up, nearly tripping over one another in their eagerness to be seen offering assistance with the costumes and props. As Jean and Jenora handed things to them, carefully keeping them away from the wagon itself, a woman approached on foot with a pair of guards at her back.

She was young, sharp-eyed and heavy, dressed in a cream jacket and skirts trimmed with silver lace. Sun veils dangled from her four-corn cap, and to Locke she had the air of someone used to crowds parting and doors opening before her. Jasmer and Sylvanus confirmed Locke’s suspicions by climbing hastily from their horses and bowing; in an instant the entire company was doing likewise.

“Master Moncraine,” said the woman. “Do rise. It is agreeable to see you and your company gainfully employed again, if somewhat diminished in number.”

“My lady Ezrintaim. Thank you for your sentiments,” said Jasmer, straightening up but icing his words with a thick coating of deference. “We have every hope that our recent loss of a few supernumerary players will prove a refinement.”

“That remains to be seen. I had expected your patron to precede his company; can you tell me where the Baron Boulidazi might be found?”

“Ah, my lady, as to that, my lord Boulidazi has not confided his present whereabouts to me. I can assure you that he does have every intention of being present, in some capacity, for the afternoon.”

“In some capacity?”

“My lady, if I may … I cannot answer for him. Save to assure you, on my honor, that my lord is laboring, even now, to ensure that today is not merely memorable but, ah, singular.”

“I shall of course be watching attentively from my box,” said the woman. “You will inform your patron that he is expected, following the performance if not before.”

“Of … of course, my lady Ezrintaim.”

Moncraine bowed again, but the woman had already turned and started away. One of her guards snapped a silk parasol open and held it between her and the sun. Moncraine made his obeisance for another half-dozen heartbeats, then rose, stormed over to Locke, and seized him by the collar.

“As you can see,” said Moncraine, speaking directly into Locke’s ear, “Countess Antonia’s envoy of ceremonies now expects a personal appearance from the very, very late Lord Boulidazi once we’ve taken our bows. What do you propose to do, thrust a hand up his ass and work him like a puppet?”

“You will pretend to be Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke.

“What?”

“I’m fucking with you! Why do you keep acting as though it’s your problem? The play is your problem. Leave the rest to us. And take your hand off me.”

“If I end up facing the rope because of this,” said Moncraine, “I’m going to ensure that I bring a merry fellowship along for the drop.”

Moncraine stalked off before Locke could say anything else.

“I keep asking myself,” whispered Sabetha, giving Locke’s arm a squeeze, “are we smarter than that woman’s chicken?”

“At the moment it’s an open question,” said Locke.

4

BEHIND THE stage lay a number of corridors and small offices, as well as two large preparation areas referred to as the attiring chambers. Stairs led to a cellar where hoists could be used to send players up or down through trapdoors. The air smelled of sweat, smoke, mildew, and makeup.

The attiring chambers buzzed with chatter, most of it from the hired players. Bert and Chantal looked stern but willing, Alondo had his arm around Donker’s shoulders, and Sylvanus was relieving a wine bottle of its contents. The twins were robing themselves for their joint role as the Chorus; one in red with a gold-ornamented cap to represent the imperial court, and the other in black with a silver-chased cap to represent the court of thieves. Jean and Jenora hung white robes and phantasma masks on wall hooks, there to be seized and donned in a hurry by that significant portion of the cast that wouldn’t escape the play alive.

Brego and a pair of servants came to retrieve Boulidazi’s horses and colors. Once they’d gone, Jean took up a post at the back door. He would keep a close watch on the wagon and its sensitive contents, darting in to help Jenora only with a few crucial or complicated operations.

“We’re on at the second hour sharp,” said Moncraine. “There’s a Verrari clock behind the countess’ box. When it chimes two, the flag dips. I salute the countess; then it’s out with the louts to tame the groundlings. And gods, will they need taming.”

Locke could hear the murmurs, the catcalls, the shouts and jeers of the Esparans filling the earth-floored penny pit beyond the stage, as well as musicians trying to strain coins out of the crowd.

Second hour of the afternoon, thought Locke. That left about twenty minutes for dressing and thinking. The former was so much easier. His Aurin costume was brown hose, a simple white tunic, and a brown vest. He wound red cloth in a band just above his ears; this would keep the sweat out of his eyes and suggest a crown even when he wasn’t wearing one. For the early scenes at the court of Salerius II, Locke would wear a red cloak over his other gear, a smaller version of the cloak that would be worn by Sylvanus at all times.

Sabetha approached, and Locke’s throat tightened. Amadine’s colors were those of the night, so Sabetha wore black hose and a fitted gray doublet with a plunging neckline. Her hair was coiffed, courtesy of Jenora and Chantal’s expertise, threaded around silver pins and bound back with a blue cloth matching Locke’s red. Her doublet gleamed with paste gems and silvery threads, and she wore two sheathed daggers at her hip.

“Luck and poise,” she whispered as she embraced him just long enough to brush a kiss against his neck.

“You outshine the sun,” he said.

“That’s damned inconvenient, for a thief.” She squeezed his hands and winked.

Calo and Galdo approached.

“We were hoping for a moment,” said Galdo.

“Over by the door with Tubby,” said Calo. “We thought a little prayer might not be out of order.”

Locke felt the sudden unwelcome tension of responsibility. This wasn’t something they were asking of him as a comrade, but across the barrier even the laissez-faire priests of the Nameless Thirteenth were bound to feel from time to time. There was no refusing this. The others deserved any comfort Locke could give them.

The five Camorri gathered in a circle at the back door, hands and heads together.

“Crooked Warden,” whispered Locke, “our, uh, our protector … our father … sent us here with a task. Don’t let us shame ourselves. Don’t let us shame him, now that we’re so close to pulling it all off. Don’t let us fail these people trusting us to keep them out of the noose. Thieves prosper.”

“Thieves prosper,” the others whispered.

Chantal came to summon them for Moncraine’s final instructions. There was no more time for prayer or planning.

5

THE GREEN flag of Espara came halfway down the pole, then went back up. Locke, watching through a scrollwork grille, signaled to Jasmer, who squared his shoulders and walked out into the noise and the midafternoon blaze of light.

The penny pit was full, and newcomers were still shoving their way in from the gate. Attendance at plays was an inexact affair, and Nerissa Malloria and her boys would be taking coins until nearly the end of the show.

The elevated galleries were surprisingly full of swells and gentlefolk, along with their small armies of body servants, fan-wavers, dressers, and bodyguards. Countess Antonia’s banner-draped box was empty, but Baroness Ezrintaim and her entourage filled the box to its left. Baron Boulidazi’s promised friends and associates filled a lengthy arc of the luxury balconies, and had apparently brought more friends and associates of their own.

Jasmer walked to the center of the stage and was joined by a man and a woman who came up from the crowd. The woman wore the robes of the order of Morgante and carried an iron ceremonial staff. The man wore the robes of Callo Androno and bore a blessed writing quill. The gods responsible for public order and lore; these were the divinities publicly invoked before a play in any Therin city. The crowd quickly grew silent under their gaze.

“We thank the gods for their gift of this beautiful afternoon,” thundered Jasmer. “The Moncraine-Boulidazi Company dedicates this spectacle to Antonia, Countess Espara. Long may she live and reign!”

Silence held while the priests made their gestures, then returned to the crowd. Moncraine turned and began walking back to the attiring chambers, and the crowd burst once more into babble and shouting.

Calo and Galdo went smoothly onto the stage, sweeping past Moncraine on either side of him. Locke shook with anxiety. Gods above, there were no more second chances.

“Look at these scrawny gilded peacocks!” yelled a groundling, a man whose voice carried almost as well as Jasmer’s had. The penny pit roared with laughter, and Locke banged his head against the grille.

“Hey, look who it is!” shouted Galdo. “Don’t you recognize him, Brother?”

“Faith, how could I not? We were up half the night teaching new tricks to his wife!”

“Ah! Peacocks!” roared the heckler over the laughter of the folk around him. He seized the arm of a tall, bearded man beside him and raised it high. “Ask anyone here, it’s no wife I keep at home!”

“Now, this explains much,” cried Galdo. “The fellow is so meekly endowed we mistook him for a woman!”

Locke tensed. In Camorr men were coy about laying with other men, and also likely to throw punches for less. It seemed Esparans were more sanguine in both respects, though, for the heckler and his lover laughed as loud as anyone.

“I heard the strangest rumor,” yelled Calo, “that a play was to be performed this afternoon!”

“What? Where?” said Galdo.

“Right where we’re standing! A play that features lush young women and beautiful young men! I don’t know, Brother … do you suppose these people have any interest in seeing such a thing?”

The groundlings roared and applauded.

“It’s got love and blood and history!” shouted Galdo. “It’s got comely actors with fine voices! Oh, it’s got Jasmer Moncraine, too.”

Laughter rippled across the crowd. Sylvanus, peering out his own grille nearby, chortled.

“Come with us now,” shouted the twins in unison. Then they threaded their words together, pausing and resuming by unfathomable signals, trading passages and sentences so that there were two speakers and one speaker at the same time:

“Move eight hundred years in a single breath! Give us your hearts and fancies to mold like clay, and we shall make you witnesses to murder! We shall make you attestants to true love! We shall make you privy to the secrets of emperors!

“You see us wrong, who see with your eyes, and hear nothing true, though straining your ears! What thieves of wonder are these poor senses …”

While they declaimed, bit players in red cloaks marched silently onto the stage, wooden spears held at cross-guard. Two carried out the low bench that would serve as Sylvanus’ throne.

“Defy the limitations of our poor pretending,” said the twins at last, “and with us jointly devise and receive the tale of Aurin, son and inheritor of old Salerius! And if it be true that sorrow is wisdom’s seed, learn now why never a wiser man was emperor made!”

Calo and Galdo bowed to the crowd, and withdrew with grins on their faces, chased by loud applause.

Eight hundred people watching, give or take.

Now they expected to see a prince.

Locke fought down the cold shudder that had taken root somewhere between his spine and his lungs, and wrapped himself in his red cloak. He was seized by that sharp awareness that only came when he was walking into immediate peril, and imagined that he could feel every creak of the boards beneath his boots, every drop of sweat as it rolled down his skin.

Jenora placed Locke’s crown of bent wire and paste gems over his red head-cloth. Sylvanus, Jasmer, and Alondo were already in position, watching him. Locke took his place beside Alondo, and together they walked out into the white glare of day and the maw of the crowd.

6

IT WAS almost like fighting practice, brief explosions of sweat and adrenaline followed by moments of recovery and reflection before darting into the fray again.

At first Locke felt the regard of the crowd as a hot prickling in every nerve, something at war with every self-preservation instinct he’d ever developed skulking about Camorr. Gradually he realized that at any given instant half the audience was as likely to be looking at another actor, or at some detail of the stage, or at their friends or their beer, as they were to be staring at him. This knowledge wasn’t quite the same as a comforting shadow to hide in, but it was enough to let him claw his way back to a state of self-control.

“You’re doing well enough,” said Alondo, slapping him on the back as they gulped lightly-wined water between scenes.

“I started weak,” said Locke. “I feel I’ve got the thread now.”

“Well, that’s the secret. Finish strong and they’ll forgive anything that came before as the mysteries of acting. Mark how Sylvanus seems more deft with every bottle he pours into himself? Let confidence be our wine.”

“You don’t need bracing.”

“Now, there you have me wrong, Lucaza. Pretend to ease long enough and it looks the same as ease. Feels nothing like it, though, let me assure you. My digestion will be tied in knots before I’m five and twenty.”

“At least you’re convinced you’ll live to five and twenty!”

“Ah, now, what did I just tell you about feigning outward ease? Come, that’s Valedon being hauled off to his death. We’re on again.”

So the plot unwound, implacable as clockwork. Aurin and Ferrin were dispatched on their clandestine errand to infiltrate the thieves of Therim Pel, Aurin was struck dumb by his first glimpse of Amadine, and Ferrin confided his premonitions of trouble to the audience, some of whom laughed and shouted drunken advice at him.

A bit player in white robe and mask drifted into the shadows of the stage pillars, representing Valedon, first in the chorus of phantasma. Aurin and Ferrin set out to win the confidence of the thieves by brazenly robbing Bertrand the Crowd, who all but vanished into the role of an elderly noble. Alondo demanded Bert’s purse in the over-considerate language of the court, and while the audience tittered, Bert barked, “Who speaks these words like polished stones? Who lays his threats on silk like fragile things? You are drunks, you are gadabout boys, playing at banditry! Turn sharp and find your mothers, boys, or I’ll have you over my knee to make bright cherries of your arses!”

“Heed words or steel, ’tis all the same, you have your choice but we must have your purse!” said Locke, drawing his dagger. Alondo did likewise, playing up Ferrin’s discomfort. The blades were dull, but polished to a gleam, and the crowd sighed appreciatively. Bert struggled, then recoiled and unfolded a bright red cloth from his arm.

“Oh, there’s a touch, bastards,” growled Bertrand, tossing a purse to the stage and going down on his knees. “There’s gentle blood you’ve spilled!”

“All by mischance!” cried Locke, waving his dagger at Bert’s face. “How like you now these ‘fragile things,’ old man? Faith, he cares nothing for our conversation, Cousin. He finds our remarks too cutting!”

“I have the purse,” said Alondo, glancing around frantically. “We must away. Away or be taken!”

“And taken you shall be,” shouted Bert as Locke and Alondo scampered comically back to the attiring chambers. “Taken in chains to a sorrowful place!”

The pace of events quickened. Aurin and Ferrin were enfolded into the confidence of Amadine’s thieves, and Aurin began to make his first direct overtures to Amadine. Penthra, ever suspicious on Amadine’s behalf, followed the two men and learned their true identity when they reported their progress to Calamaxes the sorcerer.

Locke watched from behind his grille as Sabetha and Chantal quarreled about the fate of Aurin. He admired the force of Chantal’s argument that he should be taken hostage or quietly slain; she and Sabetha played sharply and strongly off one another, driving the murmur and horseplay of the crowd down whenever they ruled a scene together.

Next came the confrontation between Aurin and Amadine in which the emperor’s son broke and confessed his feelings. Behind them, Alondo and Chantal leaned like statues against the stage pillars, backs to one another, each staring into the crowd with dour expressions.

“You rule my heart entire! Look down at your hands, see you hold it already!” said Locke, on one knee. “Keep it for a treasure or use it to sheathe a blade! What you require from me, so take, with all my soul I give it freely, even that soul itself!”

“You are an emperor’s son!”

“I am not free to choose so much as the pin upon my cloak,” said Locke. “I am dressed and tutored and guarded, and the way to the throne is straight with never a turning. Well, now I turn, Amadine. I am more free in your realm than in my father’s, thus, I defy my father. I defy his sentence upon you. Oh, say that you will have me. Since first I beheld you, you have been my empress waking and dreaming.”

Next came the kissing, which Locke threw himself into with a heart pounding so loudly he was sure the audience would mistake it for a drum and expect more music to follow. Sabetha matched him, and in front of eight hundred strangers they shared the delicious secret that they were not stage-kissing at all. They took much longer than Jasmer’s blocking had called for. The audience hooted and roared approval.

Another brief rest in the attiring chamber. Onstage, Bert as the old nobleman, wounded arm in a sling, sought audience with the emperor and complained bitterly of the lawlessness of Therim Pel’s streets. Sylvanus, regal and red-cheeked, promised to loose more guards into the city.

Donker, still hooded and masked and silent, accepted a particular wrapped parcel from Jenora and quietly took it into a private office. Jean, lounging at the back door, nodded at Locke to signify that nobody had tampered with the wagon or its cargo.

Back out into the light and heat for the irresponsible revels of the thieves, Aurin and Amadine’s brief moment of defiant joy while Penthra and Ferrin brooded separately behind their backs. Now Amadine grew careless and cocksure, and Ferrin begged Aurin uselessly to remember his station and his charge.

A terrible end came swiftly to this idyll, in the form of bit players dragging Chantal out of the attiring room, red cloth clutched to her breast. Penthra had gone out into Therim Pel to clear her head with minor thievery, run into the emperor’s troops without warning, and come back mortally wounded.

When Chantal spoke her final line, Sabetha wailed. Then, while all the other major players stayed frozen, Chantal rose and donned her eerie, beautiful death-mask and her white robe. Penthra’s shade joined that of Valedon as an onlooker.

Recrimination followed. Amadine stood aside in sorrow and shock while Ferrin, in despairing rage, first cajoled and then ordered Aurin to slay her.

“Now, Aurin, now! She stands bereft of all power! See how her curs crouch in awe. None shall impede you. A moment’s work will teach your enemies fear forever.”

“I shall not teach anyone that I destroy beauty when I find it, nor betray love when I profess it,” said Locke. “Swallow your counsel and keep it down, Ferrin. I am your prince.”

“You are no prince, save you act as one! Our sovereign majesty, your father, has charged you to execute his justice!”

“My father watered fields with the blood of armies. I will not water stones with the blood of an unarmed woman. That is execution, yes, but not justice.”

“Then stand aside and let it be done in your name.” Alondo drew his long steel, taking care to slide it hard against the scabbard for the most sinister and impressive noise possible. “Look away, Prince. I shall swear to your father it was done by your hand.”

“Twice now, Ferrin, have you presumed upon my patience.” Locke set a hand on the hilt of his own sword. “Never shall I stand aside, nor shall you presume again! A third time closes my heart against you and dissolves all friendship.”

“Dissolves our intimacy, Prince. Such is your right and power. Dissolve my friendship, you cannot. I act in this matter as a friend must. So I presume again, though it cuts my very soul, and charge you to remove yourself.”

“I loved you, Ferrin, but for love’s sake I’ll slay you if I must.” Locke drew his sword in a flash. “Advance on Amadine and you are my foe.”

“You are an emperor’s heir and I an emperor’s servant!” cried Alondo, raising his blade to the level of Locke’s. “You can no more run from your throne than you can from the turning of the sun! It is upon you, Prince! Your life … is … DUTY!”

“I HAVE no duty if not to her!” Locke snarled and lashed out, catching Alondo’s right sleeve, as though Ferrin had not truly expected Aurin to strike. “And you no duty if not to me!”

“I see now you are soft as the metal of your naming,” said Alondo coldly, massaging his “wounded” arm. “But I am the true Therin iron. I shall mourn thee. I mourn thee already, unkind friend, unnatural son! Here’s tears for our love and steel for your treachery!”

Alondo’s voice became an anguished cry as he leapt forward. The racketing beat of blade against blade echoed across the crowd; all the jokes and muttering died in an instant. Locke and Alondo had practiced this dance exhaustively, giving it the motions of two men furious and beyond reason. There was no banter, no clever blade-play, just harsh speed, desperate circling, and the brutal clash of metal. The groundlings drank it in with their eyes.

Ferrin was the better, stronger fighter, and he pounded Aurin mercilessly, drawing “blood,” driving Locke to his knees. At the most dramatically suitable moment, Ferrin drew back his arm for a killing thrust and received Aurin’s instead. Alondo took the blade under his left arm, dropped his own sword, and spilled out a red cloth. His collapse to the stage was so sudden and total that even Locke flinched away in surprise. The groundlings applauded.

Locke and Sabetha held one another, perfectly still, while Alondo slowly rose and went to the rear of the stage to receive his white mask and robe.

The final scenes were upon them. The sun had moved to crown the high western wall of the theater. Another fray and tumult; bit players in imperial red advanced their spears upon bit players in the gray and leather of thieves. Calamaxes followed, black robe flowing, red and orange pots of alchemical smoke bursting behind him to mark the use of his sorcery. At last the screams died; Amadine’s subjects were wiped out. The slaughtered thieves and guardsmen rose as one, donned robes and masks, and joined the looming chorus of ghosts.

Jasmer pulled Locke and Sabetha to their feet, pushed them apart, and stood dividing them.

“The kingdom of shadows is swept away,” said Jasmer. “His majesty, tendering your safety, bid me watch from afar and then retrieve you. I see your duty is nearly done, though it cost you a friend.”

“It has cost me far more than that,” said Locke. “I shall not go with you, Calamaxes. Not now or ever.”

“Your life is not your own, my prince, but something held in trust for the million souls you must rule. You as heir secure their peace. You slain or lost to dalliance condemns them to mutiny and civil war. You who claim the throne are claimed by it as tightly.”

“Amadine!” said Locke.

“She must die, Aurin, and you must rule. You will find the strength to raise your sword, or I will slay her with a spell. Either way, my tale shall flatter you to your father’s court, and none live to contradict me.”

Locke picked up his sword, stared at Sabetha, and cast it back down to the stage.

“You cannot ask me to do this.”

“I do not ask, but instruct,” said Jasmer with a bow. “And if you cannot, then, the spell.”

“Hold, sorcerer!” Sabetha brushed past Jasmer and took Locke’s hands. “I see the powers that sent you before me conspired as much against your will as my realm. Take heart, my love, for you are my love and never shall I know another. Let it be a final and fatal honesty between us now. My kingdom is gone and yours remains to be inherited. Show it much kindness.”

“I shall rule without joy,” said Locke. “All my joy lives in you, and that but shortly. After comes only duty.”

“I shall teach you something of duty, love. Here is duty to myself.” Sabetha pulled a dagger from her sleeve and held it high. “I am Amadine, Queen of Shadows, and my fate is my own. I am no man’s to damn or deliver!”

She plunged the dagger between her left arm and breast and fell forward gently, giving Locke ample time to catch her and lower her across his knees. Sobbing was easy; even the sight of Sabetha pretending to stab herself was enough to put rivers behind his eyes, and he wondered if this touch would be admired as acting. He held her tight, rocking and crying, under Jasmer’s stern, still countenance.

At last, Locke released her. Sabetha rose and walked with languorous grace to the waiting line of phantasma, who received her like courtiers and concealed her in the most elaborate cloak and mask of all.

Locke stood and faced Jasmer, composing himself.

“When I am crowned,” he said, “you shall be turned out of all my father’s gifts, your name and issue disinherited. You shall be exiled from Therim Pel, and from my sight, wherever that sight should fall.”

“So be it, my prince.” Jasmer reached forth and lowered a gold chain of office onto Locke’s shoulders, followed by his crown. “So long as you return with me.”

“The way to the throne is straight with never a turning,” said Locke. “Save this which I had, to my sorrow. I shall return.”

The phantasma parted, forming two neat ranks, revealing Sylvanus seated, unmoving, on his throne. Locke walked slowly toward him, between the rows of ghosts, with Jasmer three paces behind. Finally, Locke knelt before Sylvanus and lowered his head.

7

UNCANNY SILENCE ruled for the span of a few heartbeats. While Locke knelt in submissive tableau, the nearest two phantasma swept off their robes and masks to reveal themselves as Calo and Galdo of the Chorus.

They strolled to the end of the stage and spoke in unison: “The Republic of Thieves, a true and tragical history by Caellius Lucarno. Gods rest his soul, and let us all part as friends.”

The crowd responded with cheers and applause. Sylvanus cracked a smile and beckoned for Locke to stand. Small objects flew through the air, but they were all being thrown against the walls and galleries to either side of the stage. Gods, they’d done it! Only a satisfied audience expended their hoarded vegetables and debris away from the stage; it was the ultimate mark of respect from Therin groundlings.

Alondo and Sabetha took off their death-masks and moved to stand abreast with Locke. Together they bowed, then made way for Bert and Chantal to do the same. Next came Sylvanus and the bit players. Only Donker remained dressed as a ghost.

Moncraine threw back his hood and took the center of the stage. “My gracious lords and ladies of Espara,” he proclaimed, stifling the cheering, “gentlefolk and friends. We, the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company, have obtained much benefit from the generosity of our noble patron. In fact, so passionate is my lord Boulidazi’s attachment to our venture that he insisted on rendering the most direct assistance possible. It is my great honor to give you my lord and patron, the Baron Boulidazi!”

Moncraine had done his part with excellent pretense of enthusiasm. Locke licked his lips and prayed Djunkhar Kurlin had the nerve to do the same.

Donker allowed the phantasma cloak to fall back, revealing an expensive suit of Boulidazi’s clothing, requested the previous night in one of Sabetha’s forged notes. They fit Donker as though tailored to the hostler’s frame. In accordance with Locke’s strict instructions, Donker swaggered into Jasmer’s place on the stage. Jasmer and the other members of the company bent their heads to him in unison; the bit players were taken by surprise but rapidly made their obeisance as well, and then the first dozen or so ranks of the crowd. Shouts of disbelief echoed down from the balconies where Boulidazi’s friends and associates sat, followed by appreciative laughter and clapping.

Donker pointed to them and pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. Then he faced the box of Baroness Ezrintaim, extended both arms toward her, and bowed from the waist, all without removing his phantasma mask.

Then, just as Locke had directed, he turned and trotted back to the attiring room. As the rest of the company took a final bow together, most of the crowd seemed amused or at least bemused by what had just transpired, and then the noisy jostling for the exits began in earnest. Musicians started playing again. The company left the stage, hounded only by a few lingering drunks and those loudly begging kisses, particularly from Chantal, Sabetha, and Alondo.

Locke pushed past the bit players within the attiring chamber and cast off his wire crown. Jean held up a hand and nodded again, and a wave of relief made Locke’s knees nearly turn to water. Sabetha saw it too, and clutched Locke’s arm.

Donker’s instructions had been to hurry into the attiring chamber and, during the brief moments the bit players remained onstage, take a running leap into the prop wagon and be concealed under a sheet by Jean. Locke knew it was tempting fate to expect Donker to lie quietly in sweltering darkness just above a corpse, but there was nothing else for it. “Boulidazi” had to vanish like a passing breeze, as Donker couldn’t unmask or even utter a single syllable without breaking the fragile illusion. Jean had been fully prepared to bash him on the head if he balked.

“Where has the baron gone?” said one of the bit players.

“My lord’s friends were waiting to collect him,” said Jean. “You can imagine how busy the baron must be tonight.”

“Now for the envoy of ceremonies,” whispered Locke to Sabetha. “Quickly, before the wait annoys her.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“I think it’s our best chance.” He outlined his plan, and she smiled.

“It’s no dumber than anything else we’ve done today!”

The attiring chamber was thick with relieved and sweaty bit players, all collecting robes and masks and props under Jenora’s demanding direction. There was no time for leisure; the bit players had to be paid off for their work and sent away without the usual camaraderie and drinking. The company’s goods had to be packed and rolling toward the rendezvous with Nerissa Malloria before Malloria herself decamped from the Old Pearl. That was everyone else’s business, though. Locke and Sabetha swiftly shed their costume weapons (it was unlawful for them to display such things offstage) and dashed for the courtyard.

Out into the sunlight again, past the dregs of the escaping groundlings, through the detritus of fruit peels and spilled beer, they ran up the stairs to the balcony sections and nearly collided with a pair of guards outside the Baroness Ezrintaim’s box.

“We request an audience with the lady Ezrintaim,” said Locke, holding up the signet ring they’d taken from Boulidazi the night before. “We come urgently, on behalf of the Baron Boulidazi.”

“The lady will not receive players in her private box,” said one of the guards. “You must—”

“None of that,” came the voice of the envoy of ceremonies. “Admit them, and see that we have privacy.”

Locke and Sabetha were allowed onto the balcony, where they found Ezrintaim at the rail, looking down at the stage and the drudges (paid for by Moncraine) sweeping the courtyard. The baroness turned, and the two Camorri bowed more deeply than required.

“Well,” said Ezrintaim, “your noble patron does come and go rather as he pleases, doesn’t he? This is the second time I’ve expected him and met part of his troupe instead.”

“My lord Boulidazi sends his most earnest and abject apologies, my lady, that he cannot visit you as you required,” said Locke. “Leaving the stage just now, he stumbled and injured his ankle. Very badly. He cannot stand at the moment, let alone climb stairs. He placed his signet in our hands as his messengers, and bid us offer it if you wished to verify—”

“My, my. The Baron Boulidazi is less than careful in his habits. Do put that down, boy, I’ve no need to bite the baron’s ring. I’ve seen it before. Is your lord still here?”

“Some of his friends insisted he be taken to a physiker immediately, my lady, and without causing a scene,” said Sabetha. “My lord was in considerable pain and may not have adequately resisted their blandishments.”

“Refusing temptation isn’t Lord Boulidazi’s particular strength,” said Ezrintaim, staring at Sabetha more intently than Locke would have liked. “But if he’s done himself an injury I won’t begrudge his friends using their brains for once.”

“He, ah, that is, my lord hopes that you will consent to be his guest at any convenient time following tomorrow’s performance,” said Locke. This was a risky ploy if Lady Ezrintaim had any reason to find the offer insulting, but if it helped strengthen the impression that Boulidazi was presently alive and planning an active social calendar, it meant everything to their deception.

“I see.” Ezrintaim steepled her fingers before her chest. “Well, it would be convenient, and the sooner the better. I expect you two will also be in attendance.”

“My lady,” said Locke, “we would appear if so commanded, but we are only players in my lord Boulidazi’s company, and I don’t see—”

“Lucaza,” said the baroness, “I should perhaps disabuse you of the notion that I am unaware of Lord Boulidazi’s intentions toward your cousin Verena.”

“I, uh—” Locke felt much as he would have if Ezrintaim had adopted a chausson fighting stance and kicked him in the head.

“You know what we really are!” said Sabetha in smooth Throne Therin, saving Locke from another useless sputter.

“Countess Antonia relies on me to be something of a social arbiter as well as her envoy of ceremonies,” said Ezrintaim in the same tongue. “Gennaro is an eligible young peer of Espara who has lost the close guidance of his elders. I prevailed upon several members of his household staff to report on his behavior. Gennaro is, let us say, rather forthright with them concerning his desires.”

“Does our presence in Espara cause you difficulty, my lady?” said Locke, trying to force himself to be as collected as Sabetha was.

“You’ve been reasonably discreet, though I will say that none of you have considered the needs of the larger world around you.” She fixed her gaze on Sabetha. “I don’t necessarily believe it would do any harm to Espara to strengthen its ties with Camorr through a marriage. If, of course, that ever was your genuine intention.”

“I haven’t misled Gennaro,” said Sabetha forcefully. “He is … overbearing and presumptuous, but in all other respects he is quite acceptable. And we share a significant interest in several arts.”

“Did your family instruct you to freely choose a future husband during your sojourn in Espara, Verena? I’d find it very strange if they did. I think you’ve allowed yourself to forget that you are your family’s to dispose of. My sources haven’t reported which family that is, but I require this much honesty: Are you a member of a Five Towers clan?”

Sabetha nodded.

“Then you know very well that you serve a duke who may require your marriage elsewhere for political reasons! Even if he doesn’t, you will still require Nicovante’s permission to wed, much as Gennaro will need Countess Antonia’s.” Ezrintaim rubbed her forehead and sighed. “Should you ever feel any resentment that I have looked into the affairs of Lord Boulidazi’s household, please do remember that I am specifically empowered to avoid thoughtless entanglements like the one you two and Gennaro would have concocted for all of us.”

“We didn’t mean to leap into it instantly,” said Sabetha. “We meant to take several years.”

“There, at least, you show a grain of wisdom,” said Ezrintaim. “But patient arrangements are quickly set aside when a woman’s stomach swells.”

“I can make tea with Poorwife’s Solace, the same as any woman,” said Sabetha. “I have been thoroughly instructed in avoiding the … imposition of a child.”

“Rest assured it would be an imposition,” said Ezrintaim. “I will assume that any such occurrence, no matter what sort of accident you plead, is a deliberate attempt to secure a hasty marriage to Lord Boulidazi. I will never threaten your personal safety, but I will certainly threaten your happiness. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, my lady,” said Sabetha.

“Good. Let us speak no more of this until we are under Lord Boulidazi’s roof. Now, your company did tolerably well today. A brisk staging despite your winnowed numbers. I’ll deliver a favorable report, and I expect that attendance tomorrow will benefit. Dare I assume that Lord Boulidazi has now satisfied his urge to flounce about onstage as a bit player?”

“I fear Gennaro won’t be flouncing anywhere for some time,” said Sabetha. “His attendance tomorrow will be far more conventional.”

“Also good. I suppose you’re eager to return to his side.”

Sabetha nodded vigorously.

“Then do so. Please express my desire for his swift recovery. And that he might act in a more considered fashion, henceforth.”

Locke and Sabetha excused themselves, then raced back across the Old Pearl courtyard toward the attiring chambers. Locke’s head swam with the realization of what a fool he’d been to neglect the possibility that the nobles of Espara might have their own sources of intelligence, their own plans and expectations. Baroness Ezrintaim was more right about one thing than she could know. He had arrogantly neglected the wider world in his scheming.

“I think that was the strangest damned lecture I have ever received,” he said to Sabetha.

“You too, huh?”

8

ZADRATH’S HYACINTH Lane Aquapyria was the most reputable bathhouse in Espara, featuring warm baths, cold baths, steam rooms, and a variety of services both openly advertised and discreetly arranged. Within its courtyard lay a tall central building fronted with decorative columns, surrounded by private outbuildings, one of which had been secured for the use of Lord Boulidazi and his entourage.

Welcome clouds were thickening overhead when the Moncraine-Boulidazi wagon pulled into the Aquapyria’s court, scarcely an hour after the end of the play. Locke, Sabetha, Jasmer, Calo, and Galdo rode, and Donker still lay miserably concealed somewhere in the heart of the wagon’s contents. Locke and Galdo, dressed in threadbare but serviceable footman’s jackets from the company’s property, leapt out, entered the reserved bathhouse, and chased out the blue-trousered, bronze-muscled attendants.

“Lord Boulidazi will be here any minute!” cried Locke, pushing the last of them out the door. “He desires privacy! He has injured himself and is in a foul mood!”

When the courtyard was clear, Locke and Galdo helped Donker out of the wagon and into the bathhouse, taking just a few seconds to make the move. Jasmer and Sabetha followed. Calo took the wagon to the stable, there to check the horses and quite literally sit on the corpse of Boulidazi.

Each private bathhouse had a theme to its decorations, and the one secured for “Boulidazi’s” use featured toads. Silver and iron toads surmounted all the basin fixtures, and the walls were murals of toads wearing crowns and jewelry while luxuriating in hot baths. A square sunken bath of white and green tiles dominated the middle of the room; it was about three yards on a side, and its lavender-scented waters steamed. Beside it, on a low refreshment table, several requested wines and brandies had been set out with a tray of sweets and bottles of aromatic oils.

On the left-hand wall a door led into a large steam room, where water could be poured on a brazier of coals to suit the tastes of those lounging inside.

Donker instantly collapsed against a wall, shuddering and gagging. He was frightfully pale.

“Easy there, Donker.” Locke put a hand on his back. “You’ve been amazing so far. You’ve saved everyone—”

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Donker growled, gulping deep breaths and obviously straining to avoid throwing up. “You just leave me the hell alone. This is worse than I ever dreamed.”

“Well, it’s not over yet,” said Locke. “We still need your clothes.”

Donker surrendered them clumsily. Locke pulled a dressing screen closer to the door and arranged Boulidazi’s wardrobe on and around it, haphazardly. Dagger and jacket he hung from the screen. Silk tunic, boots, vest, and trousers he scattered on the floor.

Sabetha threw her own shoes and costume components on the tiles near the bath. She retained only her black hose and a dressing gown. Locke did his best to look like he wasn’t staring, and she did an admirable job of pretending she wasn’t encouraging him. Once the floor was in sufficient disarray, Sabetha grabbed Donker by the front of his undertunic and steered him to the steam room.

“Donker’s right,” muttered Moncraine as he followed. “This entire plan is thinner than old parchment at too many points.”

“We’re not doing so badly,” said Locke. “If we can just get past this we’re safe home with the money in our hands.”

Donker, Jasmer, and Sabetha closed themselves up in the steam chamber. Locke used some of the aromatic oils to slick his hair back, and donned a pair of costume optics provided by Jenora. He positioned himself next to the door, while Galdo ate sweets and examined the wine bottles.

There was a knock at the door not two minutes later.

Instantly, Jasmer moaned in a manner that was half-pained and half-sensual. He’d been retained for this portion of the scheme for one reason—he alone had the depth and flexibility of voice to imitate Baron Boulidazi.

Locke opened the front door of the bathhouse. Nerissa Malloria stood there holding a reinforced wooden box, with one of her burly hirelings at her shoulder. The other waited with the carriage that had brought them.

“Ahhhhhhh,” cried Moncraine. “Ahhh, gods!”

“Mistress Malloria,” said Locke, coughing into his hand. “Please come in. My lord Boulidazi instructed us to expect you.”

“I said more wine, damn your dry balls,” shouted Jasmer. “Where is it?”

Galdo busied himself with a wine bottle and a pair of glasses.

“Very interesting,” said Malloria, stepping over the threshold and moving carefully to avoid the clothes scattered on the floor. Her man remained outside and closed the door. “I’m to present this to the baron and obtain his mark on a chit.”

“The, ah, baron, my master, tripped and fell after the play,” said Locke. “He hurt his ankle quite severely. His, ah, that is, Verena … Verena Gallante is comforting him while we wait for a physiker.”

“Comforting him,” mused Malloria.

“Ahhhhhh,” moaned Jasmer, and there was a slapping noise. “Now, now, you can keep doing that in a moment. The wine! Fetch the damn wine!”

The door to the steam room burst open, and gray tendrils slithered out into the air of the main room. Sabetha stood there, gown in hand, topless. She pretended to notice Malloria for the first time, half screamed, and wound the dressing gown around herself in a flash. Then she closed the door to the steam room.

“Apologies,” she giggled. “My lord Boulidazi is in need of ministration. And wine.” She snapped her fingers at Galdo, who passed over a tray with the glasses and open bottle.

“Ministration,” smirked Malloria. “I’m sure that’s just what he needs to recover from any … infirmity.”

“Malloria! Is that Malloria?” Locke had to credit Moncraine for his impression of Boulidazi, though perhaps the impresario’s resentment colored the act with a touch too much petulance. “Good, good! Sorry I can’t receive you at the moment. Just wait a bottle or two, there’s a good woman.”

Sabetha slipped back into the steam room with the wine. Muffled giggles and laughter followed.

“Don’t bother with the damn glasses,” yelled Moncraine. “Just give the bottle here. That’s it. I’ll put my lips on this, and as for yours …”

Locke stood at attention against the wall and tried to look profoundly embarrassed. Galdo hung his head and slunk back to a place on the far wall.

Jasmer’s appreciative moaning drifted from the steam room for some time. Malloria’s dark amusement faded into obvious irritation.

“Um,” said Locke, quietly. “I do have my lord’s signet ring.…”

Malloria raised an eyebrow at him.

“That is, he’s entrusted it to me while he’s … occupied. If you wished to—”

“Why not?” she said. “If Lord Boulidazi has no time for me, far be it from me to presume upon his attention.”

She set the wooden box down next to the wine and brandy bottles, then unlocked it with a key hung around her neck. She handed a piece of parchment to Locke, who examined it while heating a stick of wax over one of the room’s non-alchemical lamps.

Locke inked a quill and wrote “Received” at the bottom of the chit. He then gave the document a splash of wax and pressed Boulidazi’s signet into it.

“I’ll need to retrieve the box before tomorrow’s performance,” she said as they waited for the signet imprint to harden.

“Come to Gloriano’s Rooms anytime after sunup,” said Locke. “And, ah, my lord would wish … that is, were he not … distracted—” Locke fumbled two silver coins out of a belt pouch and passed them to her. “Some suitable, ah, gratuity for your trouble.”

And for your silence, thought Locke. It was a safe bet that here, as in Camorr, the well-off relied on open purses to smooth over their poor behavior. Malloria gratified him by touching the coins to her forehead in salute.

“Appreciated,” she said. “I’ll send a man for the box before noon tomorrow.”

Locke bolted the door behind her, then ran to the steam room and threw the door open. Moncraine swaggered out, drinking from the bottle of wine, followed by Sabetha in her dressing gown and Donker with a haunted expression on his face. They all gathered at the coin box and peered at the contents. Here and there a silver coin gleamed against the copper.

“That’s … more money than I’ve ever seen,” muttered Donker. “Must be pretty heavy.”

“Shit,” said Sabetha. “Donker’s right about that. Where are we going to hide it now that we’ve got it? We can’t have the company members walking around with their pockets jangling. It’ll contradict the story that all the money vanished with Boulidazi.”

“Maybe Mistress Gloriano can hide it,” said Donker.

“I wouldn’t ask her to,” said Locke. “Her place is going to be full of constables once we report Boulidazi’s tragic fire. Some of them might take the place apart out of boredom or thoroughness.”

“I hope you’re not about to suggest that we let you take it out of the city,” said Jasmer.

“Of course not,” said Locke. “All we want is enough to let us get home. The rest is yours, if we can find some way to dole it out in portions that won’t get anyone hanged.”

Moncraine braced himself against the box and stared into its depths for some time. Then he snapped his fingers and grinned.

“Salvard,” he said. “Stay-Awake Salvard! The good solicitor. He’ll hold it at his offices, no questions asked. One of his more discreet services for clients who can’t or won’t trust a countinghouse. There’ll be a fee, of course, but what do we care? I’ll take it myself.”

“And I’ll go with,” said Galdo, folding his arms.

“Of course.” Moncraine’s smile nearly reached his ears. “You can carry the box. And someone will need to summon a hired carriage; we can’t walk across the city with the damned thing plainly visible.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Locke, moving to the front door. “Can the rest of you clean up in here?”

“We should leave a bit of a mess,” said Sabetha, tossing a wineglass into the steaming bath. “Pour some of these bottles into the floor drain. Whoever cleans up will be able to report that Lord Boulidazi must have had a lot to drink before he went off to have his … accident.”

“Lovely notion,” said Locke, elated. “Right. Fix this place up. I’ll get a carriage and tell the Aquapyria folk that Boulidazi will be here another hour or so. Let’s have Calo roll off quietly, and we’ll all sneak out and meet up on the next block. Then back to Gloriano’s for the, ah, last scene of this production!”

Not half past the sixth hour of the evening, Calo, Locke, Sabetha, and Donker clattered in a leisurely fashion through the neighborhoods of Espara, plainly dressed and with their theatrical property tarped over. Nobody recognized them or gave them any trouble.

At Gloriano’s, they found the rest of the company safe but for many rampant cases of nerves. As per the plan, they had chased off all the would-be drinking fellows and raconteurs and parasites with the story that they wanted order and sobriety prior to the Penance Day performance, promising a huge debauch afterward. Locke grinned, and immediately huddled in a whispered conference with Jean, Jenora, Alondo, Chantal, Sylvanus, and Bert.

“We’ve done it!” Locke said. “Stay-Awake Salvard will hold the money. Jasmer and Castellano have gone off to leave it with him. You’ll all have to take it slowly, bit by bit. And be sure that Donker gets a full share; he’s what you might call fragile.”

“My cousin’ll find his feet soon enough,” said Alondo. “And I’ll make damn sure he gets his cut.”

A general air of relief swept the room. Although Locke wasn’t relishing the task of dressing Boulidazi’s corpse, and he knew neither of the Gloriano women would appreciate the only obvious location for an all-consuming accidental fire, the worst was past and the rest could wait for the fall of darkness. Jenora’s aunt set to work roasting long strips of marinated beef in her wood-fire hearth. Sylvanus made the acquaintance of a bottle of plonk, and the others relaxed with cups of ale.

Just after the seventh hour of the evening, Galdo burst into the room, covered in sweat and quite alone.

9

“I’M SORRY,” Galdo gasped, as soon as they’d all moved to the privacy of the room where they’d unveiled Boulidazi’s corpse that morning. “I’m so sorry! He asked me to make sure the carriage was held. He sounded so damned reasonable, like we do, you know? He said that if he had to walk back to the inn he’d strip my hide. He took the box … about fifteen minutes later I lost patience. I went looking for him, and when I asked Salvard’s clerk for Jasmer Moncraine, the man looked at me like I’d been drinking. That’s when I figured it out.”

“Moncraine’s taken the money and buggered us all,” whispered Alondo.

“Beggared us all,” said Jenora. “I can’t even … I don’t know what to say. It’s like all the gods are having a long hard laugh at our expense.”

Sylvanus threw his bottle to the ground and buried his face in his hands. No more eloquent commentary was possible, thought Locke, than that a situation would make Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus waste wine.

“I’m a gods-damned fool,” said Galdo. “I should have known.”

“He’s an actor,” said Sabetha. “More’s the pity, a good one.”

“Let’s get after him,” said Calo. “He can’t be dumb enough to have gone to any of the landward gates, the way they’re guarded! He’d be insane to put himself on the roads knowing an alarm was a few hours behind at best. So where would he go?”

“The docks,” said Chantal.

“Well, then, let’s find him and cut off that damn hand he was scheduled to lose! He’s a big old fellow, how hard can it be?”

“We’ve got no standing here,” said Locke. “Remember? We’ve got no right or call to push anyone around; we are merely actors so long as we’re in Espara.”

“And you’ll never find him,” said Jenora. “Giacomo’s right, Jasmer won’t go by land. The docks are thick with Syresti and Okanti. He’ll get out on his choice of ships and no nightskin will ever breathe a word of it to the constables. The dockworkers have no cause to love the countess’ servants.”

“So we just … we just let him fuck us!” said Bert. “Is that the plan?”

“No,” said Sabetha. “There’s one thing we can do very easily. We can make it look like Jasmer Moncraine killed Lord Boulidazi.”

“I like the sound of that,” said Locke. “It’ll certainly give the story more weight than Lord Boulidazi getting drunk and setting a stable on fire.”

“A stable!” cried Jenora. “You can’t mean—”

“I’m sorry, Jenora, I know I should have said something sooner. But it’s obvious. We can’t burn the inn down, and we can’t just have him spontaneously combust in the yard. Don’t think of it as losing a stable; think of it as not letting your aunt hang.”

“Castellano, what did you tell the carriage driver after you realized Moncraine was gone?” said Jean.

“I gave him two coppins for his trouble and told him I’d decided to stay awhile,” said Galdo. “I didn’t know what to think. I just didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“Well, you’ve saved us by keeping your head,” said Sabetha. “Here’s the new story. After the play, I went with Boulidazi to the bathhouse. Boulidazi received the money from Malloria; she’ll testify to that, and she has her sealed chit to prove it. We claim that we don’t know what Boulidazi did with the money; all we know is that when he came back here to have a talk with Jasmer, he did not have it with him.”

“Simple enough so far,” said Chantal.

“Simple is how it stays,” said Locke, looking at Sabetha. “If I can presume … I think I know where Verena’s going next. We all saw Boulidazi come here. We all saw Moncraine come here. They had a long private conversation, then an argument. They went out to the stables together for some reason.”

“A few minutes later we noticed the stables on fire,” said Sabetha. “Boulidazi dead in the wreckage and Moncraine vanished into the night. His guilt will be clear even to a child.”

“We’ll need to bring Mistress Gloriano in on this,” said Jean. “I’m sorry, Jenora, I know we meant to keep her out of the lies, but she of all people has to tell the constables that Moncraine and Boulidazi were here tonight.”

“There’s no helping it, Jovanno, you’re right.” She put her arm over Jean’s shoulder. “Auntie won’t be best pleased, but I can get her to do anything we need. Don’t worry about her.”

“This is still a miserable mess,” said Chantal. “Boulidazi’s people may yet try to wring every copper they can from us. Maybe even fold the company and take its assets. Hell, that’s assuming the constables don’t just throw us all in the Weeping Tower as assumed accomplices.”

“I think,” said Locke, “that we might just have a friend in a fairly high place. Or, if not a friend, someone with an abiding interest in keeping scandals as subdued as possible.”

“There’s no subduing the fucking murder of an Esparan lord!” said Bert. “Maybe you Camorri will get yourselves off the hook, but the rest of us—”

“No,” said Locke. “We are absolutely not abandoning you, any of you. Haven’t we done enough to convince you of our sincerity? And haven’t we pulled off some amazing things together already?”

“Fair enough,” grumbled Bert.

“Moncraine fucked us, so we’ll all fuck him right back,” said Locke. “And for what he’s done, let me assure you … he’s made an enemy of our master back in Camorr. He must know it. He’s got enough money to live on for a couple of years, but he’ll never be able to stop running. As for the company … I’m sure we can convince our master to lend a hand there as well. He has resources beyond what you’d believe.”

“At this point I’d believe just about anything,” muttered Alondo.

“We’ll rehearse our story together,” said Sabetha. “Almost like a play. After sunset, we’ll dress Boulidazi one last time and arrange the stable fire. Once it’s roaring, members of the company absolutely have to be the ones to go running and fetch the constables. You all have to act surprised and shocked.”

“Shock will be easy,” said Chantal.

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Calo eased it open, revealing Mistress Gloriano wiping greasy hands on her apron.

“Meat’s done,” she said cheerfully. “And there’s good boiled rice and some apricots … what? Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“You’d better come in and shut the door, Auntie,” said Jenora. “Meat’s not the only thing we’ve got to cook before the night’s over.”

10

“I DON’T believe you Camorri,” muttered Mistress Gloriano as she helped carry the shrouded corpse of Gennaro Boulidazi from the wagon to her stables just after dark. “Assuming this would be the first time I’d ever helped make a body disappear!”

“How the hell were we to know?” grunted Locke.

“I’m in the inn trade in a low part of town, boy. I do like my orderly life, but I’ve had some folk die in my rooms when it really would have been more convenient for them to be found floating in the bay. So a-swimming they went.”

Mistress Gloriano had certainly been upset to learn the truth, but once she’d accepted that Lord Boulidazi had been stabbed by her niece in the middle of an attempted rape, she’d accepted the loss of her stables as a sort of vengeance.

Calo and Galdo had one end of the corpse, Locke and Gloriano the other. They heaved the heavy parcel into a pile of hay, and Gloriano shook a faint alchemical lamp to life. Jean had moved the wagon and horses to the other side of the courtyard, leaving the structure empty.

“Gods, what a smell,” coughed Galdo as they finished unwinding the dead baron. “Reeking meat and alchemical dust!”

“He has looked prettier,” said Calo. “Damn, he’s stiff. This ought to be fun.”

The three Gentlemen Bastards wrestled with the rigor-bound body, fitting it with the jewelry, the boots, and the dagger they’d taken from it the night before.

“Seems a damn shame to waste such a fine blade,” said Galdo.

“Be an even bigger shame to waste a fine pair of Sanza twins,” whispered his brother. “Ugh, his fingers are swelling. I need some help shoving his signet ring where it ought to be.”

Feeling like an idiot, Locke assisted as well as anyone could, until the baron’s signet ring was at least plausibly close to the right place.

“Now then, boys,” said Mistress Gloriano, “if you’re quite finished decorating him, open this oil-vase for me and give him a good soak. I daresay I’m quite prepared to light a match on this motherfucker.”

A few minutes later, orange flames were roaring against the black Esparan night, and all those members of the company that hadn’t run to fetch help were filling water buckets with every outward sign of haste and sincerity.

11

“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.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: RETURNS

1

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.”

2

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.

“First Magistrate Sedelkis,” said Sabetha. “Arbiter of the Change. Come election season, she’s like a temporary fourteenth god.”

“No representative from the magi?” said Locke. “They don’t even send a plate of fruit and a kind note?”

“I understand they vouchsafe this ceremony,” said Sabetha, “so gods help anyone who tries to adjust the tallies. But they’ll never let themselves be seen.”

“Not unless they’re somewhere private with a target for abuse,” said Locke.

On the platform below, some attendants unlocked the chests, while others took positions near the slate boards.

“Fellow citizens,” boomed First Magistrate Sedelkis, “honorable Konseil members, and officers of the republic, welcome. I have the honor of closing the seventy-ninth season of elections in the Republic of Karthain by reading the results into the public record. The returns by district, commencing with Isas Thedra.”

An attendant took an envelope from one of the chests. Sedelkis tore it open and pulled out a parchment embossed with seals and ribbons.

“By the count of one hundred and fifteen to sixty, Firstson Epitalus of the Deep Roots party.”

Loud applause erupted from half the population of the Grand Salon. One attendant chalked the official numbers on a board, while others lit a green-glowing candle and used a long pole to place it beneath the first frosted glass globe.

“Do you wish to concede, madam?” said Locke.

“I think that one was one of the foregone conclusions,” said Sabetha.

“Damn,” said Locke. “She’s too clever for us.”

“For the Isle of Hammers, by the count of two hundred and thirty-five to one hundred,” announced Sedelkis, “Fourthdaughter Du-Lerian, for the Black Iris party.”

The attendants lit and placed another candle, one that gave off a purple-blue light so dark it was a fair approximation of black.

“Well, how now?” said Sabetha, pouring a fresh round of drinks. “Nothing pithy to say?”

“I would never dream of pithing in front of you,” said Locke.

Seven green lights and four black lights blazed by the time Sedelkis announced, “For the Bursadi District, by the count of one hundred and forty-six to one hundred and twenty-two, Secondson Lovaris of the Black Iris party.”

Jean sighed theatrically.

“That poor man,” said Sabetha. “So nearly victimized by unscrupulous relic thieves.”

“We rejoice at his deliverance,” said Locke.

“For the Plaza Gandolo,” boomed Sedelkis, “by the count of eighty-one to sixty-five, Seconddaughter Viracois of the Black Iris party.”

“Oh, Perelandro’s balls, we filled her house with stolen goods!” said Jean. “She was charged with eleven counts of housebreak or receiving! What possible grease could you apply to that?”

“I came up with a story that Viracois was secretly sheltering a distant cousin,” said Sabetha. “And that this cousin was severely touched in the head. Had a real mania for stealing things. Even hired an actress to play the role for a few days. I had Viracois circulate to apologize personally for the fact that her ‘cousin’ had managed to slip away from supervision, and once all the stolen goods were identified and returned, all those sympathetic people quietly rescinded their charges. And discreetly talked to their friends and neighbors, of course.”

“Rescinded charges.” Locke shook his head. “No bloody wonder paying off the magistrate didn’t get us anything.”

“For the Isas Mellia,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of seventy-five to thirty-one, Damned Superstition Dexa of the Deep Roots party.”

“Didn’t even bother much with that one,” said Sabetha.

“Well, you did try to bribe her cook,” said Locke. “And her doorman. And her footmen. And her solicitor. And her carriage driver. And her tobacconist.”

“I succeeded in bribing the doorman,” said Sabetha. “I just couldn’t find anything constructive to do with him.”

“At least I won’t have to eat a hat,” Locke whispered to Jean.

“For the Silverchase,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of one hundred and eight to sixty-seven, Light-of-the-Amathel Azalon of the Deep Roots party.”

That was the last green candle to be lit for a long time, however. The next three blazed black, bringing the total to nine and nine.

“It’s all theater in the end, isn’t it?” said Sabetha. The brandy had brought color to her cheeks. “All our running around in costumes, saying our lines. Now the chorus comes out onstage to recite the moral and send the audience home.”

“Half of them are about to wish they had some fruit to throw,” said Jean.

“Shhh, here it comes,” said Sabetha.

“The final report,” announced Sedelkis, opening the envelope with a flourish. “For the Palanta District, by the count of one hundred and seventy to one hundred and fifty-two, Thirdson Jovindus of the Black Iris party!”

The last lamp flared with dark light.

3

CONSTERNATION ERUPTED on the floor, shouts of joy mingling with accusations, cries of disbelief, and insults.

Sabetha folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and adopted a wide, genuine smile.

“You boys gave me a closer run than I expected,” she said. “And I did have the advantage of getting here first.”

“That’s a gracious admission,” said Jean.

“Your gimmick with Lovaris would have been magnificent fun to watch,” said Sabetha. “I’m almost sad I had to put my foot down on it.”

“I’m not,” said Locke.

“ORDER,” cried First Magistrate Sedelkis. “ORDER!” The cloaked bluecoats surrounding the stage drove their staves rhythmically against the ground until the crowd heeded Sedelkis.

“All districts having reported, I hereby declare these results rightful and valid. Karthain has a Konseil. Gods bless the Presence. Gods bless the Republic of Karthain!”

“First Magistrate,” came a voice from the crowd, “I beg a moment of stage time to amend the record in one small respect.”

“Oh, what in all the hells …” said Sabetha.

The speaker was Lovaris, who separated himself from a group of happy Black Iris notables, pushed through the cordon of bluecoats around the stage, and took a place beside Sedelkis at a speaking trumpet.

“Dear friends and fellow citizens,” he said, while beckoning for one of the glass globe attendants to approach him. “I am Secondson Lovaris, often called Perspicacity, an honor I cherish. For twenty years I have represented the Bursadi District as an enthusiastic member of the Black Iris party. However, of late, I must confess that enthusiasm has been dimmed by circumstances beyond my control. I grieve that I must discuss this in public. I grieve that I must take corrective action in public.”

“Is anyone else at this table hallucinating right now?” said Sabetha.

“If we are, we’re sharing a lovely fever dream,” said Locke. “Let’s see how it ends!”

“I grieve, most of all,” continued Lovaris, “that I must announce my reluctant but immediate withdrawal from the Black Iris party. I will no longer wear their symbols or attend their party functions.”

“Gods above, are you actually resigning from the Konseil?” shouted someone in the crowd.

“Of course not,” shouted Lovaris. “I said nothing about resigning my Konseil seat! I am the Bursadi Konseillor, validly and rightfully elected, as the First Magistrate just announced.”

“Turncoat!” shouted a man that Locke recognized as Thirdson Jovindus. “You ran under false pretenses! Your election must be nullified in favor of your second!”

“We elect men and women in Karthain,” said Lovaris, and it was clear from his voice that he was speaking through a smirk that would have injured a lesser man with its intensity. “Those men and women declare party affiliations only as a matter of their own convenience. I am not bound to surrender anything. My honorable associate should more closely examine the relevant laws. Now, allow me to finish describing the new situation!”

Lovaris took a pole from the attendant he’d beckoned, then used it to extinguish and dislodge the candle from the middle-most black globe. One blank white glass was left in the midst of nine black and nine green.

“Simply because I have left the Black Iris does not mean that I have necessarily embraced any of the positions of the Deep Roots. I am declaring myself a party of one, fully independent, a neutral balance between Karthain’s traditional ideologies. I am fully willing to be convinced to any reasonable course of action in the Konseil. Indeed, I remind my esteemed colleagues that my door is ever open for your approaches and entreaties. I shall very much look forward to receiving them. Good evening!”

What followed could only be described as the crescendoing clusterfuck of the Karthani social season, as half the Konseillors of the Black Iris party, technically immune to constabulary restraint, attempted to storm the stage through a wall of bluecoats who could neither hurt them nor allow them to hurt Lovaris. First Magistrate Sedelkis demonstrated the co-equality of the Karthani judiciary by kicking a Black Iris Konseillor in the teeth, which brought even Deep Roots Konseillors into the fray to uphold the privileges of their station. Bluecoat messengers raced off to find reinforcements, while most of the noncombatant spectators refilled their goblets of punch and settled in to watch their government in action.

“I don’t believe it,” said Sabetha. “How the hell … I’ve got no more succinct way to put it. How the hell?”

“You warned Lovaris we were coming to try and convince him to change the color of his lapel ribbon,” said Locke. “And you know he didn’t buy that offer for an instant. He chewed on my self-respect for a while, then wiped me away like a turd.”

“But we’d already prepared a second line of attack,” said Jean, pouring himself a fresh finger of brandy. “Ego-fodder. Something designed to appeal to his sense that he ought to be the hinge around which the rest of the world turned.”

“Catnip for an asshole,” continued Locke. “Jean offered the second approach, on the theory that Lovaris might be more willing to parley seriously with an envoy he hadn’t just pissed all over. Turned out to be a good guess.”

“And now Lovaris is the most important man in Karthain,” whispered Sabetha. “Now any deadlock in Konseil is going to have to be resolved by his vote!”

“A possibility he found quite stimulating. The other Konseillors might detest his guts,” said Locke, “but they will be at his door, hats in hand, for the next five years, or until he’s assassinated. Hardly our problem either way.”

“And that’s all it took? A friendly suggestion?”

“Well, obviously, he agreed to go through with it only if the numbers added up,” said Locke. “If you’d had a wider margin of victory, he would have stayed silent. And there was one hell of a bribe to sweeten the deal.”

“He settled for twenty-five thousand ducats,” said Jean.

“How does he expect to hide it?” said Sabetha. “The Black Iris are going to rake him over the coals! His countinghouse will be watched, his business dealings will be dissected, any fresh property that turns up will be beaten like a dusty carpet for clues!”

“Hiding it’s not the issue,” said Locke, “since you already safely delivered it to him for us.”

Sabetha stared at him for a moment, then whispered, “The reliquary boxes!”

“I quietly boiled twenty-five thousand ducats down to precious stones, mostly emeralds and Spider’s Eye Pearls,” said Jean. “A lightweight cargo to stash in the bottom of the drawers. Your constables were much more squeamish about digging through the dust and bones of Lovaris’ forebears than he was.”

“I’d thought you’d taken them to hold hostage for his cooperation,” said Sabetha.

“It was the sensible conclusion,” said Locke. “We didn’t feel comfortable hauling a fat bribe to his manor ourselves; too much of a chance someone in your pay would notice us. Maybe even someone working for his household.”

“Try about half his household,” said Sabetha. “So you needed that treasure delivered to Lovaris, and you fed me its location on that boat … gods! How long had you known I had Nikoros under my thumb?”

“We found out nearly too late,” said Locke. “Just about everything he gave you before the boat was legitimately at our expense.”

“Hmmm. To give him the word on the boat …” She rubbed her temples. “Ah! That alchemical store I relieved you of in the Vel Vespala—that tip came from Nikoros. You … you must have given everyone you suspected word of some different juicy target!”

“And the target you stepped on told us who the leak was,” said Locke, grinning. “You have it exactly.”

“You impossible assholes!” Sabetha leapt up, moved around the table, pulled Locke and Jean from their chairs, and threw an arm around each of them, laughing. “Oh, you two are such insufferable weaselly shits, it’s marvelous!”

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” said Jean. “But for the grace of the gods, we might still be cruising the Amathel.”

“So what have we done?” said Sabetha, her voice full of honest wonderment. “What have we done? I suppose I won the election, but … I’m not sure if winning it for about thirty seconds is winning it at all.”

“Just as I’m not sure that nudging a victory into a tie is really the same as winning for our side,” said Locke. “Nor is it quite losing. A pretty mess, isn’t it? One for the drunkards and philosophers.”

“I wonder what the magi are going to say.”

“I hope they argue about it from now until the sun grows cold,” said Locke. “We did our bit, we fought sincerely, we perverted the final results just enough to eternally confuse anyone watching—what more could they possibly want?”

“I suppose we find out now,” said Jean.

“Did … Patience give you any instructions or hints about what to do once the ballots were counted?” said Sabetha. “Not a word,” said Locke.

“Then why don’t we all get the hell out of here and let our employers find us in their own time?” Sabetha tossed back the last of her brandy. “I’ve got a safe house just off the Court of Dust. Rented it for a month, had firewood, linens, and wine laid in. I’d say it’s as comfortable a place as any to rest and figure out what we’re going to … do next.” She ran her fingers lightly over Locke’s left arm.

“Any plan to sneak us out of here without getting swept up in a brawl?” said Jean.

“New skins.” Sabetha produced a scalpel-thin dagger from somewhere in a jacket sleeve and used it to slit one of three paper parcels stacked beneath the chamber’s unnerving fresco. “Much as I hate to take this dress off display, I thought we’d find our exit that much easier if we dressed like the enemy.”

4

AT THE tenth hour of the evening, a trio of bluecoats pushed through the curious crowds at the main entrance to the Karthenium; a slender watchman and a sturdy watchman, led by a woman with sergeant’s pins on her lapels. They disposed of the last few people standing in their way with a combination of shoves and ominous mutterings about official business.

Locke and Jean followed Sabetha about fifty yards west, to a branching side court where a carriage waited. The night had darkened considerably, and as he opened the carriage door Locke’s eye was caught by an orange glare somewhere to the south.

“Looks like a fire,” he said. The conflagration rippled, gilding the shadowy buildings of what must have been the Palanta District with its light.

“Damned big one,” said Jean. “I hope it’s nothing to do with the election. Maybe these Karthani play harder than I ever gave them credit for.”

“Come on, you two, let’s not linger long enough to get noticed by anyone who might outrank us,” said Sabetha.

They all clambered into the carriage together. The driver, obedient to whatever orders Sabetha had given her earlier, shook the reins, and they were off, leaving the results of their tampering with Karthain’s electoral process behind them. Genuine bluecoats were still arriving in force, truncheons and shields drawn, as the carriage rattled over the paving stones, away from the Karthenium.

INTERSECT (IV)

IGNITION

“THE FIRST MAGISTRATE has just read the final district report,” says one of the young men, his voice dreamy, his eyes unfocused. Coldmarrow knows from long experience that the more tenuous and subtle mind-to-mind connections are the most demanding to sustain. Any damned fool can blaze their thoughts into the night for magi far and wide to receive like buzzing insects. The intelligence network now flashing thoughts across the city is straining itself to be utterly silent.

“The last district is Black Iris …” whispers the young mage.

“Black Iris victory,” says someone else. “By the skin of their teeth.”

“It seems that Patience’s vaunted Camorri were no match for ours,” smirks Archedama Foresight. She wears a leather hood and mantle, a dark linen mask, a mail-reinforced cuirass. Like all the men and women in the second-floor solar of Coldmarrow’s Palanta District house, she is dressed for a fight. “We’ll deal with them last, after all the other satisfactions of the evening have been dispensed with.”

“Necessities, let us rather say,” coughs Coldmarrow, taking deep, steady breaths to help rule his anxiety. The air is close, and it smells of all these magi, their robes and leathers, the wine on their breaths, the oils in their hair, their nervous, excited sweat.

“Why not both?” says the archedama.

“There’s a disturbance at the Karthenium,” whispers the young man who has been reporting on the election. “Someone … Lovaris of the Bursadi District. Some sort of announcement. He may be … ha! He may be switching sides!”

“Damn,” says Archedama Foresight. “But it seems to me that there’s no time like the present. All our targets must be absorbed in the distraction.”

“Oh, they are,” chuckles Coldmarrow. “It couldn’t be working better. Are your people in their proper positions?”

“All of them,” says Foresight.

“Then here’s to necessity,” says Coldmarrow, his mouth suddenly dry. “And to the future of all our kind.”

Coldmarrow speaks a word.

The word becomes fire.

A spark flashes in the dark heart of a jar of fire-oil, one of a hundred, tightly sealed, placed in the space beneath the floor of the room a month before. This jar is half-full, containing just enough air for the flame to breathe the vapors of the oil. The explosion is white-hot, shattering the clay vessels, sucking air and oil into the roaring, all-devouring blast.

Not even magi can move faster than this, or protect themselves with so little warning. The floor moves beneath Coldmarrow’s feet, then comes sharp dark heat, stunning pressure, and sudden silence. Coldmarrow dies taking fourteen magi with him, including Archedama Foresight. He has no time to feel either regret or satisfaction; it will simply have to be enough.

The war lasts nine minutes. It is utterly one-sided, the only possible war magi can wage with any hope of total victory against others trained in the same traditions, to the same standards.

Archedama Foresight’s people discover that their own ambush is stillborn, their positions ready-made traps. They have always been outnumbered by the larger faction of magi they derided as meek, and now those opponents apply their numbers to disproving the slander.

No quarter is given, no fair fight allowed. Strength is brought against weakness. Across rooftops, within lamp-lit gardens, inside the halls of the Isas Scholastica and the private homes of sorcerers, the assault is quick and silent and absolute.

As the tipsy, confused politicians of Karthain clamber over one another in a comical brawl at the heart of the Karthenium, seventy magi die in the dark places of the city, taking only a handful of their killers with them.

Navigator finds Patience alone in the Sky Chamber, staring at the bowl of the artificial heavens, currently mirroring the actual sky over Karthain, the rolling dark clouds summoned to lock the light of moons and stars away. Shadow has been drawn over the city like a cloak, to better hide the evidence.

“It’s over,” says Patience. She speaks real words to the air; the silver threads of thought-speech have unraveled unpleasantly across Karthain; cries of pain and betrayal, cries for help that will never come, and Patience has hardened her mind against most of the noise. “Now we have to live with ourselves.”

“Tell our troubles to the shades of Therim Pel,” says the one-armed woman. She wipes a tear from her cheek.

“We are each one in a thousand thousand,” says Patience. “We have destroyed some of the rarest and most precious things in the world tonight. Our distant inheritors may curse us for what we’ve done.”

“We already deserve their curses, Archedama.”

“So long as there’s still a world left for them to curse us in. Come now; help me do it.”

The two women bow their heads, move their hands in perfect concert, and speak words of unweaving that tear at their throats like desert air. The beautiful conjured heavens of the Sky Chamber fade like the memory of a dream, until there is nothing but a dome of plain white stones, grayed with the patina of old smoke.

“Do you wish to see your son now?” says Navigator.

“No,” says Patience, suddenly feeling every one of her years, suddenly wishing for the touch and the laugh of a man who was taken by the Amathel half her lifetime ago. “I’ll speak to Lamora first. But for now I want to be alone for a while.”

Navigator nods and quietly withdraws, leaving Patience alone in the silent vastness of a room that will never be used again.

One final duty remains at the end of this long campaign, and Patience does not yet have the heart to face it.

LAST INTERLUDE

THIEVES PROSPER

1

THE REMAINS OF Gennaro Boulidazi, last of his line, were taken away under his family colors. An apoplectic Brego did most of the work, after being rebuked for his panic and disbelief by Baroness Ezrintaim. She did, however, graciously assign a number of constables to serve as an honor guard.

It was the middle of the night before all the constables and soldiers decamped from within Gloriano’s Rooms, chasing off the small crowd of locals and curiosity-seekers as they went. Baroness Ezrintaim left only a small guard posted outside, their orders to preserve the peace for the “nobles” spending their last night in Espara within.

Jean and Jenora went off together early, to spend that night as they saw fit. The Sanzas, seemingly reluctant to let one another out of their sight, claimed a corner of the main room and drank with Alondo and Donker—not the boisterous drinking of celebration but the quiet ritual of people relieved to still have throats to pour their ale down.

Bert and Chantal fell asleep on one another, wrapped up together in an old cloak. Mistress Gloriano promised Locke she would wake them eventually and pack them off to a proper room. She and Sylvanus then sat together, working on a ribbon-wrapped bottle of some expensive brandy whose existence had never previously been mentioned to the thirsty ingrates pounding her bar for service.

Sabetha was clear and to the point, without words. She found Locke bound up in his thoughts in the main room and dispelled them with a hand on his shoulder. She glanced at the stairs by way of a question, and when he nodded, her smile made him feel something even the cheers of eight hundred strangers hadn’t been able to.

They commandeered an empty chamber. Sabetha used the room’s only chair to wedge the door shut and admired her handiwork with grim satisfaction.

They were tired, the smell of smoke was nestled deep in their hair, and the last thing they needed was more sweat without a bath, but neither of them cared. They were at home in the darkness in a way that only the survivors of places like Shades’ Hill could understand, and alive to one another’s lips and hands as they had never been before. They were still shy, still awkward and unschooled. But if their first night together had been confusing and incomplete, their second … ah, their second taught them why people keep trying.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE END OF OLD DREAMS

1

THE SMELL OF her, the taste of her. Locke awoke in darkness, still awash in those things. His sweat, their sweat, had cooled and dried on his skin, and the bed … he ran his hands over her side of it and found it empty, the blanket thrown back.

He remembered where he was. The upper room of Sabetha’s house off the Court of Dust, the one with the expensively luxurious mattress and the Lashani silk sheets. He couldn’t have been asleep for long.

There was someone in the darkness, watching him, and he knew in an instant it wasn’t Sabetha, knew with every fiber of his intuition who it must be, standing by the faint gray cracks of light at the window.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

“We spoke,” said Patience. “I showed her something.”

Soft silver light filled the room—the cold alchemical globes, in response to a mere gesture of Patience’s. Locke saw her hands moving as his eyes adjusted, saw that she wore a heavy traveler’s cloak with the hood thrown back.

“Where’s Jean?”

“Downstairs, where you left him,” said Patience. “He’ll awaken soon. Do you want to get dressed, or are you comfortable speaking like this?”

The cold Locke felt had little to do with the mere fact that he was naked. He slid from the bed, not caring that he concealed nothing from Patience, and dressed in what he could only hope, ludicrously, was somehow an insolent fashion. He donned trousers and tunic like armor, threw a simple dark jacket on as though it could keep Patience and her words out.

Locke saw that there was something leaning against the wall behind Patience, a flat rectangular object about three feet high, covered in a gray cloth.

“She tried to write you a note,” said Patience. “It was … beyond her. She left half an hour ago.”

“What did you do to her, Patience?”

“I did nothing.” Her dark eyes caught him, seemed to pierce him. Those hunter’s eyes. “To my arts, Sabetha Belacoros is a puppet waiting for a hand, but it would have been meaningless, had I done anything. She had to choose. I gave her information that led to a choice.”

“You utter bitch—”

“I also saved your life tonight,” she said. “For the second and last time. This is our final conversation, Locke Lamora, if that’s what you still choose to call yourself. I’ve come to render all dues and finish my business with you.”

“Do you want to kill me yourself, at last?”

“Certainly not.”

“And … you mean to keep your word? Money and transportation to see us on our way?”

“There’s no money and no transportation,” said Patience, laughing without humor. “You’ll receive nothing else from us. Your countinghouse contacts will no longer recognize you, and your Deep Roots associates already think of Sebastian Lazari as a gray ghost of a memory. Wherever you gentlemen choose to go next, I suspect you have a long walk ahead of you.”

“Why are you doing this to us?” said Locke.

“The Falconer,” she said.

“So revenge was the game after all,” said Locke. “Well, a creature like the Falconer deserved every second of hurt I ever gave him, and fuck you if you expect me to think otherwise!”

“You can’t understand what you took from him,” said Patience, her words hot and thick with scorn. “Your flesh is inert; magic is nothing more than the sound of the wind to you. You can never feel it, feel the words leaving you like fire, like arrows from a bowstring! To know that power welling beneath you and bearing you like a feather on a wind. You think I’m selfish for this? Cruel? It’s less than you deserve! Killing him would have been mercy. I’ve killed magi. But you stole his hands and his voice. You took the tools of magic from him and smashed him like a priceless work of art. You stole his destiny. The archedama Patience could forgive you. The mother and the mage cannot.”

“I refer you to my former statement,” said Locke, his voice trembling.

A heavy tread sounded on the stairs. Jean burst into the room, slamming the door aside without knocking.

“I don’t understand,” he panted. “I was just … You fucking did something to me again, didn’t you?”

“A brief slumber,” said Patience. “I wanted time with Sabetha, and then with Locke. But you might as well hear everything else I have to say.”

“Where’s Sabetha?” said Jean.

“Alive,” said Patience. “And fled, of her own accord.”

“Why do I—?”

“You’ve got nothing more I want, Jean Tannen,” said Patience. “Interrupt me again and Locke leaves Karthain alone.”

Jean balled his fists but remained silent.

“I’m leaving Karthain too,” said Patience. “Myself and all my kind. Tonight ends the last of the Five-Year Games, and our centuries of life here. Whenever the Karthani find the nerve to enter the Isas Scholastica, they’ll find our buildings empty, our tunnels collapsed, our libraries and treasures vanished. We are removing all trace of ourselves from Karthain down to the dust under our beds.”

“Why on the gods’ earth would you do such a thing?” said Locke.

“Karthain is the old dream,” said Patience. “It’s served its purpose. We have gathered strength, honed our skills, and collected the wealth we need to do what we must. There will be no more contracts. No more Bondsmagi. We are retiring from the public life of this world. Never again can we allow such an institution as this to arise.”

“That … that danger you spoke of?” said Locke, unnerved and startled by the magnitude of the changes Patience’s words implied.

“There are things moving and dreaming in the darkness,” said Patience. “We refuse to risk any further chance of waking them up. Yet human magic must survive, so we must learn how to make it as quiet as possible.”

“Why run us through this damned election?” said Locke. “Gods, why not just put us in a room and tell us this shit and save us all so much trouble?”

“Wise members of my order a century ago,” said Patience, “foresaw our direction beyond a shadow of a doubt. We used our contracts to enrich ourselves, but they also made us arrogant. They fueled the impulse to dominate, to see our powers as limitless and the world as our clay.

“These wise men and women knew that a crisis would break, a time for blood, and the only way to win would be to achieve surprise. They envisioned a disruption of our ordinary lives so profound and yet so routine that it could conceal preparations for a fight when the time came. The Five-Year Games became a regular part of our society, a pageant and a release. But a few of us were always trusted with the original intention of the games, and the knowledge that we might have to employ it.”

“So it was all just … a monumental misdirection?” said Locke. “While we danced for everyone’s amusement, you sharpened your knife and stuck it in somebody’s back?”

“All those magi that I once described as exceptionalists,” said Patience. “All those brothers and sisters. I mourn them, even as I know there was no convincing them. They will stay in Karthain forever. The rest of us go on.”

“Why tell us any of this?” said Jean.

“Because I value your discomfort.” Patience smiled without warmth. “I described the conditions of your employment very succinctly. We are not vanishing from the world, merely from the eyes of ordinary people. Share our business with anyone and you are always in our reach.”

“Ordinary people,” said Locke. “Well, how ordinary am I, really? What’s the truth of all the tales you spun about my past?”

“You should look at the painting I brought for Sabetha.” Patience tapped the wrapped object leaning against the wall behind her. “I’m leaving it here, though in a day or two it will be nothing but white ash. It’s the only portrait of Lamor Acanthus ever painted during his life. I ought to tell you, the likeness is impeccable.”

“A simple answer!” shouted Locke. “What am I?”

“You’re a man who doesn’t get to know the answer,” said Patience, and now her smile was genuine. She was shaking with the obvious difficulty of containing her laughter. “Look at you. Camorri! Confidence trickster! You think you know what revenge is? Well, here’s mine on you. Before I was Archedama Patience, I was called Seamstress. Not because I enjoy needlework, but because I tailor to fit.”

Locke could only stare at her, feeling cold and hollow to the depths of his guts.

“Live a good long life without your answer,” she said. “I think you’ll find the evidence neatly balanced in either direction. Now, one thing more will I tell you, and this only because I know it will haunt and disquiet you. My son preferred to mock my premonitions, but only because he didn’t want to face the fact that they always have substance. I shall give you a little prophecy, Locke Lamora, as best as I have seen it.

“Three things must you take up and three things must you lose before you die: a key, a crown, a child.” Patience pushed her hood up over her head. “You will die when a silver rain falls.”

“You’re making all this shit up,” said Locke.

“I could be,” said Patience. “I very well could be. And that’s part of your punishment. Go forth now and live, Locke Lamora. Live, uncertain.”

She gestured once and was gone.

2

JEAN REMAINED at the door, staring at the gray-wrapped package. Finally, Locke worked up the nerve to seize it and tear away the cover.

It was an oil painting. Locke stared at it for some time, feeling the lines on his face draw taut as a bowstring, feeling moistness well in the corners of his eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Lamor Acanthus. And wife, I presume.”

He made a noise that was half dour laugh and half strangled sob, and threw the painting on the bed. The black-robed man in the portrait looked nothing like Locke; he was broad-shouldered, with the classically dark, sharp aspect of a Therin Throne patrician. The woman beside him bore the same sort of haughty glamour, down to her bones, but she was much fairer of skin.

Her thick, flowing hair was as red as fresh blood.

“I’m everything Sabetha was afraid of,” said Locke. “Tailored to fit.”

“I’m … I’m sorry as hell I got you into this,” said Jean.

“Shit! Don’t go wobbly on me now, Jean. I was as good as dead, and the only way out of this was to go through, all the way to Patience’s endgame. Now she’s played it.”

“We can go after Sabetha,” said Jean. “She’s had half an hour, how far could she get?”

“I want to,” said Locke, wiping his eyes. “Gods, I can still smell her everywhere in this room. And gods, I want her back.” He slumped onto the bed. “But I … I promised to trust her. I promised to … respect her decisions, no matter how much it fucking cut me. If she has to run from this, if she has to be away from me, then for as long as she needs, I’ll … I’ll accept it. If she wants to find me again, what could stop her?”

Jean put his hands on Locke’s shoulders and bowed his head in thought.

“You’re gonna be fucking miserable to live with for a couple of weeks,” he said at last.

“Probably,” said Locke with a rueful chuckle. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, we should case this place and pack everything useful we can lay our hands on,” said Jean. “Clothes, food, tools. We don’t have to go after Sabetha, but we’d best have our asses on the road before the sun peeks over the horizon.”

“Why?”

“Karthain hasn’t kept up an army or maintained its walls for three hundred years,” said Jean. “In a few hours, it’s going to wake up to discover that the only thing keeping it protected from the world at large has vanished during the night. Do you want to be here when that mess breaks wide open?”

“Oh, shit. Good point.”

Locke stood up and looked around the room one last time.

“Key, crown, child,” he muttered. “Well, fuck you, Patience. Three things must you kiss before I let you spook me for good. My boots, my balls, and my ass.”

Locke pulled his boots on and followed Jean down the stairs, impatient to have Karthain at his back and slowly sinking into the horizon.

EPILOGUE

WINGS

1

THE BOY IS six. He stares at the Amathel, breathes the lake air, the wholesome scents of life and freshness. He stares at the glinting lights, the jewels in the blackness, the secrets of the Eldren scattered in the depths. The dock folk claim that fishermen in the water at night have been driven mad by the lights, have dived down toward them, pulling frantically, as if toward the surface, until they drowned. Or vanished.

The boy is not afraid of the lights. The boy has power the dock folk can only guess at. He feels a pressure in his temples when he stares out across the waters. He hears something lower and lovelier than the steady wash of the waves and the cries of the birds. The power of the hidden things calls to the power of the boy.

The boy knows the Amathel took his father. He has been told this, but he remembers nothing. He was too young. There is no memory to mourn. The lake of jewels means only life, beauty, soothing familiarity.

All these things. And the power that waits for his power to match it. To reveal it.

2

THE BOY is four, the boy is ten, the man is twenty. His body shifts in this place. Sometimes he is whole, sometimes he is pleased, sometimes his memories are bright and vivid as paintings glowing with the fire of the gods in every speck of pigment.

Sometimes he speaks in a rich rolling voice. Sometimes he moves his hands and feels the fingers there, feels them brushing over surfaces and picking things up. He does not know why this pleases him, why he feels something like the hot pressure of tears behind his eyes, why the joy is so bittersweet.

Sometimes he walks in a fog. His thoughts are wrapped in dull cotton. Sometimes he is on a street and he is confused. He is bound with rope, throbbing with pain, his hands and his mouth caked with blood. His own blood. The rain comes down and men are staring at him, studying him, afraid.

Sometimes he is gazing out across the Amathel, feeling the life of the bird for the first time. A gull, an elegant white thing, wheeling in tight circles. The boy feels its needs, its hunger, the elegant simplicity of the thing at the center of it all. The boy visualizes this as a wheel, a piece of clockwork, a logic circle turning without friction or remorse. Strike, eat, live on the wind. Strike, eat, live on the wind.

The boy moves his fingers to call up his untutored power. He reaches out and takes the life of the bird like a humming thread in the hands that nobody else can see, the hands of power his mother has taught him to use.

The bird is startled.

Its wings fold awkwardly. It plummets twenty feet and bounces hard off a rock, then plops into the water, fluttering and squawking agitatedly, lucky its wings aren’t broken.

The boy needs practice.

3

THE BOY is ten. The boy has run across the hills and forests north of Karthain all night with blood in his mouth. The boy has crouched in the center of a web, still as stone, with venom in his fangs and the faintest sensation of movement rippling across his fur, the air currents of prey fluttering ever closer. The boy has swept high into the sky, chased the sun, learned to strike, eat, and live on the wind.

“You must not,” his mother insists. His mother is powerful, his mother is teaching him her gifts, but she will not let him teach her his own.

“It is not highly thought of, among our kind,” she says. “You are a man! You will think as a man! There’s no room for a man in those tiny minds.”

“I share,” said the boy. “I command. I don’t feel small. If they really are tiny, perhaps I make them big whenever I go inside!”

“You will grow more and more sensitive,” says his mother. “You will tie yourself more and more tightly to them, do you understand? Their lives will become yours, their feelings yours. If they are hurt, you will share all their pain. If they are killed … you may be lost as well.”

The boy doesn’t understand. His mother tells him these things as though there were no compensations. The boy knows that he is alone, among all the magi his mother has presented him to, in his willingness to share the lives of animals.

There is no dissuading the boy. He has tasted life without regrets, life without remorse, life lived on the wind. It is what he is; he returns to himself after each communion feeling that part of the wild has come with, to live inside him.

His mother could make him stop. Even at ten, the boy knows what she holds over him, burns with shame at it. But she will not use it. She lectures and begs and threatens, but she will not speak the thing that would lock his will in an iron strongbox.

She cannot, or will not, but it doesn’t make the boy forgive her. He casts his awareness into hidden places for owls, ravens, hawks. He hurls himself into the sky carrying anger from the ground, and hot blood runs on his talons. He soars to forget he has legs. He kills to forget he has rules and expectations. He never shares this experience with anyone else. He goes alone to the woods, and dead songbirds fall like rain. When he is shamed in his studies or rebuked for his attitude, he remembers the blood on his talons, and he endures with a smile.

4

THE BOY is gone, the man is twenty-five, the man is … lost.

Sometimes he is in the dead gray place. His legs refuse to move. His hands feel like crippled lumps. His tongue throbs with a phantom pain, an electric tingle. He is trapped on a bed as though nailed to it. He cannot remember how he came to be in this place. He sobs, panics, tries to claw his way to freedom with his missing fingers.

Only the smell of the lake relaxes him, the cool fresh scent of the water, the occasional piquancy of dead fish or gull shit. When the wind blows these things to him he can bear the confusion and the torture of the dead place.

When the wind is wrong the shadows around him pour something cold and bitter down his throat, and he goes into the darkness cursing them wordlessly.

5

THE LAKE air blows through the dead place. He takes it in as though no other air will sustain him. It is night; the darkness is offset by the light of a single lamp. Everything is strange; he feels a buoyant force inside his chest, something rising through him like bubbles in a spring. The room is clarifying, as though layer after layer of gauze is being removed from his face.

The light stings his eyes; the new clarity is unnerving. There are shadows moving near the light, two of them.

The man tries to speak, and a strangled wet moan startles him. It takes a moment to realize that the noise is his own, that his tongue is a scrap of cauterized stump.

His hands! He remembers Camorr, remembers steel coming down, remembers the shared pain of Vestris’ last moments washing over him in unbearable waves. He remembers Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen. He remembers Luciano Anatolius.

He is the Falconer, and the air in the room is heavy with the smell of the Amathel. He is alive and back in Karthain.

How long? He feels stiff, light, weak. Significant weight has vanished from his body. Has it been weeks, months?

Nearly three years, whispers a soft voice in his head. A familiar voice. A hated voice.

“Mnnnnghr,” he rasps, the best he can do. The frustration comes on like a physical weight. He can sense the currents of magic in the room, feel the strength of his mother nearby, but his tools are missing. The power is there to be wielded, but his will slides from it like sand off smooth glass.

I’ll take care of it for both of us.

Cold fingers of force slide across his mind, and the impotence, blessedly, is lifted. He feels the words as he crafts them, feels them going out to her, mind to mind, his first orderly communication in … three years?

THREE YEARS!

As I said.

Camorr …

Yes, the Anatolius contract.

How badly was I injured? What did they do to me?

Not enough to cause your present condition.

The Falconer ponders the import of these words, flips desperately through his memories like the pages of a book.

A dreamsteel model of a city. Its towers falling into flat silvery nothingness.

Archedama Patience, in the Sky Chamber, warning him that he is headed into danger.

Steel rising and falling. Cauterizing heat, white bolts of pain in his mind unlike anything he has ever imagined. Vestris, dead. Before the blade can come for his tongue he tries to work the spell of pain-deadening, the old familiar technique, but on the other side of it … not welcome relief. Fog, madness, prison.

Now see it all.

Patience speaks a word, and something comes loose in his mind. A patina cracks over an old memory, revealing the truth within the shell.

Archedama Patience. The night of his departure, a brief private audience. She warns him again. Again, he scoffs at the transparency of her ploys. She speaks another word then, and the word is urgent and irresistible. The word is his name, his true name, uttered as the cornerstone of a spell. He is bound to it, then made to forget.

You … you did it.

A subtle compulsion. A trap. An irrevocable order sleeping in his mind until the next time he used the art of deadening pain.

YOU did this to me.…

You did it to yourself.

YOU DID THIS TO ME!

I gave you the chance to avoid it.

NO. THE CHANCE TO SHOW MY THROAT.

Your arrogance again. Can’t you see that you were a problem in want of a solution?

AND YOUR SOLUTION … ASSASSINATION. FAR FROM HOME.

I suppose that’s the only honest way to look at it.

I’M YOUR GODS-DAMNED SON!

I wear five rings. You put yourself on the wrong side of them.

Well. He forces himself to lower his mental voice, to think coolly. There must be danger here. Why is she telling him this, revealing all after three years? You certainly fucked things up, didn’t you?

All I could foresee was that you were headed into serious pain. Therefore I assumed that you would be in extreme danger … that you would do the obvious thing.

Paralyze myself, you mean! And then it would all be over.

Except your opponents were … scrupulous.

Ah. Is this what scrupulous treatment feels like? Lucky, lucky me.

I told you, it’s not what I wanted!

You and your gods-damned prescience. Your snide little hints. The way you tried to control everyone around you with them. What good was it, if you couldn’t even see THIS coming at us? Tell me, Mother, have you ever managed to have a vision of your OWN future?

No.

Well, that must be pleasant for you. To be the only real person in your whole damned world, and all the rest of us puppets for your private stage. How does it feel NOW?

“It’s over,” says Patience, switching to actual speech. She is beside his bed now, looking down at him. “All of it. Your associates are dead. Archedama Foresight is dead.”

How?

“Irrelevant. You are the sole survivor of your faction. All questions between us have been settled. We’re leaving Karthain, entering the time of quiet as planned. You are my final item of business before I go.”

Come to kill me last? Come to bring an end to three years of cowardice?

“Part of me wishes you were dead,” she says. “Wishes you’d died cleanly, as you would have had you been healthy and abroad in Karthain tonight. I can’t imagine wanting to live on in your … condition. And I will end your suffering, if it’s what you desire. But I felt that I had to ask. I owe you at least this much.”

She points to the other figure in the room, a burly man, balding, with a black mustache that droops to the collar of his brown tunic. There are no rings visible on either of his wrists.

“This is Eganis, your caretaker.” She offers images and impressions, revealing to the Falconer how it has been for three years.

Eganis moving him, rolling him from side to side, turning him to avoid weeping bedsores.

Eganis feeding him, gruel and pap and milk.

Eganis emptying his chamber pot.

Eganis walking him, leading the doddering Falconer by a length of leather around his neck.

A mage of Karthain … leashed …

It was necessary to preserve your health.

Like a dog …

It was necessary!

LIKE A GODS-DAMNED DOG!

You’re the one who always sought to know the spirits of animals more intimately.

He sends no words, but an unrelieved outpouring of hatred so hot and acidic he sees her stagger before she can manage to gird her mind against it.

“You’ll understand when you calm down,” she says. “I’ll leave this house and funds for Eganis to draw on. Without hands or voice, you’re now effectively one of the ungifted, and you will never see any of us again. If you can find some reason to live, you are invited to do so. If you find the thought unpalatable, then I will … I will end the matter quickly and painlessly.”

I will accept nothing more from you for so long as I live. Not this house. Not Eganis. Not charity. Certainly not death.

“On your own head be it,” she mutters. “Eganis will stay. You’re a mute invalid with three rings tattooed on your wrist, and Karthain could soon be a very … interesting place for you.”

There’s no hell for you deep enough to suit my tastes, Mother.

Your ambitions and your researches were a threat to every living being on this world. Consider that, when you cry your tears.

Your TIMIDITY! In the face of the secrets waiting to be unlocked everywhere the Eldren set foot, you want us to stay ignorant and helpless … well, to hell with you. All the real power of the human race is squandered on people like you … the willfully small. You and all your fellow punch lines to Karthain’s worst joke. Five rings! Five prisoner’s shackles!

You would have been free to stick your hand into fire, if only the rest of us wouldn’t have to burn with you. Good-bye, Falconer.

She departs, and the spell of thought-shaping crumbles in her absence. He is alone and voiceless with Eganis. The man looks at the Falconer, then slightly away, as though uncomfortable at seeing him with his eyes open.

“If you ever find the burden of your new life … too overwhelming,” the man mutters, “I am instructed … to offer you mercy. I have powders that can be taken in wine.”

The Falconer glares at the man until he shrugs and leaves the room.

6

NOW THE Falconer notices the autumn cold. He feels it like an ache in his too-thin body. Disgusted, he rolls to his left and attempts to stand on his own two feet.

Success, but only just. Gods, he moves like a man of ninety! His hips ache and his legs seem too stick-thin to bear him, but they do, awkwardly. The Falconer chortles disgustedly at the creaky hop that passes for his walk.

There is nothing useful in this prisoner’s chamber. A bed, a chair, a lamp, a chamber pot. The next room is larger, furnished with a library of several dozen volumes and a small basin. The Falconer hops wistfully to the basin, knowing what he’ll see there. Dreamsteel is ubiquitous in mage households, a decoration and an amusement. The pool is inert to him, dead as water, and the frustration makes him shudder so hard he nearly falls over.

Lips trembling, he prods the silver pool with the remnants of his right hand. He needs fingers, flexible fingers! Then this steel could take any shape required at the press of a thought. When he was five, he could move the metal with a wave of his hands and a single word. Fresh heat rises in his cheeks, and for an instant he hates what he has become so fiercely he actually considers the powders offered by the caretaker.

The surface of the dreamsteel ripples in a place where he isn’t touching it.

The Falconer leaps back, heart hammering, piteously loud in his weak chest. Gods! If his eyes are tricking him … if he didn’t actually see that, he tells himself he’ll demand the powders. His teeth are rattling from excitement as he bends back over the basin. He touches the severed stumps of his fingers to the liquid and stares at it, mustering all of his willpower from its long slumber, all of his fury, all of his inhumanly honed focus and desire. Beads of sweat pour down his forehead.

He shudders with a yearning so profound his breath comes in gasps.

Hair-thin strands of dreamsteel creep onto the stump of his right index finger. Then thick drops, then a tangible curving line. He feels power like a vibration along the silver edge. His grip on the energy of sorcery. His focus. Hot tears drench his cheeks, and his chest heaves like a bellows.

In a minute, he has crafted a single silvery finger, and the process gains speed. With one finger to direct the currents of magic, it is easy to craft a second, even easier to craft a third. Before he can believe it, the Falconer is staring in awestruck joy at a half-metal hand, held together by the trivial flexions of his will—four silver fingers and a silver thumb.

His wail of relief and joy is so loud and undignified that Eganis comes running from below. The man’s eyes widen.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

There’s no need for the old device, the playing of a silver thread back and forth. The Falconer’s hand will now do the job itself. He flexes his mirror-skinned fingers, makes a brush-off gesture toward Eganis, and the caretaker falls gasping to his knees.

The Falconer has power, but it is weak and vague. He needs a voice. Some magic only makes him more desperately thirsty to have it all back. Thirsty! The very idea … and yet, why not? What can caution possibly do for him now? He takes the dreamsteel basin in his new hand and tilts it into his mouth; the metal is cool and strangely salty. It pools beneath the stump of his tongue, slides in tendrils down his gullet, and there he holds it, shapes it, not as a tongue but as a thin resonant surface, vibrating half with sound and half with magic.

Eerie noises like hissing laughter fill the room as he fights to master the dreamsteel, to align it perfectly, to gild his throat.

“EGANIS,” he booms at last. The voice is cold, the words like metal grates sliding shut. “So, you would have offered me mercy, Eganis? YOU … offer ME mercy?”

“Please,” the caretaker coughs, “I meant you no harm! I’ve taken care of you!”

“I refused you as a gift.” The Falconer seizes the basin and hurls it at Eganis, spilling the remaining dreamsteel over him. “My mother should have sent you away.”

He moves his silver hand and speaks in his silver voice. The dreamsteel comes alive and crawls over Eganis, rolling toward his neck.

“No! Please, I can serve you!”

“You will serve me. As proof of concept.”

The Falconer makes a fist, and the loose dreamsteel flows into Eganis’ ears. Parallel red lines pour out beneath the silver ones, and then become rivers. Eganis screams. He clutches the top of his head, and there is a sound like wheat husks cracking. The skull shatters. A wave of silver fountains out behind hot blood and wet brains.

The results hit the floor in many different parts of the room. The Falconer calls the loose dreamsteel back to him, forming a necklace with it. He’ll need to secure more, somehow, to craft another functional hand. Still, what he has should be more than enough to give him back his wild sky.

7

THERE IS a narrow window beside the bookshelf. A gesture from the Falconer and the glass becomes sand, sliding out of the frame, blowing away into the blackly overcast night. Another gesture and the frame hinges rust; the Falconer pulls it out of the wall and lets it clatter to the floor.

He sees that he is somewhere in the Ponta Corbessa, just a block or two north of the docks. He sends his awareness forth, softly and subtly, well aware that none of the magi still abroad in the city will show him an instant’s mercy if he is located. It takes only moments to find what he wants, one of the fan-tailed carrion crows of the North Amathel, sly sociable birds with sharp eyes, sharp beaks, and sharp talons.

The Falconer takes the first crow gently and launches it into the night, using a slim thread of awareness, suppressing his delight at the sensation of soaring. A moment or two reaffirms his affinity for the work, and he extends his control to the half-dozen other crows roosting nearby.

The Falconer’s purloined murder circles over the Ponta Corbessa, hunting both for other crows and a glimpse of a certain cloaked woman. She must still be somewhere in Karthain, and he’ll know her at any distance, so long as she isn’t hidden away under a deep spell.

Seven crows becomes thirty. The Falconer directs them with the precision of a dancing master, sending more and more of his awareness out into the feathered cloud, seeing not through individual pairs of eyes but as a thrilling gestalt, a whirling composite of dark streets, rooftops, rattling carriages, and hurrying people.

Thirty crows becomes sixty. Sixty becomes ninety. They unwind in orderly spirals, north and west, search tirelessly.

It doesn’t take long to find her, at the western edge of the Ponta Corbessa. She is walking alone, toward some rendezvous, and the Falconer recognizes her beyond all possibility of doubt. Blood calls to blood.

His flights of crows, black against the black sky, converge and circle silently, three hundred feet up. In moments he has gathered one hundred and fifty, the most living creatures of any sort he has ever controlled at once. His mind is on fire with the thrill of power; now he has to be quick and certain, before Patience can bring her formidable skills into play, before any other magi can notice what’s going on.

One crow flutters and falls out of the night. The rest follow a heartbeat later.

Patience is on the pavement beside a warehouse, just passing under a swaying orange alchemical lamp. The first crow shoots past her hood from behind, brushing it, squawking and cawing all the way.

She whirls to see where it came from. The next dozen birds fly directly into her face.

Eyes, nose, cheeks, lips—there is no time to be merciful. The ball of sorcery-maddened crows pecks and claws at anything soft, anything vulnerable. Patience barely has time to scream before she is blind and on her back, flailing as more crows pour out of the sky like a black cloud given flesh.

She remembers her sorcery, and half manages a spell. A dozen birds flash into cinders, but a dozen more take their place, seeking neck and forehead, wrists and fingers. The Falconer presses Patience down to the pavement, the writhing flock a pure extension of his will, a crushing dark hand. Grinning madly, he channels a thought-sending to her, hurling his sigil against her shattered mental defenses, and then:

Is this weakness, Mother?

You never understood my talents.

The truth is, they never made me weak.

THE TRUTH IS THAT THEY GAVE ME WINGS.

The beaks and claws of the carrion birds are driven by human intelligence; in moments they have opened Patience’s wrists, pulped her hands, peeled the skin from her neck, torn out her eyes and tongue. She is helpless long before she dies.

The Falconer disperses his clouds of winged minions and sags against the window frame, gasping for breath. He has expended so much of himself.… He needs food. He must tear the house apart for anything useful. He needs clothing, money, boots.… He must be away as soon as he’s eaten, away from this nest of his enemies, away to recover himself.

“The time of quiet, Mother?” He hums the words softly to himself, savoring the eerie sensation of the dreamsteel vibrating in his throat. “Oh, I think the last fucking thing your friends are going to enjoy is a time of quiet.”

Hobbling uneasily, laughing to himself, he moves carefully down the stairs. First food, then clothes. Then to gather strength for the work ahead.

The long, bloody work ahead.

For Jason McCray,
one man who in his time
has played many parts.

AFTERWORD

I’m grateful to Simon Spanton for recommending Antony Sher’s autobiographical Year of the King, a book that didn’t so much directly influence The Republic of Thieves as whet my appetite to portray the players of the Moncraine Company from several angles I hadn’t previously considered. I hope that I may plead to enthusiasts of the theater, as I did to enthusiasts of all things nautical with Red Seas Under Red Skies, to remember that I have not sought to accurately re-create any particular tradition of troupe or performance from our own world, but to arrange selected elements of those traditions in a shape I found amusing.

I’m grateful again to Simon Spanton and Anne Groell for their long-suffering patience and support during a troublesome time; to my brilliant Sarah, who found something broken and helped put it back together; to Lou Anders, Jonathan Strahan, and Gareth-Michael Skarka, who coaxed work out of me when I badly needed to feel capable of it, and lastly to that person whose long correspondence kept me crawling forward in hope during the lowest, darkest point of my life: Thank you.

This concludes the third volume in the Gentleman Bastard sequence, which will continue with The Thorn of Emberlain.

SL                           

New Richmond, Wisconsin, 2008 –
Brookfield, Massachusetts, 2013

By Scott Lynch

THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA

RED SEAS UNDER RED SKIES

THE REPUBLIC OF THIEVES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Scott Lynch is the author of The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, and The Republic of Thieves. He lives in Wisconsin and frequently visits Massachusetts, the home of his partner, SF/F writer Elizabeth Bear. He moonlights as a paid-on-call firefighter for the city he resides in.