by Scott Lynch
“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 cro
wns 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 n
ot 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.
