by Scott Lynch
“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.
