by Scott Lynch
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.
“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.
