by Scott Lynch
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?”
