by Scott Lynch
“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 ou
t 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 vanda
lism. 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.
