by Scott Lynch
14
AT THE very moment Jean Tannen was discovering old women on rooftops, Nikoros Via Lupa was knocking at a lamp-lit door in a misty alley behind the Avenue of the Night Singers on the Isas Vorhala. He had a warm, nervous itch in his throat—an itch he had run out of the means to assuage.
The apothecary shop of the Brothers Farager provided the alley door as a discreet courtesy for those in need at odd hours. This included customers in pursuit of substances not sanctioned by the laws of Karthain.
The burly guard behind the door, wrapped in a heavy black coat, was new to Nikoros; the fellow that had always met him before had been older and thinner. The man let him in regardless, gesturing up the narrow steps with a grunt and leaving Nikoros to find his own way to the rear office. There Thirdson Farager sat slumped behind a counter, threads of some floral smoke wrapped around him like a ghostly shawl, idly mixing powders on a measuring board.
“Nikoros,” said the alchemist, glumly. “Thought I might see you, sooner rather than later. What’s your taste?”
“You know why I’m here,” said Nikoros. Thirdson Farager had always been the sole provider of Nikoros’ dust … had led him to the stuff in the first place, in fact.
“Muse-of-Fire,” grunted Farager, setting aside the glass rod he’d been using in his work. “Need some more lightning for those clouds in your head, eh?”
“Same as always.” Nikoros licked his lips and tried to ignore the hollow, dry sensation inside his skull. He’d meant to put off another purchase for a few days, meant to obey Lazari and Callas … but the urge had grown. An initially aimless walk had drawn him here, inevitably as water running downhill.
“Akkadris,” said Farager. “Well, if that’s what you want, let’s see your coin.”
Nikoros tossed a bag of silver on the counter. No sooner had it landed than something slapped him painfully in his left side. Wincing, he turned and found that the burly door guard had crept up to the office after him, lacquered wooden baton in hand. The man’s bulky black coat now hung open, revealing the light constabulary blue of the jacket beneath.
“This is disappointing, Via Lupa. You ought to know a thing or two about the laws concerning black alchemy,” said the constable with a grin. “That’s ten years in a penance barge sitting there on the counter. Confiscation of your goods. Forfeiture of licenses and citizenship. Exile, too, if you live through your ten.”
“But surely,” said Nikoros, fear clawing at his innards, “there must be some, ah, mistake—”
“Yeah, and you’re the one that made it.”
“I’m sorry,” muttered Farager, looking away. “They got onto me last week. I had no choice. I’d be on a barge already if I hadn’t agreed to help them.”
“Oh, gods, please,” whispered Nikoros.
“It was a smart arrangement,” said a woman, appearing from the door behind Farager. She wore a dark hooded cloak, the sort of thing Nikoros might have scoffed at as theatrical, anytime before the Karthani constabulary had threatened to bring his life to an end. “Thirdson Farager made one that got him off the hook. You might be able to do the same.”
The woman pushed her hood back, revealing long, dark red hair. Her eyes glittered as she began to explain to Nikoros what would be required of him.
15
KARTHAIN WAS the most cultivated and manicured city Locke had ever seen, and the Vel Verda, the Green Terrace, was perhaps its most cultivated and manicured district. The manors and promenades of the Vel Verda were walled in by thick strands of poplar, olive, witchwood, pale oak, and merinshade trees, and beyond it all loomed the crumbling shadow of the city’s old walls. In any other Therin city these would have been lit, manned, and obsessively repaired, but the Karthani hadn’t kept theirs up for more than three centuries.
“This is a private manor, not a restaurant,” said Sabetha as Locke led her up a winding black iron staircase. “If you’ve got some sort of half-witted ambush in mind, Master Lamora, I must warn you that I’ll be severely disappointed.…”
“It’s vacant. One of my Deep Roots ladies holds it from a dead cousin. She’s been lax about selling it off since she doesn’t exactly need the money, but she was happy to let me borrow it for a night.”
“Will I be getting a pile of snakes dropped on my head?”
“Ha. No, and thank you for that, by the way. I was ever so worried about those little fellows while they were away from me. No, Mistress of Doubts, I’ve brought you here to this secluded corner of the city for the nefarious purpose of cooking your dinner myself.”
They came to the second floor of the dark, undecorated manor house, and Locke slid a wooden door in the north wall open with a dramatic flourish. Thus revealed was a tiled balcony with a marble balustrade, overlooking the dark tops of countless trees swaying softly in the autumn breeze. Lanterns in semi-opaque paper hoods filled the area with mellow golden light.
“Ooh,” said Sabetha. She allowed Locke to pull out one of the chairs at the tiny round witchwood table in the center of the balcony for her. “Now, this is more promising.”
“I didn’t just choose the setting,” said Locke. “Tonight I’m chef, sommelier, and alchemist, in one very convenient package, and of course available at a staggeringly insignificant cost if it suits the lady—”
“I’m not sure I brought any coins small enough to pay an appropriate price for you.”
“I practice selective deafness to hurtful remarks, young woman. Though I should ask, are we under observation by one of your packs of old women?”
“No, not here. Much as I could have used a chaperone, they’re busy where they are.”
“They’re damned lucky it was Jean that stumbled over them. I don’t have his qualms about punching old biddies in the teeth.”
“Well, then, why haven’t you vanquished them yourself?”
“Some forms of behavior,” sighed Locke, “simply cannot be made to look reasonable.”
“You don’t say! You might have drugged them, of course.”
“Oh, yes,” said Locke. “Throwing alchemy at old women with gods know what sorts of constitutional complaints. If I can’t murder them on purpose I’d hardly let it happen by accident.”
“That thought had crossed my mind,” said Sabetha, grinning.
“Now how’s your candidate for Plaza Gandolo?” said Locke. “What’s her name again … Seconddaughter Viracois? Got taken in by the constables on a pretty serious charge, I heard. Receiving stolen goods? Stolen goods from the houses of Deep Roots supporters? That’s pretty shocking.”
“And pretty asinine,” said Sabetha, feigning a deep yawn. “Her solicitors will have the matter cleared up in just a day or two.”
“Well, no doubt you’re right not to worry. After all, you’ve got quite a slate of replacement candidates if she should be tied up in the courts. As thrilling a collection of ciphers and nonentities as ever stirred the voters to indifference.”
“Now, Locke,” she said softly, “you and I going on like this before the final results are tallied is like peeking at festival presents before they’re opened. This isn’t the game I came to play tonight.”
“Delighted to hear it! Watch, then, and be amazed as I perform the most menial portion of an amazing alchemical process and claim all the credit for myself.”
On the table stood a silver bucket-within-a-bucket, constructed so that there was an open gap of about a finger’s width between the inner and outer walls. In the center bucket, a bottle of pale orange wine stood in water.
Locke uncapped two leather-covered decanters. He poured their colorless contents into the outer channel of the chambered bucket, then juggled the empty decanters hand-to-hand a few times and bowed.
A patina of frost appeared on the outer surface of the bucket, steadily thickening into a wall of crisp white ice. Puffs of pale vapor rose from the bucket’s outer channel, and a jagged crackling noise could be heard. Locke silently counted out fifteen seconds, pulled on a leather glove, and car
efully tilted the bucket toward Sabetha. The wine bottle, cloudy with frost, was now immersed in slush.
“Behold! I have chilled the wine. I am the true master of the elements. Bondsmagi across the city are handing in their resignations.”
Sabetha rendered applause by tapping one finger inaudibly against the opposite palm. Locke grinned, withdrew the bottle from its semisolid surroundings, uncorked it, and poured two glasses.
“I give you our first toast of the evening.” Locke picked up his glass and touched it gently to hers. “To crime, confusion, and all arts insidious. To the most enchanting practitioner they’ve ever had.”
“That’s awkward, asking me to drink to my own honor.”
“I’m sure a self-regard as robust as your own can easily bear the strain.”
They drank; the sweet orange-and-ginger wine was cold as a northern autumn. Locke poured them each a second glass.
“My turn,” said Sabetha. “To strange little boys and impatient little girls. May their real mistakes … be gentle and far between.”
“Am I wide of the mark, or are you in a better mood than you were three nights ago?” said Locke as he finished his second drink.
“It was quite a mood, wasn’t it?”
“Did you figure anything out?”
“Only that I wasn’t going to find any real answers in one night of brooding. Besides, packing you off in some sort of richly deserved trap always cheers me up.”
“You might see those snakes again, madam, if you keep up that unseemly gloating. Now, I believe I promised you dinner.”
Off to one side of the balcony was a long oak table and a smoldering brazier. Locke threw more chips of aromatic wood into the brazier and gave them a stir. Pleasantly approaching the edge of muddled as the wine mounted from his mostly empty stomach, he examined the piles of ingredients and utensils he’d set out earlier. There was a tap on his shoulder.
“Now, this is not how it’s done,” said Sabetha. She’d removed her black velvet jacket, revealing a white silk undertunic and a loosely knotted scarf just slightly darker than her hair.
“I haven’t even started cooking yet!”
“Where we come from we didn’t cook for one another, remember? We cooked together.”
“Well—”
“Let’s see what sort of mess you’ve got here.” She bumped him gently aside with her hip. Together they sorted out the components of the meal he’d planned—fennel fronds, onions, sliced blood oranges, pale white olives, almonds and hazel nuts, a chicken he’d plucked and dressed, and enough assorted oils to sauté anything smaller than a horse.
“How strange,” she said, “but it looks as though you’ve assembled some of my favorite things.”
“My life is haunted by wild coincidences,” said Locke.
“I suppose I should admire your constancy in one respect, Locke Lamora. All these years and you’re still beside yourself to tumble a redheaded girl.”
“Oh?” His grin faded, along with some of his wine-induced buoyancy.
He reached out and touched a loose strand of her burnished copper hair. “You know, if you take offense at the notion, you have a hell of a strange way of showing it.”
“ ‘Confusion and all arts insidious,’ ” she said, glancing away.
“Did you really restore that color just to keep me off balance? Make me easier to play games with?”
“No,” she said. “Not entirely.”
“Not entirely.” Locke stared at her, trying to force the muscles of his face, usually so loyal and pliable, to twitch into some semblance of a smile. “You know, I hate the way one of us can say something.… We’re enjoying ourselves for the gods know how long, but one wrong word and suddenly it’s like we’re not even in the same room.”
“ ‘We’ is a tactful way of saying ‘me,’ isn’t it?”
“Only this time,” said Locke, “Sabetha, listen to me. You know what I’m after. My cards are on the table and always have been. Am I fixated? Yes. Absolutely. Am I sorry about that? No. I’m standing here with my intentions plain as the rising sun, waiting for you to convince yourself, one way or the other. And I’ll wait for that. I’ll wait until I’m old and bent and need help spelling my own name. But you know, if I had the luxury of any self-respect at all where you’re concerned, I’d be insulted by the idea that I must think convincing you to spread your legs is the big endgame.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know. I do know you want more than that, and for all your faults you give more—”
“Bloody right. I mean, who knows, maybe we could sleep together twice.” He drew himself up, thrust out his chest, and stuck out his tongue. “Limitless ambitions, woman! Limitless!”
“Oh, you bastard.” She punched him, but it was the sort of punch delivered with a warm smile. “So, has it … well, how long has it been, for you? Since, you know—”
“You already know the answer,” said Locke. “Very precisely. Think about the day you left. Go back two nights from that, and there you have it.”
“Not even once?”
“I guess it’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? But no. I tried. I tried to enlist some help. One of the resident cherry tops at the Guilded Lilies.
Turns out a redhead’s just not a redhead if she’s not, you know, twice as smart as I am and three times as infuriating.”
“Three times as smart,” said Sabetha. “Half as infuriating. And … I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. It wasn’t too bad.” Locke rolled an onion across the table and bounced it off a decanter of olive oil. “She was a friend, close to Chains and me. She knew what my problem was, and that pushing it wasn’t the answer. I got a massage that was worth the price of admission.”
“I suppose I should tell you … it hasn’t been the same way with me these past few years. For several reasons.”
“I see.” He felt cold knots forming in his guts, but fought the sensation down. “I won’t lie. My feelings about you are selfish as hell. I don’t like to think about you with anyone else, but … I wasn’t there. You’re a grown woman and you didn’t owe me anything. Did you expect me to be angry?”
“Yes.”
“I might have been, once. Maybe the one real advantage to getting older is that you have the time to pull your head a little bit farther out of your ass. I don’t want to care, understand? You’re here now. With luck … I really hope you’ll be here later. Besides, it seems safe to assume you weren’t swept off your feet by a handsome young Vadran lord with a castle or two to spare—”
“I had some comfort from it, once or twice.” She reached out and touched his arm, not softly, as though she were afraid he might suddenly decide to be elsewhere. “And the rest of the time, it was to empty some pockets. Or a vault. You know.”
“I do indeed.” He reached out, half-consciously, and started fiddling with another onion, spinning it like a top. “In fact, I’m steadily emptying a bank vault because of you with every passing day.”
“Good. Because I’ve never been what anyone would call easy, and I’m certainly not cheap.” She reached up and took his other arm.
“Sabetha, what—”
“I’m making a decision. Now, are you going to quit playing with that fucking onion and see what happens if you kiss me, or do I have to put a sword to your neck?”
“Promise I won’t wake up on a ship?”
“Disappoint me, Lamora, and I make no promises as to where and when you’ll wake up.”
He put his hands beneath her arms, swung her off her feet, and lifted her onto the table. Laughing, she hooked her legs behind his waist and pulled him close. Her lips were warm and still carried the faint taste of ginger and oranges; he had no idea how long they kissed, arms around each other’s necks, but while they did Locke completely lost track of the fact that he was even standing up.
“Whew,” Sabetha said when they grudgingly broke apart at last. She put a finger against his lips. “And look at that, you’re still conscious. Yo
u’re one and one when it comes to kissing in Karthain.”
“That’s a tally I mean to improve … Sabetha? Sabetha, what is it?”
She’d gone rigid in his arms. With his head still spinning from the one-two punch of wine and woman, he slowly turned to look over his shoulder.
Patience was standing beside the little round table, dressed in a carnelian-colored robe with a wide hood.
“Oh, come on,” Locke growled. “Not now. Surely you have better things to do than bother us now.”
“Which one are you?” said Sabetha, calmly and respectfully.
“Archedama Patience. You work for my rival.”
“Patience,” said Locke, “if this isn’t important, I swear to the Crooked Warden, I’ll—”
“It is important. In fact, it’s critical. It’s time we spoke. Since neither of you could be dissuaded from this foolishness, both of you have a right to know.”
“Both of us?” said Sabetha. “What do we have a right to know?”
“Where Locke really comes from.” Patience gestured for the two of them to move away from the food table. “And what Locke really is.”
INTERLUDE
HAPPENINGS IN BEDCHAMBERS
1
“HONORED … COUSIN,” LOCKE hissed, “I need …”
“Do regale me with your needs,” said Boulidazi.
“Air!”
“Ah.” The iron pressure against Locke’s neck eased just enough to permit a breath.
“It’s not what you think,” he gasped.
“Perhaps I’ve been an idiot,” whispered Boulidazi, “but you’ll not find me eager to resume the role.”
“Gennaro!”
Sabetha stood in the balcony door, and her tone of voice was sufficient to check a rampant horse. Boulidazi actually lowered his blade.
“Verena, I … I’m sorry, but your behavior—”
“It’s your behavior that requires explanation, Cousin!”
“I’ve been listening to both of you—”
“You’ve been skulking like a thief!”
