by Scott Lynch
“In light of unforeseen developments,” muttered Jean out loud as he read the tightly scripted legal pronouncements, “and the influx of desperate and diverse refugees … steps necessary to secure the sanctity of the Karthani electoral process … urgently and immediately bar all such refugees from enfranchisement as voting citizens … period of three years! Oh, those cheeky sacks of donkey shit!”
“Quite,” said Dexa. “Now, proceed to the fine details.”
“All constables empowered …” Jean read, skimming irrelevancies and flourishes, “… therefore this directive shall be considered in effect … noon! Noon today! A few damn minutes ago.”
“Yes,” said Epitalus. “Seems it wasn’t quite such an urgent and immediate need that they didn’t want to be sure all of their own Vadran newcomers were registered first.”
“Hells,” said Jean. “I only sent off about half a dozen of ours. We thought we’d have all day! How many new voters did they buy?”
“Our sources say forty,” said Dexa. “So for all your galloping about in the middle of the night, you’ve earned us six votes and the opposition forty, and now we have six dozen of our cousins from the north to store like useless clothes! How do you propose we get rid of them?”
“I don’t.”
“But that’s simply—”
“We made promises to aid and shelter them in the name of the Deep Roots party,” said Jean. “Do you know what happens when that sort of promise goes unkept? How willing do you think Karthani voters will be to put their trust in us if we’re seen kicking respectable refugees back out into the cold before the eyes of the whole city?”
“Point taken,” sighed Dexa.
“If we can’t use them as voters,” said Jean, “we can still take their money in exchange for our help. And we can use them to grow sympathy. We’ll circulate some exaggerations about these people being chased out of their homes. Families murdered, houses burned, inheritances usurped—all that sort of thing. We’re good with stories, Lazari and me.”
“Oh yes, quite,” said Dexa, all the fight leaving her voice at last. “I wager you must know best, after all.”
Jean frowned. This sort of sudden lassitude had to be some sort of friction between Dexa’s conditioning and her natural inclinations. Now it was time to put her and Epitalus back together.
“You wouldn’t have hired us if you hadn’t wanted the best in a very unusual business,” said Jean. “Now, if you’ve got no further plans for the moment, I could use your advice on some of these situations around the city.…”
Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working façade seemed plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid having his wits plastered over.
Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced unself-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of coffee.
“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest things just now.”
Jean passed him the papers from Dexa and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:
These two were upset. Fixed now. Used argument and drink. More of latter.
“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that to me. I’ve got to hit back.”
He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors to lean in closer to him.
“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond the feathers in their own nest?”
“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.
“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial or otherwise.”
“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”
“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”
“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods know where that came from. He’s got no real politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil seat often attracts.”
“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest I go about it?”
“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates. Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the Lady Emerald. If one of Nikoros’ contacts carried him a sealed letter on some boring point of nautical business, you’d have his attention and you wouldn’t need to fly Deep Roots colors anywhere near him.”
“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his empty mug. “I have my next mission.”
6
THREE DAYS later, a lean and scruffy man in a paint-spattered tunic emerged from the misty greenways of the Mara Karthani, where hanging lanterns swayed in the rain and Therin Throne statues in crumbling alcoves gave themselves up slowly to the elements.
Abutting the centuries-old park on its eastern side was the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris, Black Iris Konseil representative for the Bursadi District. The scruffy man knocked at the tradesfolk entrance and was let in by a dark-skinned hillock of a woman, gray-haired but dangerously light on her feet. The scuffed witchwood baton swinging from the woman’s belt looked as though it had met some skulls in its time.
She led the newcomer, still dripping wet, through the richly furnished passages of the house to a small, high-ceilinged chamber where warm yellow light fell like a benediction. This illumination had nothing to do with the natural sky, of course—it was an arc of alchemical lamps above stained glass engraved with common symbols of the Twelve.
The woman shoved the lean man up against one wall of the chamber, and for an instant he feared treachery. Then her strong, capable hands were sliding down his sides in a familiar fashion. Her search for weapons was thorough, but she was obviously unacquainted with the old Camorri trick of the hiltless stiletto dangled at the small of the back from a necklace chain.
Locke had no illusions of kicking down doors and leaving a swath of dead foes in his wake if complications arose, but even a nail-scraping of an arsenal was a reassuring thing to have on hand.
“He’s not armed,” said the woman, smiling for the first time. “Nor any threat if he were.”
A middle-aged Therin man with pale hair and a seamy pink face entered the room. He and the woman traded places as smoothly as stage actors, and she eased the door shut on her way out.
“You can remove that nonsense on your head,” said the man. “At least, I presume it’s nonsense, if you’re who you ought to be.”
Locke pulled off his sopping wig of black curls and his ornamental optics, thick as the bottoms of alchemists’ jars. He set them down on the room’s only table, which had but one chair, on Lo
varis’ side.
“Sebastian Lazari,” said Lovaris as he sat down with a soft grunt. “Lashani prodigy with no genuine history in Lashain. Doctor without accreditation. Solicitor without offices or former clients.”
“The backtrail’s not up to my usual standards,” said Locke. “No loss to admit it, since I didn’t do the work myself.”
“You and your bigger friend are interesting counterparts to the lovely Mistress Gallante,” said Lovaris. “Though obviously not from the same place.”
“Obviously,” said Locke.
“I think you’ve come north from your usual habitations, Master Lazari. I heard rumors a few months ago, when the Archon of Tal Verrar took that long fall off a narrow pedestal. Word was a few captains of intelligence managed to duck the noose and get misplaced in the shuffle.”
“My compliments,” said Locke. “But, ah, you might as well know I didn’t leave anyone behind me interested enough to chase me down, even if your … entertaining theory were to reach the proper ears.”
“Nor shall I waste my time contacting them. The election will be past before a letter could even reach Tal Verrar. No, nothing we say here will be heard by anyone else, save my forebears.” Lovaris gestured at the ornately carved nooks and drawers decorating the walls of the chamber. “This is my family’s memorial vault. Seven hundred years in Karthain. We predate the Presence. As for you, well, I’ve brought you here in answer to your interesting note because I wish to inconvenience you.”
“I’m sure your line hasn’t survived for seven centuries by refusing to carefully examine fresh opportunities,” said Locke. “My note asked for nothing but this meeting. You have no idea what I’m about to offer you.”
“Oh, but I do.” Lovaris smiled without showing teeth. “You want me to consider a turn of the coat. Specifically, you want me to wait until all the votes are safely counted and I’m back in for the Black Iris. Then and only then would I announce that my conscience had forced me to join ranks with the Deep Roots. I understand you’ve promised to invent a convincing story, but you haven’t told anyone else what it is yet.”
Locke wanted to scream. Instead he pretended to study the nails of his right hand and disguised his next deep, calming breath as a bored sigh.
“I’ll have a passable excuse for you,” he said. “And you would find the experience personally enriching.”
“So I hear,” said Lovaris. “Ten thousand ducats in gleaming gold. I supply a chest; you fill it before my eyes. On election night, the chest is to be kept at an allegedly neutral countinghouse by an equal number of my people and yours, until I undertake my public metamorphosis. Once I do so, your people walk away and leave mine the gold.”
“Elegant, don’t you think?” Locke wanted to punch the wall. This was too much. Lovaris had information from confidential conversations with Locke’s half-dozen most trusted associates, information just a day or two old. Still, Locke had stayed calm through worse. “Come now, Lovaris, we both know you’re no ideologue. The whole city knows it. Nobody’s going to be particularly surprised or hurt, and ten thousand ducats will buy an awful lot of anything.”
“Do I look like a stranger to money?” said Lovaris.
“You look like a man of a certain age,” said Locke. “How many more pleasant and healthy years will the gods give you? How much more pleasant and healthy could they be with that extra ten thousand to ease your way?”
“There is a more practical concern,” said Lovaris. “Accepting a bribe is technically an amputation offense, perhaps even a capital one if state interest can be invoked. Nobody pays attention to routine little exchanges, but ten thousand ducats is a very awkward mass of coin, and it doesn’t fit any of the usual patterns. If I did this, I would be hounded by the Black Iris. I’d be the one man in Karthain to whom the bribery laws would be applied! The only place that money could vanish to is my cellars. I wouldn’t be able to join it legally with my countinghouse funds for years, and that’s damned inconvenient. Nor can I simply take a letter of credit, for even more obvious reasons.”
“If you can assume that I’m good for ten thousand in cold metal,” said Locke, “why don’t I leave it to you to dictate how I can best conceal the transfer of funds to you?”
“I think not.” Lovaris rose and stretched. “The most important point to consider is that your little scheme is only worth the trouble if we Black Iris win the election by exactly one Konseil seat. If you win, you’ve no need to buy me at all, and if we win by two seats or more, my turning can’t shift the majority. Frankly, it’s all immaterial, because I don’t believe you’re going to win. I don’t believe you’re going to lose by so little as one seat. You’re correct that I’m no slave to ideology, but it would be tedious and stupid to suddenly find myself on the side of the minority.”
“Many interesting things could happen between now and the election,” said Locke.
“A hazy platitude. You might as well be conducting your business in public squares, Lazari. I’ve revealed how extensive our intelligence is because I want you to understand that you’re over the barrel.”
“Fair enough,” said Locke. “This, then, is the point in the conversation where I say ‘twenty thousand.’ ”
“Ten thousand would be awkward enough. You expect me to be enthusiastic about trying to hide twice as much? The money’s only an enticement if it can reach my pockets invisibly, and if I’m still relevant to Karthani politics after I’ve earned it. No, Master Lazari, I won’t pretend I’m not ultimately for sale in some fashion, but you are not offering any sort of price I’m looking for. Now, before I have you escorted out, do you want a moment to put your wet disguise back on? For formality’s sake, if nothing else?”
7
A LEAN, scruffy man in a paint-stained tunic left the tradesman’s entrance of the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and hurried west, back into the cool green maze of the Mara Karthani. Subtle signs had been laid since his last passage, knots of brown cloth tied around hedge branches at knee level, and the man followed them rapidly through twistings and turnings, through brick arches hung with yellowing vines, to the statuary niche where Jean Tannen waited.
Jean, clad in a sensible hooded oilcloak, was sitting on a bench beside the likeness of some forgotten scholar-soldier of the old empire, a stern woman carved in the traditional mode, carrying the raised lantern of learning in one hand and a clutch of barbed javelins on the opposite shoulder. Jean pulled out a second oilcloak and swept it over Locke’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” said Locke, pulling off his wig and optics. “We’ve got a serious hole in our security. Lovaris knew I was coming.”
“Damn,” said Jean. “Do you want me to roust those grandmothers Sabetha’s got up on the rooftops after all?”
“Gods, they’re harmless. Just there to taunt us. Our problem is someone inside Josten’s. Lovaris had full details of my plan and my offer, things I’ve only mentioned to a handful of people, in privacy, in the past couple of days! Is there any place an eavesdropper could have their way with the Deep Roots private gallery?”
“I spent hours going over all the cellars, all the bolt-holes,” said Jean. “There’s nowhere close enough, not above or below. And the noise of the place … no, I’d stake my life on it. It’d take— Well, it’d take magic.”
“Then I’m off to hunt the rat,” said Locke. “And since my first approach bounced right off the fatuous fucker’s self-satisfaction, you’ll have to visit Lovaris and try our second approach.”
“Second approach, right.” Jean rose from the bench. “You sure our budget can bear the strain?”
“It’ll take us down to the dregs, and an emergency few thousand, and those donations from our Vadran refugees,” said Locke. “But there’s not much else to spend it on at this point, is there?”
“So be it,” said Jean. “If he bites, I’ll start visiting jewelers tonight. I’ve picked some discreet ones.”
“Good. I’d say diamonds and emeralds, mostly, but you
’ve got a sharp eye. Trust your own discretion.”
“And we’ll need a boat,” said Jean.
“Already thinking on it!” Locke tapped his own forehead. “But let’s cover first, second, third, and fourth things before we go chasing down fifths or sixths, eh?”
“Gods keep you,” said Jean. “Don’t trip over your feet on the way home. What are you going to do about our rat?”
“Well, since someone we trust is feeding my confidential instructions to Sabetha,” said Locke, “I reckon I might feed some confidential instructions to all the people we trust.”
8
THAT NIGHT, as a hard rain beat down outside, Locke put his arm around Firstson Epitalus and drew the old man into a whispered conversation in the Deep Roots private gallery.
“You know more about the Isas Thedra than I do,” said Locke. “I need a quiet, out-of-the-way place in your district to store some barrels of fire-oil. A shack, a cellar. Somewhere nobody will disturb, at least not before the election.”
“Fire-oil? What’s this for, Master Lazari?”
“I’m going to see to it that our Black Iris friends have a fairly damaging fire a few nights before the election at one of their Bursadi District properties. I’ll take pains to see that nobody gets hurt. I just want them to lose some papers and some comforts.”
“Capital!” Epitalus thumped his cane on the floor approvingly. “Well, in that case, there’s an outbuilding on my own estate. The old boathouse. I’m not using it at all.”
“Good. One more thing, Epitalus. This is absolutely, vitally secret. Speak of this to no one. Am I clear?”
“As an empty glass, Master Lazari.”
The reference left them both thirsty. They toasted the frustration of the Black Iris with small glasses of cinnamon lemon cordial, and then Jean reappeared from his errand, shrugging himself out of his rain-slick oilcloak. Locke waved Epitalus off, then conversed in whispers with Jean.
