“Still,” said Cordo, “hard to keep a kingdom when you no longer have a king.”
“Yes,” said Tiga, “we’re all so very impressed, Cordo. Subtly mention your involvement in passing as often as you like, please.” “At least I—”
“And more difficult still to keep a kingdom,” interrupted Requin, “when you discard perfectly good tools left behind by the former king.”
“Forgive us our density,” said Saravelle Fioran, a woman nearly as old as Marius Cordo, “but what precisely are you driving at, Requin?”
“Merely that the Eyes, properly vetted and retrained, could be a significant asset to Tal Verrar, if used not as shock troops but as… a secret constabulary?”
“Says the man in charge of the very people such a force would be charged with hunting down,” scoffed Cordo.
“Younger Cordo,” said Requin, “those are also the “very people” whose interference with your family business is kept to an acceptable minimum through my involvement. They are the very people who were instrumental in delivering our victory yesterday — carrying your messages, filling the streets to detain army reinforcements, distracting Stragos’s most loyal officers while some of you were allowed to approach this affair with the air of amateurs dabbling at lawn-bowling.” “Not I—” said Cordo.
“No, not you. You did fight. But I flaunt my hypocrisy with a smile on my face, Lyonis. Don’t you dare pretend, here in our highest privacy, that your disdain somehow absolves you from your involvement with the likes of me. You don’t want to imagine a city with crime unregulated by the likes of me! As for the Eyes, I am not asking, I am telling. Those few who were true fanatics for Stragos can conveniently trip and land on swords, yes. The rest are too useful to throw away” “On what grounds,” said Tiga, “do you presume to lecture—”
“On the grounds that six of the seven people sitting here have seen fit to store goods and funds in the Sinspire vault. Items that, let us be frank, need not ever reappear in the event that I begin to feel anxious about our relationship.
“I have an investment in this city, the same as you. I would not take kindly to having a foreign power interrupt my affairs. To give Stragos his due, I cannot imagine that the army and navy in your hands will inspire a great deal of awe in our enemies, given what happened last time the Priori governed during a war. Therefore I see fit to hedge all of our bets.” “Surely we could discuss this in just a few days,” said Lyonis.
“I think not. Inconveniences like our surviving Eyes have a habit of disappearing before arguments can broaden, don’t they? It’s a busy time. Messages might be lost, or misconstrued, and I’m sure there” d be a perfectly plausible reason for whatever happened.” “So what do you want?” asked Fioran.
“If you’re going to take the Mon Magisteria as an administrative centre for our shiny new government, I would imagine that a suite of offices would be a good start. Something nice and prestigious, before all the nice ones are gone. Plus I’ll expect a rudimentary operating budget by the end of the week; I’ll set down the rough finnicking myself. Salaries for the next year. Speaking of which, I will expect at least three or four positions within the hierarchy of this new organization to be placed entirely at my discretion. Salaries in the range of ten to fifteen solari per annum.”
“So you can pass out sinecures to some of your jumped-up thieves,” said Lyonis.
“So I can aid them in their transition to life as respectable citizens and defenders of Tal Verrar, yes,” said Requin.
“Will this be your own transition to life as a respectable citizen?” asked Tiga.
“Here I thought I already was,” said Requin. “Gods, no. I have no desire to turn away from the responsibilities I currently enjoy. But it just so happens that I have an ideal candidate in mind to head our new organization. Someone who shares my qualms about the manner in which Stragos employed his Eyes, and who should be taken all the more seriously for the fact that she used to be one.”
Selendri couldn’t help smiling as the Priori turned in their seats to stare at her. “Now, Requin, hold on—” said Cordo.
“I see no need,” said Requin. “I don’t believe your six fellows are actually going to deny me this very minor and very patriotic request, are they?”
Cordo looked around, and Selendri knew what he was seeing on the faces of the other Priori: if he formally tried to stop this, he would be alone, and he would weaken not only his father’s borrowed position but his own future prospects.
“I think her starting compensation should be something handsome, rather handsome,” said Requin cheerfully. “And of course she’ll require use of official carriages and barges. An official residence; Stragos had dozens of houses and manors at his disposal. Oh, and I think her office at the Mon Magisteria should be the nicest and most prestigious of all. Don’t you?”
They kissed one another for a very long time, alone in the office once the Priori had left in various states of bemusement, worry and aggravation. As he usually did, Requin removed his gloves to run the brown, pocked skin of his hands over her, over the matching scar tissue on her left-hand side as well as the healthy flesh on her right.
“There you are, my dear,” he said. “I know you” ve been chafing here for some time, running up and down these tower steps, fetching and bowing for drunkards of quality” “I’m still sorry for my failure to—”
“Our failure was entirely shared,” said Requin. “In fact, I fell for Kosta and de Ferra’s line of bullshit harder than you did — you retained your suspicion the whole way. Left to your own devices, you would have thrown them out of the window early on and avoided the entire mess at the end, I’m sure.” She smiled.
“And those smirking Priori assume I’m inflicting one last grand sinecure on them where you’re concerned.” Requin ran his fingers through her hair. “Gods, are they in for a surprise. I can’t wait to see you in action. You’ll build something that will make my little coteries of felantozzi look tawdry.”
Selendri stared around at the wreckage of the office. Requin laughed. “I suppose,” he said, “that I have to admire the audacious little shits. To spend two years planning such a thing, and then the business with the chairs… and with my seal! My, Lyonis was throwing a fit—” “I’d have thought you” d be furious,” said Selendri. “Furious? I suppose I am. I was rather fond of that suite of chairs.” “I know how long you worked to acquire those paintings—”
“Ah, the paintings, yes.” Requin grinned mischievously. “Well, as for that… the walls have been left somewhat under-decorated. How would you like to go down to the vault with me to start fetching out the real ones?” “What do you mean, the real ones?”
EPILOGUE
Red Seas Under Red Skies
1
“What the hell do you mean, “reproductions”?”
Locke sat in a comfortable, high-backed wooden chair in the study of Acastus Krell, Fine Diversions dealer of Vel Virazzo. He wrapped both hands around his slender glass of lukewarm tea to avoid spilling it.
“Surely you can’t be unfamiliar with the term, Master Fehrwight,” said Krell. The old man would have been sticklike if not for the grace of his movements; he paced his study like a dancer in a stage production, manipulated his magnifying lenses like a duellist striking a pose. He wore a loose brocaded gown of twilight-blue silk, and as he looked up now the hairless gleam of his head emphasized the eerily penetrating nature of his stare. This study was Krell’s lair, the centre of his existence. It lent him an air of serene authority.
“I am,” said Locke, “in the matter of furniture, but as for paintings—”
“It’s a rarer thing, to be sure, but there can be no doubt. I have never actually seen the original versions of these ten paintings, gentlemen, but there are critical incongruities in the pigments, brush strokes and general weathering of their surfaces. They are not genuine art objects of the Talathri Baroque.”
Jean absorbed this morosely, hands folded before him, saying n
othing and ignoring his tea. Locke tasted bile in the back of his throat. “Explain,” he said, struggling to keep his temper in check.
Krell sighed, his own aggravation clearly tempered by sympathy for their situation. “Look,” he said, carefully holding up one of the paintings thed’r stolen, an image of Therin Throne nobles seated at a gladiatorial game, receiving the tribute of a mortally wounded fighter. “Whoever painted this is a master artisan, a fantastically patient and skilful individual. It would have required hundreds of hours per painting, and the work must have been done with full access to the originals. Obviously, the… gentleman from whom you procured these objects had qualms about exposing the originals to danger. I’d wager my house and all of its gardens that they’re in his vault.” “But the… incongruities. How can you know?”
“The master artists patronized by the last court of the Therin Throne had a secret means to distinguish their works from those produced by artists serving lesser patrons. A fact not known outside the Emperor’s court until years after it fell. In their paintings, Talathri’s chosen masters and their associates would deliberately create a very slight visual flaw in one corner of the work, by using brush strokes whose size and direction jarred with those immediately surrounding them. The imperfection that proclaims perfection, as it were. Like the beauty-mark some Vadrans favour for their ladies.” “And you can tell this at a glance?”
“I can tell well enough when I find no hint of it anywhere, on any of these ten works.” “Damnation,” said Locke.
“It suggests to me,” said Krell, “that the artist who created these — or their employer — so genuinely admired the original works that they refused to counterfeit their hidden marks of distinction.” “Well, that’s very heart-warming.”
“I can tell you require further proof, Master Fehrwight, and fortunately what remains is even clearer. First, the brightness of these pigments is impossible, given the state of alchemy four hundred years ago. The vibrancy of these hues bespeaks a contemporary origin. Lastly, and most damningly, there is no veneer of age upon these works. No fine cracks in the pigment, no discoloration from mould or sunlight, no intrusion of smoke into the overlying lacquers. The flesh of these works, as it were, is as distinct from the genuine article as my face would be from that of a ten-year-old boy” Krell smiled sadly. “I have aged to a fine old state. These have not.” “So what does this mean for our arrangement?”
“I am aware,” said Krell, settling into the chair behind his desk and setting the painting down, “that you must have undergone extraordinary hardship in securing even these facsimiles from the… gentleman in Tal Verrar. You have my thanks, and my admiration.” Jean snorted and stared at the wall.
“Your thanks,” said Locke, “and your admiration, however well meant—”
“Are not legal tender,” said Rrell. “I’m not a simpleton, Master Fehrwight. For these ten paintings, I can still offer you two thousand solari.”
“Two?” Locke clutched the armrests of his chair and leaned forward. “The sum we originally discussed was fifty thousand, Master Rrell!”
“And for originals,” said Rrell, T would gladly have paid that original sum; for genuine artefacts of the Last Flowering, I would have had buyers in distant locations completely unconcerned with the… potential displeasure of the gentleman in Tal Verrar.”
“Two,” muttered Locke. “Gods, we left more than that sitting at the Sinspire. Two thousand solari for two years, is what you’re offering us.”
“No.” Rrell steepled his spindly fingers. “Two thousand solari for ten paintings. However much I regret what you might have endured to recover these objects, there were no hardship clauses in our agreement. I am paying for goods, not the process required to retrieve them.” “Three thousand,” said Locke.
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Rrell, “and not a centira more. I can find buyers for these; each of them is still a unique object worth hundreds of solari, and well worth possessing or displaying. If pressed, after time passes, I can even attempt to sell them back to the gentleman in Tal Verrar, claiming that I procured them in some distant city. I don’t doubt that he would be generous. But if you don’t wish to accept my price… you are free to take them to a market square, or a tavern, perhaps.” “Twenty-five hundred,” said Locke. “Damn it all to hell.”
“so I suspect we shall be, Master Fehrwight, in our own good time. But now I’d like a decision. Do you accept the offer?”
2
“Twenty-five hundred,” said Locke for the fifteenth time as their carriage rattled toward Vel Virazzo’s marina. T don’t fucking believe it.” “It’s more than a lot of people have, I suppose,” muttered Jean.
“But it’s not what I promised,” said Locke. “I’m sorry, Jean. I fucked up again. Tens of thousands, I said. Huge score. Put us back at the top of our games. Lashani noblemen. Gods above.” He put his head in his hands. “Crooked Warden, why the hell do you ever listen to me?” “It wasn’t your fault,” said Jean. “We did pull it off. We did get out with everything we planned. It’s just… it was the wrong everything. There was no way we could know.” “shit,” said Locke.
Their carriage slowed, then creaked to a halt. There was a clatter and a scrape as their footman placed a wooden step, and then the door opened into daylight. The smell of the sea flooded into the compartment, along with the sound of crying gulls.
“Do you still… want to do this?” Locke bit his lip at Jean’s lack of reaction. “I know… that she was meant to be here with us. We can just forget about it, leave it where it is, take carriages—”
“It’s fine,” said Jean. He pointed at the burlap bag on the seat beside Locke. The bag was undulating, as if possessed by a motive force within itself. “Besides, we went to the trouble of bringing a cat this time.”
“I suppose we did.” Locke poked the bag and smiled thinly at the resulting attack from inside. “But still, you—” Jean was already rising to leave the carriage.
3
“Master Fehrwight! So pleased to finally make your acquaintance. And yours as well, Master—”
“Callas,” said Locke. “Tavrin Callas. Forgive my friend, he’s had a trying day. I’ll conduct our business.”
“Of course,” said the master of Vel Virazzo’s private yacht harbour. Here the pleasure-barges and day-sailing vessels of Vel Virazzo’s notable families — who could be counted on two hands without using all the available fingers — were kept under constant guard.
The harbourmaster led them to the end of one of his docks, where a sleek one-masted sailing vessel rocked gently on the swells. Forty feet long, lacquered teak and witchwood, trimmed with brass and silver. Her rigging was the finest new demi-silk, and her furled sails were the white of clean beach sand.
“Everything prepared according to your letters, Master Fehrwight,” said the harbourmaster. “I apologize for the fact that it required four days rather than three—”
“No matter,” said Locke. He passed over a leather satchel containing solari he’d counted out in the carriage. “Balance of payment, in full, and the promised three-day bonus, for your work party. I” ve no reason to be stingy.”
“You are entirely too kind,” said the harbourmaster, bowing as he accepted the heavy purse. Nearly eight hundred solari gone already. “And the provisions?” asked Locke.
“Complete as specified,” said the harbourmaster. “Rations and water for a week. The wines, the oilcloaks and other emergency gear — all there, and checked by myself.” “Our dinner?”
“Coming,” said the harbourmaster, “coming. I expected a runner several minutes ago. Wait — here’s the boy now.”
Locke glanced back toward their carriage. A small boy had just appeared from behind it, jogging with a covered basket larger than his chest cradled in his arms. Locke smiled.
“Our dinner concludes our business,” he said as the boy approached and handed the basket up to Jean. “Very good, Mater Fehrwight. Tell me, will you be putting o
ut—”
“Immediately,” said Locke. “We have… a great many things to leave behind.” “Will you require assistance?”
“We had expected a third,” said Locke quietly. “But the two of us will suffice.” He stared at their new boat, at the once-alien arrangement of sails, rigging, mast, tiller. “We’re always sufficient.”
It took them less than five minutes to load the boat with their baggage from the carriage; they had little to speak of. A few spare clothes, work tunics and breeches, weapons and their little kit of thieves” conveniences.
The sun was settling into the west as Jean began to untie them from the dock. Locke hopped down onto the sterndeck, a room-sized space surrounded by raised gunwales, and as his last act before their departure he opened the burlap sack and released the contents onto the boat.
The black kitten looked up at him, stretched and began to rub himself against Locke’s right boot, purring loudly.
“Welcome to your new home, kid. All that you survey is yours,” said Locke. “But this doesn’t mean I’m getting attached to you.”
4
They anchored a hundred yards out from the last of Vel Virazzo’s lantern towers, and beneath its ruby light they had the dinner that Locke had promised.
They sat on the sterndeck, legs folded, with a small table between them. They each pretended to be absorbed in their bread and chicken, in their shark fins and vinegar, in their grapes and black olives. Regal attempted to make war on their meal several times, and only accepted an honourable peace after Locke bribed him with a chicken wing nearly the size of his body.
They went through a bottle of wine, a nondescript Camorri white, the sort of thing that smooths a meal along without becoming its centrepiece. Locke tossed the empty bottle overboard and they started another, more slowly.
“It’s time,” Jean said at last, when the sun had moved so low in the west that it seemed to be sinking into the starboard gunwale. It was a red moment, all the world from sea to sky the colour of a darkening rose petal, of a drop of blood not yet dry. The sea was calm and the air was still; they were without interruptions, without responsibilities, without a plan or an appointment anywhere in the world.
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