by Scott Lynch
4
THE NIGHT was cool. They rode through pale wisps of fog coiling off cobblestones like unquiet spirits, past black banners and green banners fluttering limply from balconies, through stately quiet until they reached the Court of Dust. There they found the mess Nikoros had promised.
Bluecoats were out in force, and Locke saw at once how nervous they were, how unaccustomed they must be to real surprises. Wagons were lined up haphazardly, horses snorting and flicking their tails while teamsters and stable attendants haggled. Lamps were lit in every inn and tavern bordering the court; knots of conversation and argument stood out everywhere in the uneasy crowds.
“Where the hells are we meant to go, then?” shouted a long-coated carriage hand at a tired-looking hostler. His Therin was fair, but his accent was obvious. “All these taverns are full up, now you tell me this bloody Josten’s place is closed off for your damn—”
“Your pardon, my good man,” said Locke, reining in beside the fracas. “If you have persons of quality seeking accommodations, I can be of immediate assistance.”
“Really? Who the devils might you be, then?”
“Lazari is my name. Doctor Sebastian Lazari.” Locke flashed a grin, then shifted to his excellent Vadran. “Your masters or mistresses have all my sympathies for the circumstances of their displacement, but they’ll soon find they’re not without friends here in Karthain.”
“Oh, bless the waters deep and shallow,” answered the carriage hand in the same tongue. “I serve the honorable Irina Varosz of Stovak. We’ve been five days on the road since—”
“You’re all but home,” said Locke. “Josten’s is the place for you. Josten’s Comprehensive. I can arrange chambers; pay no heed to what you’ve been told. My man Nikoros will handle the details.”
Nikoros, barely in control of his skittish horse, approached at the snap of Locke’s fingers.
“I’m, uh, not entirely sure where I’m meant to put them,” he whispered.
“Use the chambers I’ve kept empty for security reasons,” said Locke. “We can find other places for them after a few days. Rack your brains for anyone in the party who’s got empty rooms on their hands. Hell, there’s one manor up in Vel Verda that springs to mind immediately. Might as well get some joy out of the damn place.”
Jean was already off plying his own friendly Vadran to other guards, other footmen, other curious and well-dressed strangers with road dust on their cloaks. For perhaps twenty minutes he and Locke worked together smoothly, directing minor cousins of nobility and merchants of assorted quality to Nikoros and thence to Josten’s and the bosom of the Deep Roots party.
There was a fresh stir at the southern edge of the Court of Dust. Massed hooves rang on the cobbles as some two dozen men and women in black livery rode in, led by Vordratha and a few of the bravos Locke had seen hanging around the Sign of the Black Iris.
“That’s a pain in the precious bits,” muttered Locke to Nikoros. “I was hoping for a little more time alone to make new friends. Who told these assholes to get out of bed?”
“Oh, uh, I’m sure it was only a, uh, matter of time,” coughed Nikoros.
“You’re probably right.” Locke cracked his knuckles. “Well, now we play suitors in earnest. Here come that scribe and solicitor I wanted, at least. You ride like hell back to Josten’s and help him stack our friends from the north like books on shelves!”
5
IT WAS past the ninth hour of the morning when Jean’s nagging sense of duty pulled him back to the waking world, feeling like dough just barely baked long enough to resemble bread. He made his toilet indifferently, merely taming and oiling his hair before donning a fresh Morenna Sisters ensemble. Optics in place, nose plaster adjusted, he used his suite’s little mirror to affirm that his powerful need for coffee was plainly visible. Alas. They’d done good work the night before, and their reward for that work would be yet more work today.
Jean pushed the door to the main suite open and found Locke perched over a writing desk, looking even more ragged than Jean felt.
“I would inquire if you’d slept,” said Jean, “but I’ve learned to recognize silly questions before I ask them.”
Locke was surrounded by the detritus of personal and party business: stacks of papers in Nikoros’ handwriting, small avalanches of notes and receipts spilling from leather folios, several plates of half-eaten and now desiccated biscuits, a collection of burnt-out tapers and dimly phosphorescent alchemical globes. Crumpled sheets of parchment littered the floor. Locke peered at Jean like some sort of subterranean creature roused from contemplation of secret treasures by a mortal intruder.
“I don’t much feel like sleep,” he muttered. “You can go ahead and have mine if you like.”
“If only it worked that way,” said Jean, moving to loose one of the window-shades. “Gods, you’ve got these things plugged up tight enough to keep out water, let alone an autumn morning.”
“Please don’t touch that!” Locke shook his quill, and Jean noted that it was distinctly shorter than it had been when he’d trundled off to bed. “Open that window and I’ll burst into flame.”
“What’s got you so exercised?” Jean left the curtains alone and settled into a chair. “Anything to do with the new friends we swept up last night?”
“No.” Locke did favor him with a satisfied grin. “The count, by the way, is seventy-two eligible adults. I’ve got the solicitors lined up to discuss terms with them. Nice and simple. We’ll take them to the relevant offices in groups, hand over a little sweetener money with the fees, and get them registered. They’ll be seventy-two lawful voters by nightfall, and then we’ll decide which districts to settle them in.”
“How many fresh faces did the Black Iris snatch up?”
“Half what we got.” More teeth appeared within Locke’s grin. “I’ve left a reception committee at the Court of Dust to keep the party rolling, and I sent out a little expedition to survey the road. The opposition will still get some, of course, but I think we can safely say that the majority of Vadran expatriate votes will be for the Deep Roots.”
“Splendid,” said Jean. “Now, what’s the business that’s been wearing that quill down?”
“Oh, it’s, you know.” Locke gestured at the arc of crumpled parchment sheets on the floor. “It’s a letter. My letter. To, uh, her. My response. It has a few, uh, sentiments and delicacies yet to be straightened out. I suppose by ‘few’ I mean ‘all of them.’ Say, can I ask you to undertake an embassy to the Sign of the Black Iris when it’s finished?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jean, “because I really was hoping to get into another punch-up with Sabetha’s boys and girls as soon as possible, thanks.”
“They won’t hurt you,” said Locke. “Nor make you hurt them. It’s me Vordratha’s got it in for.”
“Of course I’ll carry a token of your obsession into hostile territory for you,” said Jean. “But there’s one condition. Put yourself in your bed and use it for its intended purpose, right now.”
“But—”
“You’ve got bags under your eyes like crescent pastries,” said Jean, feeling that he was being very kind. “You look like Nikoros, for the Crooked Warden’s sake. Like you ought to be crouched in a gutter somewhere catching small animals and eating them raw. You need rest.”
“But the letter—”
“I’ve got a sleeping draught right here, ready to administer.” Jean curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and shook it at Locke. “Besides, how could a nap to clear your head do anything but improve this epistolary endeavor?”
“Hey,” said Locke, scratching his stubble absently with his quill. “That sounds suspiciously like wisdom, damn your eyes. Why must you always flounce about being wiser than me?”
“Doesn’t require much conscious effort.” Jean pointed toward Locke’s room with mock paternal sternness, but Locke was already on his way, stumbling and yawning. He was snoring in moments.
Jean sur
veyed the wreckage of Locke’s attempts at letter-writing, wondering at the contents of the crumpled sheets. He settled his left hand in a coat pocket and ran his thumb round the lock of hair concealed therein. After a moment of contemplation, he gathered the balled-up parchments, piled them in the suite’s small fireplace, and set them alight with an alchemical twist-match from an ornate box on the mantel. Locke snored on.
Jean slipped out and quietly locked the door behind him.
Josten’s was in a fine bustle. Well-dressed new faces were everywhere in the common room, and the babble was as much Vadran as Therin. Diligence Josten, jaunty as a general of unblooded troops, was lecturing a half-dozen staff. He clapped his hands and shooed them to their tasks as Jean approached.
“Master Callas,” said Josten, “my procurer of strange clientele! You look like a man in search of breakfast.”
“I have only two wishes,” said Jean. “The first is for strong coffee, and the second is for stronger coffee.”
“Behold my jask.” Josten pointed to an ornate, long-handled copper pot simmering on a glowing alchemical stone behind the bar counter. “My father’s jask, actually. Secret of the Okanti hearth. You poor bastards were still steeping your coffee in wash-tubs when we came along to rescue you.”
The coffee Josten decanted from the jask was capped with cinnamon-colored foam. Jean felt less than civilized gulping it, but his wits needed the prodding, and the blend of fig and chicory flavors hit his throat in a satisfying scalding rush. The room was already looking brighter when he reached the dregs of the small cup.
“Lights the fires, doesn’t it?” said Josten, smoothly refilling Jean’s cup. “I’ve been pouring it into Nikoros for days, poor bastard. He’s, ah, lost a personal buttress, that one.”
“I know,” said Jean. “Can’t be helped.”
Josten politely refused to let Jean go about his business on a breakfast of nothing but coffee. A few minutes later, Jean climbed the stairs to the Deep Roots private section carrying a bowl heaped with freshwater anchovies, olives, seared tomatoes, hard brown cheese, and curls of bread fried with oil and onions.
Nikoros was sprawled in a padded chair, surrounded by an arc of papers and empty cups resembling the mess that had grown around Locke. His stubble looked sufficient to scrape barnacles from ship hulls, and his lids lifted over bloodshot eyes as Jean approached.
“In my dreams I sign chits and file papers,” Nikoros muttered. “Then I awake to sign real chits and file real papers. I imagine my grave marker will be carved as a writing desk. ‘Here lies Nikoros Via Lupa, wifeless and heirless, but gods how he could alphabetize!’ ”
“We’ve overworked you,” said Jean. “And you still coming down off that shit you were shoving up your nose! Hard old days. We’ve been thoughtless, Master Lazari and I. Here, take some breakfast.”
Nikoros was hesitant to do so at first, but his interest grew rapidly, and soon he and Jean were racing one another to finish the contents of the bowl.
“You’re the sinews of this whole affair,” said Jean. “It’s not the Dexas and the Epitaluses that hold things together. Not even Lazari and me. It’s been you, it is you, and it will be you, long after we’re gone.”
“Long after this disaster is past us,” said Nikoros, “and gods grant that we still have any Konseil seats at all five years from now.”
“Here, now,” said Jean. “We’re in the thick of it, no lie. You can’t see the direction of the battle because you’re in the mud and the mess with all the other poor bastards, but it has a direction. You must accept my assurances that I can see a little farther than you can.”
“The Black Iris,” said Nikoros, looking away from Jean, “this time, they’ve … they’ve got … well, they have advantages. At least that’s how it seems to me.”
“They have some,” said Jean with a nod. “We have others. And we’ve come off rather well in this new game of displaced northerners, haven’t we? Six dozen fresh voters to seed wherever we need them. The Black Iris can work whatever cocksuckery they like upon us, but in the end it all comes down to names on ballots.”
“You’re being poorly served by me,” said Nikoros, almost too softly to hear.
“Nonsense.” Jean raised his voice and gave Nikoros a careful, friendly squeeze on the arm. “If you weren’t meeting our expectations, don’t you think we’d have packed you off somewhere out of the way?”
“Well, thank you, Master Callas.” Nikoros smiled, but it was a wan formality.
“Gods, it must be my week to be confessor to the heartsick and weary,” sighed Jean. “You could do with a few more hours of sleep, I think. The sort not spent jammed into a chair. Off to your chambers, and don’t let me see you again until—”
A woman with short curly black hair pounded up the stairs. She wore a traveling coat and mantle, as well as a courier’s pouch and a sheath knife.
“Sirs,” she said, “I’m sorry to come rushing back like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“This is Ven Allaine,” said Nikoros, rising. “Ven for ‘Venturesome.’ She’s one of our troubleshooters. Ven, I’m sure you know who Master Callas is.”
Jean and Allaine exchanged the quickest possible courtesies; then she continued:
“Master Via Lupa sent us out an hour before sunrise, five of us on horseback, north from the Court of Dust. We were supposed to spot Vadran swells on the road. Introduce ourselves, make our offers, get them in the bag for the Deep Roots before they even hit the city.” She pulled her leather gloves off and slapped them against her leg. “We planned to be out until midafternoon, but just after sunup we were overridden by bluecoats, lots of them, not sparing their horses.
“They said they had an emergency directive from the Commission for Public Order. No Karthani citizens allowed more than a hundred yards north on the road, because of ‘unsettled conditions.’ They said we could either ride back under escort or walk back under arrest. So that’s it, and here I am again.”
“Are you sure they were real constables?” said Jean.
“No foolery there,” said Allaine. “They had the papers from the Commission, and I recognized a few of them.”
“You did well,” said Jean. “If you’d tried to argue you’d probably be trudging back home under guard right now. You and your fellows get some breakfast, and leave this with us.” Jean watched her depart, then turned to Nikoros. “The Commission for Public Order?”
“A trio of Konseil members. Chosen by majority vote of the larger body. A sort of committee to run the constabulary.”
“Shit. I suppose it’d be silly of me to ask what party those three belong to.”
“It would,” said Nikoros. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“We’ll just have to continue our diplomatic efforts within the city gates,” said Jean. “No worries. I’ll send Allaine and her crew out to join that party once they’ve eaten. As for you: bed. Don’t say anything, just go to your chambers and go to bed, or I’ll throw you off this balcony. You and Master Lazari both need it. I can call the tune for this dance for a few hours.”
After Nikoros crept gratefully off to his rest, Jean sifted the papers he’d left, noting new developments as well as familiar problems. He wrote orders of his own, passed them to couriers, received routine inquiries, and drank several different varieties of coffee, all freshly boiled and scalding, while the pale fingers of autumn light from the windows swung across the room.
Just after noon, the front doors banged open. Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson Epitalus swept through the crowd and up the stairs, trailed by an unusually large bevy of attendants. Jean set down his coffee and paperwork, then rose to greet them.
“You!” hissed Dexa as she crested the last step, striding forcefully toward Jean. “You and Lazari have rashly placed us in a position of the most profound and untenable embarrassment!”
Jean squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and spread his hands disarmingly.
“I can see we ha
ve a misunderstanding in progress,” he said. “Well, I’m here to instruct and condole. Everyone who isn’t a member of the Konseil is dismissed.”
Some of the attendants looked uncertain, but Jean took a step forward, smiling, and shooed them off, as though dealing with children. In a moment he and the two Konseillors were alone on the private balcony, and Jean’s smile vanished.
“You will never again address me in that fashion,” he said, his voice low and even but not even remotely polite.
“On the contrary,” said Dexa, “I intend to take your skin off by means of verbal vitriol. Now—”
“Damned Superstition Dexa,” said Jean, stepping in to loom over her without subtlety, “you will lower your voice. You will not create a scene. You will not confuse and demoralize the party members below. You will not allow our opponents the satisfaction of hearing about any disarray or dissension here!”
She glared at him, but then, through the force of argument or sorcerous conditioning or both, she caught hold of her temper and nodded, grudgingly.
“Now,” said Jean. “I will listen to anything, even the most vicious chastisement, so long as it is delivered quietly and we preserve our outward show of amity.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re entirely correct. But you and Lazari have loaded our credibility on a barge and sunk it in the lake with this business of collecting strays!”
“Wealthy, well-connected strays,” said Jean. “All of whom will be grateful for their places here, and will show their gratitude by voting—”
“That’s just it,” interrupted Firstson Epitalus, “they won’t. Show it to him, Dexa.”
“We were summoned to an emergency meeting of the Konseil just over an hour ago,” said Dexa, taking several folded sheets of paper out of her jacket and passing them to Jean. “The Black Iris convened it and barely managed to scrape the letter of the law in sending out notices. They pushed an emergency directive through by simple majority vote.”