by Scott Lynch
“I’d like to see that. But I’d prefer to keep my seat.” Dexa exhaled streamers of jasmine-scented green and spicy gray past Locke. “Will you gentlemen be near the stage? Ringside seats as the returns come in?”
“Somewhere less hectic,” said Locke. “We’ll watch from one of the private galleries, after we’ve had a spin around the floor. Got to make sure everyone’s got their spine straight and their waistcoat buttoned.”
“Very fatherly of you. Well, then, until the cat’s skinned, my regards to our fellow travelers.”
True to Locke’s word, he and Jean bounced around the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, laughing at bad jokes and offering some of their own, spouting reasoned and logical-sounding analysis on demand. Most of it was bullshit fried in glibness with a side of whatever the listener yearned to hear. What does it matter? thought Locke. One way or another, they were vanishing from Karthain’s political scene tonight and would never be held accountable.
Vast basins of punch made from pale white and bruise-purple wines were being stirred to foam by clockwork paddle mechanisms, operated by impeccably dressed children walking slowly inside gilded treadwheels. Attractive attendants of both sexes worked behind velvet ropes to fill goblets and hand them out. Locke and Jean armed themselves with punch, along with steaming buns stuffed with brined pork and dark vinegar sauce.
Jean spotted Nikoros hovering miserably on the periphery of a pack of Deep Roots notables and pointed him out to Locke. Via Lupa had shaved, which mostly served to highlight his unhealthy pallor and the fresh lines on his visibly leaner face. Unexpected pity stung Locke’s heart. Here was no triumphant traitor, but someone thoroughly roasted on the rack of misery.
Well, what was the use of being able to lie with impunity if you couldn’t use it to take a weight off the shoulders of such a plainly unhappy bastard?
“Look, Nikoros,” said Locke, pressing his untouched goblet of punch into the Karthani’s hand. He spoke softly, for Nikoros alone. “I think it’s time for me to say that I know what it’s like, being pressed by something that rules your conscience against your will.”
“Ah, M-master Lazari, I don’t … that is, what do you mean?”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” said Locke, “is that I know. And I have known for some time.”
“You … know?” Nikoros’ eyebrows went up so far and fast Locke was surprised not to see them go sailing off like catapult stones. “You knew?”
“Of course I did,” said Locke, soothingly. “It’s my job to know things, isn’t it? Only thing I couldn’t figure out is what the lever was. It’s obvious that you’re not exactly a willing turncoat.”
“Gods! I, uh, it was my alchemist. My … dust alchemist. Receiving it’s as bad as selling it. I got caught, and this woman … well, I eventually f-figured out who she must be. I’m sorry. She offered me a deal. Otherwise I lose everything. Ten years on a penance barge, then exile.”
“Hell of a thing,” said Locke. “I’d try to avoid that too, if I could.”
“I’ll resign after tonight,” muttered Nikoros. “I’d wager I’ve, ah, done more damage to the Deep Roots than any committee member in our g-gods-damned history.”
“Nikoros, you haven’t been listening to me,” said Locke. “I told you I knew.”
“But how does that—”
“You’ve been my agent more than theirs. Delivering exactly what I wanted the Black Iris to hear from a source they considered impeccable.”
“But … but I’m certain some of what I had to give them was … it was real, and it was damaging to us!”
“Naturally,” said Locke. “They wouldn’t have listened to you if you hadn’t delivered real goods most of the time. I wrote the real stuff off as the price of feeding them the crucial bullshit. So don’t resign a damn thing. If the Black Iris lose tonight, it’s because you were in a position to serve as my weapon against them. Will that help you sleep a little better at night?”
“I, uh, I hardly know what I should say.” The loosening of the lines of tension on his face was immediate and obvious.
“Don’t say anything. Just drain that goblet and enjoy the show. This conversation will stay our little secret. Have a good long life, Nikoros. I doubt you’ll ever see us again.”
“Unless our employers want to bring us back for the next round, five years hence,” muttered Jean as they walked away.
“Maybe if they all want to end up in a fucking coma like the shit-bucket with the bird,” said Locke.
“And not that I’m against trying to settle the poor fellow down, but how do you think Nikoros will feel about himself if the Black Iris win?”
“Gods damn it, I was just trying to do what I could for the wretched bastard. At least now he can believe I chose to use him as a calculated risk. Come on; let’s find this Sable Chamber and get out of the public eye.”
2
SIX STAIRCASES and three conversations with only partially helpful attendants later, they found Sabetha waiting for them in a balcony room overlooking the south side of the Grand Salon. Some long-dead nobleman stared eerily from a wall fresco, gazing out at a scrollworked metal screen that allowed a fine view of the crowd and the stage below.
Sabetha wore another ensemble more in the fashion of a riding outfit than a ball gown, a tight red velvet jacket with slashed sleeves over a dress of black silk panels embroidered in scarlet astronomical signs. Locke pieced them together in his head and realized she was wearing a sunrise and moonrise chart for this very day, month, and calendar year.
“Like it?” she said, spreading her arms. “In accordance with the instructions of my principals, I did my bit to spend every last copper they gave me.”
“Dutiful to authority, that’s you every time,” said Locke. She offered her hand, and he wasn’t shy in kissing it. The trio made themselves comfortable at a little table provisioned with almond cakes, brandy, and four red crystal snifters. Locke took the lead and seized the bottle.
“A glass poured to air for absent friends,” he said as he filled the fourth snifter and pushed it aside. “May the lessons they taught us give everyone a hell of a show tonight.”
“Here’s to living long enough to appreciate whatever happens,” said Jean.
“Here’s to politics,” said Sabetha. “Let’s never hop in bed with it again.”
They touched glasses and drank. The stuff had a pale caramel color and washed Locke’s throat with sweet, welcome heat. Not an alchemical brandy, but one of the old-fashioned western styles with hints of peach and walnut woven into its vapors.
“Here comes the verdict,” said Sabetha.
Down on the floor the crowd parted for a troop of bluecoats, escorting somberly dressed officials carrying wooden chests and huge brass speaking trumpets like blossoming tulips. These trumpets were secured to projections on the stage, and the wooden chests were set down behind them. A petite woman with thick gray curls cut short at the neck stepped up to one of the speaking trumpets.
“First Magistrate Sedelkis,” said Sabetha. “Arbiter of the Change. Come election season, she’s like a temporary fourteenth god.”
“No representative from the magi?” said Locke. “They don’t even send a plate of fruit and a kind note?”
“I understand they vouchsafe this ceremony,” said Sabetha, “so gods help anyone who tries to adjust the tallies. But they’ll never let themselves be seen.”
“Not unless they’re somewhere private with a target for abuse,” said Locke.
On the platform below, some attendants unlocked the chests, while others took positions near the slate boards.
“Fellow citizens,” boomed First Magistrate Sedelkis, “honorable Konseil members, and officers of the republic, welcome. I have the honor of closing the seventy-ninth season of elections in the Republic of Karthain by reading the results into the public record. The returns by district, commencing with Isas Thedra.”
An attendant took an envelope from one of the chests. Sed
elkis tore it open and pulled out a parchment embossed with seals and ribbons.
“By the count of one hundred and fifteen to sixty, Firstson Epitalus of the Deep Roots party.”
Loud applause erupted from half the population of the Grand Salon. One attendant chalked the official numbers on a board, while others lit a green-glowing candle and used a long pole to place it beneath the first frosted glass globe.
“Do you wish to concede, madam?” said Locke.
“I think that one was one of the foregone conclusions,” said Sabetha.
“Damn,” said Locke. “She’s too clever for us.”
“For the Isle of Hammers, by the count of two hundred and thirty-five to one hundred,” announced Sedelkis, “Fourthdaughter Du-Lerian, for the Black Iris party.”
The attendants lit and placed another candle, one that gave off a purple-blue light so dark it was a fair approximation of black.
“Well, how now?” said Sabetha, pouring a fresh round of drinks. “Nothing pithy to say?”
“I would never dream of pithing in front of you,” said Locke.
Seven green lights and four black lights blazed by the time Sedelkis announced, “For the Bursadi District, by the count of one hundred and forty-six to one hundred and twenty-two, Secondson Lovaris of the Black Iris party.”
Jean sighed theatrically.
“That poor man,” said Sabetha. “So nearly victimized by unscrupulous relic thieves.”
“We rejoice at his deliverance,” said Locke.
“For the Plaza Gandolo,” boomed Sedelkis, “by the count of eighty-one to sixty-five, Seconddaughter Viracois of the Black Iris party.”
“Oh, Perelandro’s balls, we filled her house with stolen goods!” said Jean. “She was charged with eleven counts of housebreak or receiving! What possible grease could you apply to that?”
“I came up with a story that Viracois was secretly sheltering a distant cousin,” said Sabetha. “And that this cousin was severely touched in the head. Had a real mania for stealing things. Even hired an actress to play the role for a few days. I had Viracois circulate to apologize personally for the fact that her ‘cousin’ had managed to slip away from supervision, and once all the stolen goods were identified and returned, all those sympathetic people quietly rescinded their charges. And discreetly talked to their friends and neighbors, of course.”
“Rescinded charges.” Locke shook his head. “No bloody wonder paying off the magistrate didn’t get us anything.”
“For the Isas Mellia,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of seventy-five to thirty-one, Damned Superstition Dexa of the Deep Roots party.”
“Didn’t even bother much with that one,” said Sabetha.
“Well, you did try to bribe her cook,” said Locke. “And her doorman. And her footmen. And her solicitor. And her carriage driver. And her tobacconist.”
“I succeeded in bribing the doorman,” said Sabetha. “I just couldn’t find anything constructive to do with him.”
“At least I won’t have to eat a hat,” Locke whispered to Jean.
“For the Silverchase,” announced Sedelkis, “by the count of one hundred and eight to sixty-seven, Light-of-the-Amathel Azalon of the Deep Roots party.”
That was the last green candle to be lit for a long time, however. The next three blazed black, bringing the total to nine and nine.
“It’s all theater in the end, isn’t it?” said Sabetha. The brandy had brought color to her cheeks. “All our running around in costumes, saying our lines. Now the chorus comes out onstage to recite the moral and send the audience home.”
“Half of them are about to wish they had some fruit to throw,” said Jean.
“Shhh, here it comes,” said Sabetha.
“The final report,” announced Sedelkis, opening the envelope with a flourish. “For the Palanta District, by the count of one hundred and seventy to one hundred and fifty-two, Thirdson Jovindus of the Black Iris party!”
The last lamp flared with dark light.
3
CONSTERNATION ERUPTED on the floor, shouts of joy mingling with accusations, cries of disbelief, and insults.
Sabetha folded her arms, leaned back in her chair, and adopted a wide, genuine smile.
“You boys gave me a closer run than I expected,” she said. “And I did have the advantage of getting here first.”
“That’s a gracious admission,” said Jean.
“Your gimmick with Lovaris would have been magnificent fun to watch,” said Sabetha. “I’m almost sad I had to put my foot down on it.”
“I’m not,” said Locke.
“ORDER,” cried First Magistrate Sedelkis. “ORDER!” The cloaked bluecoats surrounding the stage drove their staves rhythmically against the ground until the crowd heeded Sedelkis.
“All districts having reported, I hereby declare these results rightful and valid. Karthain has a Konseil. Gods bless the Presence. Gods bless the Republic of Karthain!”
“First Magistrate,” came a voice from the crowd, “I beg a moment of stage time to amend the record in one small respect.”
“Oh, what in all the hells …” said Sabetha.
The speaker was Lovaris, who separated himself from a group of happy Black Iris notables, pushed through the cordon of bluecoats around the stage, and took a place beside Sedelkis at a speaking trumpet.
“Dear friends and fellow citizens,” he said, while beckoning for one of the glass globe attendants to approach him. “I am Secondson Lovaris, often called Perspicacity, an honor I cherish. For twenty years I have represented the Bursadi District as an enthusiastic member of the Black Iris party. However, of late, I must confess that enthusiasm has been dimmed by circumstances beyond my control. I grieve that I must discuss this in public. I grieve that I must take corrective action in public.”
“Is anyone else at this table hallucinating right now?” said Sabetha.
“If we are, we’re sharing a lovely fever dream,” said Locke. “Let’s see how it ends!”
“I grieve, most of all,” continued Lovaris, “that I must announce my reluctant but immediate withdrawal from the Black Iris party. I will no longer wear their symbols or attend their party functions.”
“Gods above, are you actually resigning from the Konseil?” shouted someone in the crowd.
“Of course not,” shouted Lovaris. “I said nothing about resigning my Konseil seat! I am the Bursadi Konseillor, validly and rightfully elected, as the First Magistrate just announced.”
“Turncoat!” shouted a man that Locke recognized as Thirdson Jovindus. “You ran under false pretenses! Your election must be nullified in favor of your second!”
“We elect men and women in Karthain,” said Lovaris, and it was clear from his voice that he was speaking through a smirk that would have injured a lesser man with its intensity. “Those men and women declare party affiliations only as a matter of their own convenience. I am not bound to surrender anything. My honorable associate should more closely examine the relevant laws. Now, allow me to finish describing the new situation!”
Lovaris took a pole from the attendant he’d beckoned, then used it to extinguish and dislodge the candle from the middle-most black globe. One blank white glass was left in the midst of nine black and nine green.
“Simply because I have left the Black Iris does not mean that I have necessarily embraced any of the positions of the Deep Roots. I am declaring myself a party of one, fully independent, a neutral balance between Karthain’s traditional ideologies. I am fully willing to be convinced to any reasonable course of action in the Konseil. Indeed, I remind my esteemed colleagues that my door is ever open for your approaches and entreaties. I shall very much look forward to receiving them. Good evening!”
What followed could only be described as the crescendoing clusterfuck of the Karthani social season, as half the Konseillors of the Black Iris party, technically immune to constabulary restraint, attempted to storm the stage through a wall of bluecoats who could
neither hurt them nor allow them to hurt Lovaris. First Magistrate Sedelkis demonstrated the co-equality of the Karthani judiciary by kicking a Black Iris Konseillor in the teeth, which brought even Deep Roots Konseillors into the fray to uphold the privileges of their station. Bluecoat messengers raced off to find reinforcements, while most of the noncombatant spectators refilled their goblets of punch and settled in to watch their government in action.
“I don’t believe it,” said Sabetha. “How the hell … I’ve got no more succinct way to put it. How the hell?”
“You warned Lovaris we were coming to try and convince him to change the color of his lapel ribbon,” said Locke. “And you know he didn’t buy that offer for an instant. He chewed on my self-respect for a while, then wiped me away like a turd.”
“But we’d already prepared a second line of attack,” said Jean, pouring himself a fresh finger of brandy. “Ego-fodder. Something designed to appeal to his sense that he ought to be the hinge around which the rest of the world turned.”
“Catnip for an asshole,” continued Locke. “Jean offered the second approach, on the theory that Lovaris might be more willing to parley seriously with an envoy he hadn’t just pissed all over. Turned out to be a good guess.”
“And now Lovaris is the most important man in Karthain,” whispered Sabetha. “Now any deadlock in Konseil is going to have to be resolved by his vote!”
“A possibility he found quite stimulating. The other Konseillors might detest his guts,” said Locke, “but they will be at his door, hats in hand, for the next five years, or until he’s assassinated. Hardly our problem either way.”
“And that’s all it took? A friendly suggestion?”
“Well, obviously, he agreed to go through with it only if the numbers added up,” said Locke. “If you’d had a wider margin of victory, he would have stayed silent. And there was one hell of a bribe to sweeten the deal.”
“He settled for twenty-five thousand ducats,” said Jean.
“How does he expect to hide it?” said Sabetha. “The Black Iris are going to rake him over the coals! His countinghouse will be watched, his business dealings will be dissected, any fresh property that turns up will be beaten like a dusty carpet for clues!”