by Scott Lynch
“We haven’t identified her yet,” said Nikoros. “She’s not Karthani.”
“No,” said Locke. “She’s not. Do you have any idea where she is?”
“I could show you a few coffeehouses and taverns run by Black Iris members. Not to mention the Sign of the Black Iris itself. They got their name from that place. If I had to guess, I’d look for her there.”
“I’ll want a list of all those places,” said Locke. “Get me the name of every business, every inn, every hole in the wall connected with the Iris people. Write them down. I’ll have paper sent out to you while we’re in Tivoli’s.”
“I fancy I can give you something useful off the top of my head. Do you want something more complete, later? I have membership lists, property lists …”
“I’ll want it all,” said Locke. “Make copies. Do you have a scribe you trust, really trust?”
“I have a bonded scrivener I’ve used forever,” said Nikoros. “He votes Deep Roots.”
“Have the poor bastard cancel his life for a day or two,” said Locke. “Pay him whatever he asks. I assume you can tug on the party’s purse strings at will?”
“Well, yes—”
“Good, because that teat is about to be milked. Have your scribe copy everything important. Everything. Anything election-related goes to us. Anything personal goes to your countinghouse vault.”
“But, why—”
“For the next month and a half, I expect you to behave as though your office is in danger of burning down at any moment.”
“But surely they wouldn’t …”
“Nothing is off the table. Nothing! Got it?”
“If you insist.”
“Maybe we’ll have a meeting with the opposition sooner or later,” said Locke. “Set some rules. Until then, a bad accident is a near-certainty. I know if I could get at someone like you on the Black Iris side, turn their papers into ash, I’d be sorely tempted.”
“I can give you names—”
“Write them down,” said Locke. “Write them all down. You’re going to be tasting ink with your lunch, I’m afraid.”
5
TIVOLI’S COUNTINGHOUSE was a classic of its type, a perfect cross between inviting extravagance and blatant intimidation.
Locke admired the building. The narrow windows, like fortress embrasures, were girded with iron bars, and the shelves beneath the windows were cement blocks studded with broken glass. The exterior walls (all four of them, for the three-story building stood alone on a hard-packed dirt courtyard) were painted with well-executed frescoes of fat, infinitely content Gandolo blessing account books, scales, and stacks of coin. The alchemical resin used to protect these images from the weather gave the walls a faint gleam, and Locke knew from personal experience it also made them devilishly hard to climb.
The interior smelled of mellow incense. Golden lanterns hung in niches, casting a warm, inviting light except where pillars and drapes contrived to create equally inviting pools of shadow. To either side behind the main doors, guards sat on stools in gated alcoves, and a quick glance up confirmed that there was a tastefully concealed portcullis ready to be dropped, if not by the guards or bankers then by hidden watchers behind the walls.
There was no chance of robbing such a place on a whim, nor with anything less than a dozen armed and ready types, and even that was more likely to earn a bloodbath than a fortune. The shrine-like inviolability of houses like this was actually as necessary to those in the criminal line as it was to any honest citizen. There was no point in stealing well or wisely if the loot couldn’t be stashed somewhere safe.
“I see Nikoros in the carriage outside,” said a woman who emerged from behind a painted screen. She was about forty, dark-skinned, with chestnut hair bound beneath a black silk skullcap. Her right eye was clouded, and she wore a pair of optics from which the corresponding lens had been removed. “You must be the political gentlemen.”
“Callas and Lazari,” said Jean.
“Singular Tivoli, gentlemen. Your servant.”
“Singular?” said Locke.
“More elegant than ‘Only Tivoli,’ I find, and far more sociable than ‘Solitary Tivoli.’ You have some documents?”
Locke handed over the papers they’d been given by Patience. Tivoli barely glanced at them before she nodded.
“Private credit for three thousand each,” she said. “Scratched these up myself a few days ago. Do you want to draw any of it?”
“Yes,” said Jean. “Can you give us fifty apiece?”
That was adequate pocket money, thought Locke. Half a pound of Karthani ducats each. He turned the sum into Camorri crowns in his head, and idly reflected on what it could get him: a small company of mercenaries for several months, half a dozen outstanding horses, twice as many adequate ones, plain food and lodging for years … not that he’d have any reason to buy such far-fetched things. Yet it would certainly procure an excellent dinner. His stomach rumbled at the thought.
“Might I offer you gentlemen some refreshment while the matter is tended to?” Tivoli glanced at Locke. Were her ears that sharp? “Dark ale? Wine? Pastries?”
“Yes,” said Locke, resenting his weakness but unable to master it. “Yes, anything solid, that would be ne … nice.” Gods above, he’d almost said “necessary.”
“Also,” said Jean, “could we trouble you to have paper, ink, and quills sent out to our carriage? Nikoros has some scribbling to do.”
Tivoli settled Locke and Jean in one of the alcoves, on chairs that would have been at home in the suite of false furniture they’d given to Requin. An attendant brought a tray of flaky brown pastries in the western style, filled with cheese and minced mushrooms. They were the richest thing Locke had eaten in weeks. Jean and Tivoli took small cups of dark ale, and watched in joint bemusement as Locke removed the pastries from existence, rank by rank.
“I’m sorry,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been ill. My stomach might as well have been locked up on another continent.” He knew he was being less than polite, but the alternative was to gnaw on more ship’s biscuits, which he had transferred to an inner pocket of his new coat.
“Think nothing of it,” said Tivoli. “Manners that would keep you starving are no manners worth respecting. Shall I call for more?”
Locke nodded, and in moments the surviving pastries received reinforcements. These were followed by an attendant carrying a wooden board with a neatly gridded surface, on which low stacks of gold and silver coins had been set out. Jean divided this money into two new leather purses while Locke continued eating.
“Now,” said Tivoli, “I trust there’s little more to say about your personal funds. The other matter we need to touch upon is a certain sum left in my care with strict instructions that it remain unrecorded. Before we discuss its handling, I must ask that you make absolutely no reference to my name in connection with this sum, at any time, save in the utmost privacy between yourselves. Certainly never in writing.”
“I assure you, madam, that in all matters of discretion not involving food, we make etiquette tutors look like slobbering barbarians,” said Jean.
“Excellent,” she said, rising from her chair. “Then let me acquaint you with the hundred thousand ducats I’m not holding on your behalf.”
6
THE UNRECORDED sum lay in a windowless cell off an underground hallway guarded by clockwork doors that must have weighed half a ton apiece. A stack of iron-bound chests was set against an interior wall, and Tivoli pushed one open to reveal gleaming contents.
“About seven hundred and fifty pounds of gold,” she said. “I can turn a fair percentage of it into silver without much notice, whenever you require.”
“I … yes, that may indeed be necessary before we’re finished,” said Locke. He felt a strange tug at his heart. He’d taken the vast fortune of the Gentlemen Bastards for granted for so long, and now here was another, set out for his disposal, as though the first had never been lost.
<
br /> “Is there anyone besides yourselves,” said Tivoli, “that you would wish to have access to these funds?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jean.
“And that’s never to be countermanded,” added Locke. “Ever. No one else will come on our behalf. Anyone who says otherwise will be lying. Any evidence they produce should be torn up and stuffed down their breeches.”
“We have, from long practice, developed many efficient means of dealing with mischief-makers,” said Tivoli.
“May my associate and I speak privately?” said Locke.
“Of course.” Tivoli stepped out of the cell and pushed the door half-closed. “This door will open from your side at just a touch of the silver lever. Take as long as you require.”
When the door had clattered all the way shut, Jean closed the open chest and sat upon it. “Your guts doing tumbling exercises like mine?”
“I’d never have credited it,” said Locke, running his fingers over the cool wood of another strongbox. “All those years we spent stealing bigger and bigger sums. The money was like a painted backdrop for me. Now that we’ve had a couple fortunes yanked out from under us, though …”
“Yeah,” said Jean. “It seems dearer, somehow. This Tivoli—how far do you suppose we can trust her?”
“I think we can afford to assume the best in her case,” said Locke. “Patience sent us here. Probably means that Sabetha can’t touch our funds at their source, and that hers are equally beyond our reach. This is ammunition for the game. You’d want it kept safe for proper use if you were the magi, wouldn’t you?”
“You’ve saved me some explaining.” The voice was deep, cultured, with a languid Karthani accent, and it came from right behind Locke. He whirled.
A man leaned against the door; he was about Locke’s age and height, wearing a long coat the color of dried rose petals. His hair and short beard were icy blond. Gloves, breeches, boots, and neck-scarf were all black, without ornament.
“Gods,” said Locke, regaining control of himself. “I would have opened the door for a knock.”
“I didn’t choose to wait,” said the man.
“Well, I don’t need to ask to see the rings on your wrist,” said Locke. “Who are you, then? With Patience, or against?”
“With. I’ve come for a private word on behalf of all of us you stand to disappoint.”
“We’ve been at work in your interest for about four hours now,” said Locke. “Surely you could wait a day or two before coming it the total asshole? What do you think, Jean?”
“Jean is occupied,” said the stranger.
Locke turned to see Jean with his eyes unfocused and mouth slightly open. Save for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he might have been a well-dressed statue.
“Gods’ truth,” said Locke, turning back to the stranger. “I don’t care who you are, I am tired of talking to you fucking people under circumstances like—”
Before he finished his sentence, he threw a punch. Without betraying any surprise or concern, the mage caught Locke’s fist in one of his gloved hands and struck back, straight to Locke’s midsection. The strength bled from his legs and he went down gasping. The mage retained his hold on Locke’s hand and used it to wrench him around, until he was on his knees facing away from his antagonist.
“Just breathe through the pain,” said the mage, casually. “Even for you, that was arrogant. You’re no threat to anyone in your condition.”
“T-t-Tivoli,” Locke gasped. “Tivoli!”
“Grow up.” The mage knelt behind him, put his left hand on Locke’s jaw, and set the other in a choking hold. Locke kicked and struggled, but the man effortlessly maintained control of Locke’s head and tightened the grip. “She can’t hear you, either.”
“Patience,” hissed Locke. “Patience … will … nggghk …”
“This conversation is never going to be any concern of hers. She isn’t hovering over you like a little cloud. She has people like me to do that for her.”
“Ngggh … ygggh … fghkingggh … bastarrrgh!”
“Yes,” said the mage, loosening his choke at last. Locke coughed and sucked air into his burning lungs. “Yes, I do want for manners, don’t I? And you’re such a gentle saint-like fellow yourself. Are you ready to listen?”
Locke, relieved to be breathing again and deeply ashamed of his weakened state, said nothing.
“The message is this,” continued the mage, taking silence for acquiescence. “We want the contest to be genuine. We want to see you work for six weeks. If you make peace with that woman and contrive some sort of dumb-show—”
“Patience already warned me,” coughed Locke. “Gods above, you must’ve known that, you tedious piece of shit!”
“It’s one thing to be told, it’s another thing to understand. You’ve got a real entanglement with the woman on the other side. We’d have to be idiots not to allow that you might be tempted.”
“I’ve already promised—”
“Your promises aren’t worth a dead man’s spit, Camorri. So here’s something tangible. Make any arrangement with your redheaded friend to fix this contest, in either direction, and we’ll kill her.”
“You son of a— You can’t—”
“Of course we can. Just as soon as the election is over. We’ll take our time while you watch.”
“The other mages—”
“You think they give a damn about her? The Falconer’s friends? They hired her to vex you. Once the five-year game is over, they’ll be no protection.”
Locke attempted to stumble to his feet, and after a moment the mage yanked him up by the back of his coat. Locke turned, glared, and made a show of dusting himself off.
“It’s no use giving me the evil eye, Lamora. Take the warning to heart. You should be flattered that we understand how useless half-measures are with you.”
“Flattered,” said Locke. “Oh, yeah. Flattered. That’s exactly the word that was on the tip of my tongue. Thanks.”
“The woman is a hostage to your good behavior. You don’t get another reminder. And don’t bother telling Patience about this, either. You’d suffer for it.”
“That all?”
“That’s all the conversation I have in me, friend.”
“Then wake Jean up.”
“He’ll stop daydreaming once I’ve gone.”
“Too chickenshit to say this sort of thing in front of him?”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” said the mage, “that the last thing your partner needs is another one of my kind proving just how helpless he is while he’s awake to bear the disgrace?”
“I …”
“I’m not without my sympathies, Lamora. They just don’t necessarily reside with you. Now mind the job we hired you for.”
With a wave of his hand he was gone. Locke swung his arms around the empty air where the mage had been standing, then patted the nearby wall, then checked to make sure the door was still tightly closed. He gave a grunt of disgusted resignation and massaged his neck.
“Locke? Did you say something?”
Jean was back on his feet, looking hale.
“Uh, no, Jean, I’m sorry. I just … uh, coughed.”
“Are you all right?” Jean peered at him over the rims of his optics. “You’re sweating like mad. Did something happen?”
“It’s just … nothing.” Gods above, the red-coated bastard was right. Jean didn’t need another reminder of how casually the magi could make a puppet of him. With Locke barely started on the path to recovery, he needed all of Jean’s confidence and energy, without distraction. “I’m sure it’s just all this walking about. I’ll get used to it again soon enough.”
“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean. “We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”
“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people in the
world I’d want to disappoint.”
7
“NIKOROS, WHO the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere Nikoros had called the Palanta District.
“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except the actual day of an election.”
“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful. So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”
“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed, protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll have more precise figures as the election goes on.”
“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or am I wrong?”
“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your name, too.”
“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen smaller ones.”
“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”
Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros had a long-standing relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses, and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”
“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves as the Committee.”
“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.
“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening. Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”