by Scott Lynch
“Well,” she said, dropping her façade of outrage, “what if another benefactor is willing to provide additional funds in a contrary direction?”
“Notify us,” said Locke. “We’ll match anything you’re offered. I don’t even want you to take action against that other benefactor; merely refrain from taking action against us. Make up excuses. Imply that you’re under scrutiny, that further accommodations are temporarily impossible. Surely you can see it’s a sweet arrangement where you’re concerned.”
“It’s not without its temptations,” she mused.
“Quit being coy. Just say yes and earn a fortune.”
“Well, then—yes.”
“I have your word this warrant concerning Josten is a misunderstanding, and the record in question is going to be found, by the happiest happenstance, as soon as I leave this office?”
“You may safely consider the matter settled.”
“Good. If it remains settled next week, I’ll call again with more decorations for your desk. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a tight schedule of pushing boulders up hills.”
“You know,” said Nikoros quietly as they left the Second Clerk’s office, “not to criticize, but if no particular tact is required in these matters, I’ve a hundred Deep Roots men and women who can make these calls in their official capacities—”
“No,” said Locke. “When it comes to just laying out money, leave our official friends out of it. Save them for areas in which their authority is needed. There’s no point in blunting our tools in the wrong applications.”
“Well,” said Nikoros, “you’re damned impossible to argue with, Master Lazari.”
“Not impossible,” said Jean placidly. “About as intractable as a tortoise with its ass on fire, though.”
“If we’re going to catch up to the opposition,” said Locke, “we’ve got to step boldly at every—”
“There he is! There’s the man who stole my purse!” cried a familiar voice as Locke emerged once again onto the fog-shrouded plaza.
The middle-aged woman stood there, flanked by two men in pale blue coats reminiscent of the one worn by Vidalos. These men wore studded leather vests beneath them, however, and had clubs hanging from their belts.
Gods. So it hadn’t been an innocent collision after all.
“Your pardon, sir,” said one of the guards, stepping forward, “but I must ask to see your pockets.”
“A black silk purse,” said the woman, “with the initials ‘G.B.’ in red in one of the corners. Seven ducats in it. Or at least there were!”
Locke patted himself down hurriedly. Yes, there was a slender new weight in the lower left inside pocket of his rather excellent new coat. He hadn’t noticed the addition; he’d been so satisfied with verifying that nothing had been removed. Stupid, clumsy, amateurish—
“I say,” he sputtered, “this is an intolerable accusation! How dare you, madam, how dare you! And how dare you, sir, suggest that a gentleman might be turned upside-down and shaken like a common cutpurse!”
“Be reasonable, sir,” said the guard. “The lady has a precise description of what was taken, and surely proving that you don’t have it is worth a moment of your time—”
“It is a liberty beyond comprehension! This is Karthain, not the lawless wilds!” Into his furious gesticulations, Locke worked a number of quick hand signals for Jean’s benefit. “I take great … I take the most … I take take take … arrrrrggggggggh!”
Locke spasmed and sputtered. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he stumbled forward moaning, clutching at the approaching guard. Alarmed, the man reached for his club. While Nikoros watched in mute bewilderment, Jean sprang between Locke and the guard.
“For pity’s sake!” Jean hissed. “Don’t pull that cudgel, he’s having a fit!”
“Nnnnnggggggggghhhhh,” said Locke, spraying flecks of spittle and waving his head about furiously.
“He’s cursed,” said the other guard, making a gesture against evil with both of his hands. “He’s got a spirit influence on him!”
“He’s not cursed, you damned simpleton, it’s an illness,” said Jean. “Whenever his emotions run high, there’s a chance he’ll have a fit, and I dare say you, madam, have brought him to this state!”
In a manner that seemed perfectly accidental and natural (Jean’s interference was nothing less than expert), Locke broke away from Jean and the guard. Lurching like a marionette whose puppeteer was dying of some convulsive poison, he tumbled sobbing against the woman, who shrieked and pushed him away. Locke wound up on his back with Jean crouching protectively over him as he babbled, twitched, and kicked at the air.
“Stand back,” said Jean. “Give him some air. The fit will pass. In a moment he’ll be calm.”
Locke, taking the hint, gradually reduced the severity of his symptoms until he was only gently shuddering and mumbling.
“If you really must render such low treatment to a gentleman,” said Jean, “I suggest you examine his pockets now, while he’s not entirely himself.”
The guard Locke had initially stumbled against knelt down beside him and, carefully, as though Locke might leap back up at any moment, went through Locke’s coat.
“Private papers and a purse not matching your description,” he said, standing up. “Madam, I’m afraid it’s just not there.”
“He must have discarded it inside,” she cried. “Search the building!”
“Now, this is beyond all propriety,” said Jean. “My friend is a gentleman and a solicitor, and you insult him with these ridiculous accusations!”
“He’s a pickpocket,” said the woman. “He ran into me to steal my purse!”
“This man is a convulsive,” Jean bellowed. “He has fits half a dozen times a day! What the hell kind of pickpocket do you think he’d make? Twitching and trembling and falling over? Gods!”
“Madam,” said the guard standing over Locke, “he doesn’t have your purse, and you must admit a gentleman with, ah, twitching fever hardly seems a likely cutpurse.”
“Check his friend,” she said. “Check the big one.”
“I’ll gladly hand my coat over,” said Jean, slowly and coldly, pretending to come to a realization. “Yet I must insist that you do the same, madam.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” said Jean. “I understand what’s going on now. I marvel that I didn’t grasp it before. There is a pickpocket at work, sirs, but one wearing a lady’s dress rather than a gentleman’s breeches.”
“You foreign slime!” shouted the woman.
“Constables, no doubt you’ve been in the company of this woman since she approached you with her complaint. I’d check, if I were you, to make sure of your own purses.”
The guards patted themselves down, and the one standing over Locke gasped.
“My coin bag!” he said. “It was right here in my belt!”
“You may examine me at length,” said Jean, extending his arms with his empty palms up. “But I must insist that your more fruitful course of action would be to examine my accuser.”
The guard nearest the woman put a hand on her shoulder, mumbled apologies, and gingerly sifted her coat pockets while she screeched and struggled. After a moment, he held up a small leather coin bag and a black silk purse.
“Stitched with the initials ‘G.B.’!” he said.
“But it was missing!” she cried. “It was nowhere to be found!”
“What about my coin bag, eh?” The first guard snatched the leather purse from his partner and shook it at her. “What’s this doing in your pocket?”
“I’m bloody confused,” muttered the other guard.
“You’re meant to be,” said Jean. “Forgive me for saying so. I’ve seen this act before. Our harmless-looking friend here has been plucking purses. Clearly she meant to frame my friend for her deeds, even while plying her trade on you, sirs. Thus, when you and any other victims discovered your light pockets, you’d have a culprit already in hand, ready to soa
k up all the blame. I can only imagine she tried and failed to plant her purse on my friend. Perhaps age is catching up with you, madam?”
“Lying bastard,” she shouted, trying and failing to fight off the firm grip of a guard. “Lying, thieving, pocket-picking foreigner!”
“Right, you,” said the first guard, taking her other arm. “I don’t like being taken advantage of. Gentlemen, would you like to come inside with us and register your complaint as well?”
“Actually,” said Jean, “I’d like to get my friend home, if not to a physiker. I daresay this woman’s in enough trouble for having lifted your purse. I can be content with that.”
“And if you should need anything else from us,” said Nikoros, handing one of the guards a small white card, “I’m Nikoros Via Lupa, Isas Salvierro. These men are my guests.”
“Very good, sir,” said the first guard, pocketing Nikoros’ card. “Sorry for the trouble. I hope the gentleman recovers.”
“Time and fresh lake air,” said Jean, swinging Locke up and supporting him under his right arm.
“Time’s the one thing he doesn’t have,” yelled the woman as the guards dragged her toward the court offices. “And you two know it! You know it! Be seeing you, gentlemen!”
Once all three men were safely ensconced in their carriage and it was clattering away down the street, Locke returned to life and burst out laughing. “Thank you, Nikoros,” he said, wiping flecks of spittle from his chin. “That last note of respectability at the end was just what the scene needed to bring everything back down to earth.”
“I bloody well rejoice to hear it,” said Nikoros, “but what the hell just happened?”
“That woman slipped a purse into my coat when she stumbled into me. Obviously she meant to get me snared for pickpocketing,” said Locke. “I checked to see if anything was missing, but like a dolt I didn’t think to feel around for unexpected gifts. She nearly had me.”
“Who was she?”
“No idea,” said Locke. “She works for our counterpart, obviously. And she’s a jewel.… Anyone who can live to that age charming coats for a living knows their business. We’ll see her again.”
“She’ll be in a cold dark cell.”
“Oh, she’ll slip those idiots in about five minutes,” said Jean. “There’ll be arrangements. Trust us.”
“I’m ashamed to admit that I actually thought for a moment that you, uh, were genuinely ill, Lazari,” said Nikoros.
“We didn’t have any time to warn you. Pitching a fit’s a crude bit of theater, but it’s surprising how often it works.”
“How did you guess she’d lifted that guard’s purse?”
“I didn’t guess,” said Locke with an indulgent chuckle. “I borrowed it when I stumbled against him.”
“Then he passed it on to our lady friend, along with her own purse, when he stumbled against her,” said Jean.
“Gods above,” said Nikoros.
“And don’t think she didn’t realize it,” added Jean. “But there’s only so many ways you can arrange to bump tits with strangers before it starts to look fishy.”
“Ain’t we clever?” said Locke, idly examining his own pockets again. “And I’m pretty sure I still have … everything. Holy hells!”
There was a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, in his left inner pocket. He drew it out and stared at it.
“This wasn’t in my pocket when I came out the door,” he said. “She … she stuck me with it while I was slipping her the two purses!”
Jean gave a low whistle as Locke popped the seal and flipped the parchment open in haste. He read the contents aloud:
Messrs. Lazari and Callas
Sirs—
I trust you will excuse the unorthodox means by which this letter finds its way into your hands. Karthani post-masters, enterprising as they are, rarely deliver directly to the interior pocket of a gentleman’s coat. I present my compliments, and desire that you should call upon me at the seventh hour of this evening, at the Sign of the Black Iris, in the Vel Vespala.
Your most affectionate servant—
“Verena Gallante,” said Locke in a harsh whisper. His heart seemed to expand and fill his entire chest with its beating. “She wants to … she wants to see … oh, gods—”
He looked out the window, craning his neck furiously to see behind them, into the swirling silvery fog, where of course there was nothing meaningful to be found.
“What is it?” said Nikoros.
“That was no middle-aged stranger,” said Locke. “That was her.”
“Who?”
“The opposition,” said Locke, settling back into his seat, feeling dazed. “Our counterpart. The woman we spoke of.”
“Verena Gallante?”
“It seems that’s her present alias.”
“Oh my,” said Jean. “The initials on the silk purse … now, that was cheeky.”
“Only if we weren’t too dense to notice it right away,” said Locke.
“I fail to see how ‘Verena Gallante’ yields ‘G.B.’,” said Nikoros.
“A private matter,” said Locke. “I have … we have a history with this woman.”
“What must we do now?” said Nikoros.
“Now,” said Locke, “you can direct our driver to wherever this Master Ratfinder keeps his office, and after we’ve persuaded him to quit being a nuisance, you and Master Callas can go scrounge up the brutes we discussed yesterday.”
“And what about you?”
“I, well …” said Locke, running one hand over his stubble, “I’ll need to go find a barber.”
4
THEIR UNANNOUNCED appointment with Master Ratfinder Bilezzo took less time than their protracted encounter at the court offices. After the initial exchange of greetings and the sudden appearance of a pile of ducats on Bilezzo’s desk, it rapidly became clear to Locke and Jean that Bilezzo was a fatuous, contrary, self-satisfied fellow who was deeply amused at the chance to have a bit of harmless mischief with his far-ranging civic powers.
The two Gentlemen Bastards decided to correct his attitude in a traditional Camorri fashion. Locke doubled the amount of his proposed bribe while Jean picked Bilezzo up by his lapels, scraped the ceiling with his head, and cheerfully offered to nail his tongue to the back of a carriage and whip the horses around the city.
No middle-aged civil servant in a comfortable position could easily refuse such entreaties, and they parted with a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Bilezzo’s men would continue (for appearance’s sake) to carry out the pointless fumigation of Nikoros’ building, Locke would conjure piles of gold to ensure it didn’t happen there again, or anywhere else of value to the Deep Roots party, and Jean would spare Bilezzo the unwanted carriage ride.
Nikoros came away from the meeting having learned several new words, as well as some novel hyphenations of familiar ones, and a fascinating twist to the art of negotiation that his education had previously neglected.
5
LOCKE RETURNED alone to Josten’s just before the second hour of the afternoon with the autumn air cool against his freshly shaved face, chewing on the last of the half-dozen sweet cakes he’d picked up for lunch.
The place was in a fine state of near-pandemonium, with locksmiths performing surgery on at least three visible doors, while the customary crowd of businessfolk bustled about eating, shouting, negotiating, or simply trying to maintain airs of importance. At the same time, the ordinary and legitimate business of the Deep Roots party went on. Locke and Jean had agreed that there was no need for them to oversee every last detail of the Committee’s business, lest they go mad while driving everyone around them mad into the bargain.
Unusual events and setbacks, however, were very much their business, and Locke hadn’t taken five steps past the front doors before a small pack of Nikoros’ messengers and assistants descended on him waving scraps of paper. Locke flipped through them as he walked through the crowd and made his way up toward the party’s priv
ate gallery.
Constables had detained several important party supporters for public drunkenness. A district organizer had dumped his life’s savings into a bag and fled the city just before dawn for reasons unknown. A candidate for the seat in the Isas Vadrasta was going to fight a duel tomorrow, and there was no quality replacement if he ended up full of holes. Locke sighed. Casualty reports, by all the gods, like some captain on a battlefield! Sabetha’s hand could be in any of it, or none of it. No doubt the lists of complications would only get longer as the weeks wore on.
“Here’s Master Lazari now,” said Jean as Locke ascended the final step to the private gallery. Jean and Nikoros were standing before a group of eight men. Most of them looked capable to Locke’s eye—city bruisers, obvious ex-constables, and a few with the deep tans and weather-worn faces of caravan guards. They all nodded or muttered greetings.
“We’ve got a lead on some women, too,” said Jean, whispering into Locke’s ear. “Bodyguards. Nikoros found them; he’ll bring them in tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Locke. He waved the slips of paper at Jean. “Seen these?”
“If those are the notes on today’s pains in the ass, yes. You got anything to tell our new friends?”
“We want you content,” said Locke, addressing the men. “We want you to feel that you’re being treated fairly. If you’re not, bring it to us. If anyone threatens you, or makes you an offer—you know the sort of thing I’m talking about—bring it to us. Quietly. I guarantee we’ll come up with a better deal.”
There was no point in mentioning consequences or making threats; gods, no. Doing that in public was a sure sign of insecurity. Threats, when needed, would be a private affair. If these men had real quality they would appreciate not being treated like idiots.
“Go find Josten,” said Jean. “Have yourselves a bite. I’ll have shift assignments once you’ve eaten.”
As the men left the gallery, Jean turned to Locke. “Where’d you go to get your shave, back to Lashain?”
“I didn’t mean to be out so long. I, uh, just thought I’d have my driver take me around some of the Black Iris places Nikoros listed for us. See if there was anything interesting going on.”