by Scott Lynch
“I understand that congratulations are in order to the both of you, Master de Ferra,” said the attendant as Locke stepped back to let Jean approach the counter with his own box. Jerome de Ferra, also of Talisham, was Leocanto’s boon companion. They were a pair of fictional peas in a pod.
Suddenly, Locke felt a hand fall onto his left shoulder. He turned warily and found himself facing a woman with curly dark hair, richly dressed in the same colors as the Sinspire attendants. One side of her face was sublimely beautiful—the other side was a leathery brown half-mask, wrinkled, as though it had been badly burned. When she smiled, the damaged side of her lips failed to move. It seemed to Locke as though a living woman was somehow struggling to emerge from within a rough clay sculpture.
Selendri, Requin’s majordomo.
The hand that she had placed on his shoulder (her left, on the burned side) wasn’t real. It was a solid brass simulacrum, and it gleamed dully in the lantern light as she withdrew it.
“The house congratulates you,” she said in her eerie, lisping voice, “for good manners as well as considerable fortitude, and wishes you and Master de Ferra to know that you would both be welcome on the sixth floor, should you choose to exercise the privilege.”
Locke’s smile was quite genuine. “Many thanks, on behalf of myself and my partner,” he said with tipsy glibness. “The kind regard of the house is, of course, extremely flattering.”
She nodded noncommittally, then slipped away into the crowd as quickly as she’d come. Eyebrows went up appreciatively here and there—few of Requin’s guests, to Locke’s knowledge, were apprised of their increasing social status by Selendri herself.
“We’re a commodity in demand, my dear Jerome,” he said as they made their way through the crowd toward the front doors.
“For the time being,” said Jean.
“Master de Ferra,” beamed the head doorman as they approached, “and Master Kosta. May I call for a carriage?”
“No need, thanks,” said Locke. “I’ll fall over sideways if I don’t flush my head with some night air. We’ll walk.”
“Very good then, sir.”
With military precision, four attendants held the doors open for Locke and Jean to pass. The two thieves stepped carefully down a wide set of stone steps covered with a red velvet carpet. That carpet was thrown out and replaced each night. As a result, in Tal Verrar alone could one find armies of beggars routinely sleeping on piles of red velvet scraps.
The view was breathtaking; to their right, the whole crescent sweep of the island was visible beyond the silhouettes of other chance houses. There was relative darkness in the north, in contrast to the auralike glow of the Golden Steps. Beyond the city—to the south, west, and north—the Sea of Brass gleamed phosphorescent silver, lit by three moons in a cloudless sky. Here and there the sails of distant ships reached up from the quicksilver tableau, ghostly pale.
Locke could gaze downward to his left and see across the staggered rooftops of the island’s five lower tiers, a vertigo-inducing view despite the solidity of the stones beneath his feet. All around him was the murmur of human pleasure and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobbles; there were at least a dozen moving or waiting along the straight avenue atop the sixth tier. Above, the Sinspire reared up into the opalescent darkness with its alchemical lanterns bright, like a candle meant to draw the attentions of the gods.
“And now, my dear professional pessimist,” said Locke as they stepped away from the Sinspire and acquired relative privacy, “my worry-merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision…what do you have to say to that?”
“Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It’s so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan.”
“That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm.”
“Gods forfend,” said Jean. “You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world.”
“And now you’re—”
“If only there was a leper handy,” interrupted Jean, “so you could lay your hands on and magically heal him.”
“Oh, you’re just farting out your mouth because you’re jealous.”
“It’s possible,” said Jean. “Actually, we are substantially enriched, not caught, not dead, more famous, and welcome on the next floor up. I must admit that I was wrong to call it a silly scheme.”
“Really? Huh.” Locke reached under his coat lapels as he spoke. “Because I have to admit, it was a silly scheme. Damned irresponsible. One drink more and I would have been finished. I’m actually pretty bloody surprised we pulled it off.”
He fumbled beneath his coat for a second or two, then pulled out a little pad of wool about as wide and long as his thumb. A puff of dust was shaken from the wool when Locke slipped it into one of his outer pockets, and he wiped his hands vigorously on his sleeves as they walked along.
“Nearly lost is just another way to say finally won,” said Jean.
“Nonetheless, the liquor almost did me in. Next time I’m that optimistic about my own capacity, correct me with a hatchet to the skull.”
“I’ll be glad to correct you with two.”
It was Madam Izmila Corvaleur who’d made the scheme possible. Madam Corvaleur, who’d first crossed paths with “Leocanto Kosta” at a gaming table a few weeks earlier, who had the reliable habit of eating with her fingers to annoy her opponents while she played cards.
Carousel Hazard really couldn’t be cheated by any traditional means. None of Requin’s attendants would stack a deck, not once in a hundred years, not even in exchange for a dukedom. Nor could any player alter the carousel, select one vial in favor of another, or serve a vial to anyone else. With all the usual means of introducing a foreign substance to another player guarded against, the only remaining possibility was for a player to do herself in by slowly, willingly taking in something subtle and unorthodox. Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.
Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.
Bela paranella was a colorless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as “the night friend.” It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol, bela paranella was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes, if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.
“Gods, that woman had the constitution of a war galley,” said Locke. “She must have started getting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand…probably could’ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less.”
“At least we got what we wanted,” said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged, and slipped it in a pocket.
“We did indeed…and I saw him!” said Locke. “Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We must have excited a personal interest.” The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke’s thoughts. “Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?”
“Well, assume you’re correct. So what now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?”
“A few more weeks? To hell with that. We’ve been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we’ve finally cracked Requin’s shell, I say we bloody well go for it.”
“You’re going to suggest tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
“His curiosity’s piqued. Let’s strike while the blade is fresh from the forge.”
“I suspect that drink has made you impulsive.”
“Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive.”
“You there,” came a voice from the street in front of them. “Hold it!”
Locke tensed. “I beg your pardon?”
A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd seemed to have gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the dueling green.
“Hold it, sirs, I beg of you,” said the young man. “I’m afraid it’s an affair, and there may be a bolt flying past. Might I beg of you to wait but a moment?”
“Oh. Oh.” Locke and Jean relaxed simultaneously. If someone was dueling with crossbows, it was common courtesy as well as good sense to wait beside the dueling ground until the shots were taken. That way, neither participant would be distracted by movement in the background, or accidentally bury a bolt in a passerby.
The dueling green was about forty yards long and half as wide, lit at each of its four corners by a soft white lantern hanging in a black iron frame. Two duelists stood in the center of the green with their seconds, each man casting four pale gray shadows in a crisscross pattern. Locke had little personal inclination to watch, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be Leocanto Kosta, a man of worldly indifference to strangers punching holes in one another. He and Jean squeezed into the crowd of spectators as unobtrusively as possible; a similar crowd had formed on the other side of the green.
One of the duelists was a very young man, dressed in fine loose gentleman’s clothing of a fashionable cut; he wore optics, and his hair hung to his shoulders in well-tended ringlets.
His red-jacketed opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow—what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.
“Gentlemen,” said the younger duelist’s second. “Please. Can there be no accommodation?”
“If the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation,” added the younger duelist. His voice was high and nervous. “I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—”
“No, there cannot,” said the man standing beside the older duelist. “His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact.”
“…with the merest recognition,” continued the young duelist, desperately, “that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—”
“Were he to condescend to speak to you again,” said the older duelist’s second, “his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a bitch, and would inquire as to whether you’re equally capable of biting like one.”
The younger duelist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.
“I am forced,” said his second, “I am, ah, forced…to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand…back-to-back.”
The two opponents walked toward each other—the older man marched with vigor while the younger still stepped hesitantly—and turned their backs to each other.
“You shall have ten paces,” said the younger man’s second, with bitter resignation. “Wait then, and on my signal, you may turn and loose.”
Slowly he counted out the steps; slowly the two opponents walked away from each other. The younger man was shaking very badly indeed. Locke felt a ball of unaccustomed tension growing in his own stomach. Since when had he become such a damned softhearted fellow? Just because he preferred not to watch didn’t mean he should be afraid to do so…yet the feeling in his stomach paid no heed to the thoughts in his head.
“…nine…ten. Stand fast,” said the young duelist’s second. “Stand fast…. Turn and loose!”
The younger man whirled first, his face a mask of terror; he threw out his right hand and let fly. A sharp twang sounded across the green. His opponent didn’t even jerk back as the bolt hissed through the air beside his head, missing by at least the width of a hand.
The red-jacketed old man completed his own turn more slowly, his eyes bright and his mouth set into a scowl. His younger opponent stared at him for several seconds, as though trying to will his bolt to come flying back like a trained bird. He shuddered, lowered his crossbow, and then threw it down to the grass. With his hands on his hips, he stood waiting, breathing in deep and noisy gulps.
His opponent regarded him briefly, then snorted. “Be fucked,” he said, and he raised his crossbow in both hands. His shot was perfect; there was a wet crack and the younger duelist toppled with a feathered bolt dead in the center of his chest. He fell onto his back, clawing at his coat and tunic, spitting up dark blood. Half a dozen spectators rushed toward him, while one young woman in a silver evening gown fell to her knees and screamed.
“We’ll get back just in time for dinner,” said the older duelist to nobody in particular. He tossed his own crossbow carelessly to the ground behind him and stomped off toward one of the nearby chance houses, with his second at his side.
“Sweet fucking Perelandro,” said Locke, forgetting Leocanto Kosta for a moment and thinking out loud. “What a way to manage things.”
“You don’t approve, sir?” A lovely young woman in a black silk dress regarded Locke with disconcertingly penetrating eyes. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. “I understand that some differences of opinion need to be settled with steel,” said Jean, butting in, appearing to recognize that Locke was still a bit too tipsy for his own good. “But standing before a crossbow bolt seems foolish. Blades strike me as a more honest test of skill.”
“Rapiers are tedious; all that back and forth, and rarely a killing strike right away,” said the young woman. “Bolts are fast, clean, and merciful. You can hack at someone all night with a rapier and fail to kill them.”
“I am quite compelled to agree with you,” muttered Locke.
The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing; a moment later she was gone, vanishing into the dispersing crowd.
The contented murmur of the night—the laughter and chatter of the small clusters of men and women making time beneath the stars—had died briefly while the duel took place, but now it rose up once again. The woman in the silver dress beat her fists against the grass, sobbing, while the crowd around the fallen duelist seemed to sag in unison. The bolt’s work was clearly done.
“Fast, clean, and merciful,” said Locke softly. “Idiots.”
Jean sighed. “Neither of us has any right to offer that sort of observation, since ‘gods-damned idiots’ is likely to be inscribed on our grave-markers.”
“I’ve had reasons for doing what I’ve done, and so did you.”
“I’m sure those duelists felt the same way.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” said Locke. “Let’s walk off the fumes in my head and get back to the inn. Gods, I feel old and sour. I see things like this and I wonder if I was that bloody stupid when I was that boy’s age.”
“You were worse,” said Jean. “Until quite recently. Probably still are.”
5
LOCKE’S MELANCHOLY slowly evaporated, along with more of his alcoholic haze, as they made their way down and across the Golden Steps, north by northeast to the Great Gallery. The Eldren craftsmen (Craftswomen? Crafts-things?) responsible for Tal Verrar had covered the entire district with an open-sided Elderglass roof that sloped downward from its peak atop the sixth tier and plunged into the sea at the western island’s base, leaving at least thirty feet of space beneath it at all points in between. Strange twisted glass columns rose up at irregular intervals, looking like leafless climbing vines carved from ice. The glass ceiling of the Gallery was easily a thousand yards from end to end the long way.
Beyond the Great Gallery, on the lower layers of the island, was the Portable Quarter—open-faced tiers on which the miserably destitute were allo
wed to set up squatters’ huts and whatever shelters they could construct from castoff materials. The trouble was that any forceful wind from the north, especially in the rainy winter, would completely rearrange the place.
Perversely, the district above and immediately southeast of the Portable Quarter, the Savrola, was a pricey expatriate’s enclave, full of foreigners with money to waste. All the best inns were there, including the one Locke and Jean were currently using for their well-heeled alternate identities. The Savrola was sealed off from the Portable Quarter by high stone walls, and heavily patrolled by Verrari constables and private mercenaries.
By day, the Great Gallery was the marketplace of Tal Verrar. A thousand merchants set up their stalls beneath it every morning, and there was room for five thousand more, should the city ever grow so vast. Visitors rooming in the Savrola who didn’t travel by boat were forced, by cunning coincidence, to walk across the full breadth of the market to travel to or from the Golden Steps.
An east wind was up, blowing out from the mainland, across the glass islands and into the Gallery. Locke and Jean’s footsteps echoed in the darkness of the vast hollow space; soft lamps on some of the glass pillars made irregular islands of light. Scraps of trash blew past their feet, and wisps of wood smoke from unseen fires. Some merchants kept family members sleeping in particularly desirable stall locations all night…and of course there were always vagrants from the Portable Quarter, seeking privacy in the shadows of the empty Gallery. Patrols stomped through the Gallery tiers several times each night, but there were none in sight at the moment.
“What a strange wasteland this place becomes after dark,” said Jean. “I can’t decide if I mislike it or if it enchants me.”
“You’d probably be less inclined to enchantment if you didn’t have a pair of hatchets stuffed up the back of your coat.”