by Scott Lynch
“Leocanto! You gave me a start.”
“Jerome.” They both spoke in a near whisper. “You really were nervous, weren’t you? Nose buried in a book to keep you from going mad. Some things never change.”
“I wasn’t nervous. I was merely reasonably concerned.”
“You needn’t have been.”
“Is it done, then? Am I successfully betrayed?”
“Quite betrayed. Absolutely sold out. A dead man walking.”
“Wonderful! And his attitude?”
“Guarded. Ideal, I’d say. Had he been too enthusiastic, I would be worried. And had he not been enthusiastic at all, well…” Locke mimicked shoving a knife into his chest and wiggling it several times. “Is this smoked eel?”
“Help yourself. It’s stuffed with apricots and soft yellow onions. Not entirely to my taste.”
Locke took up Jean’s fork and helped himself to a few bites of the eel; he was more partial to the stuffing than Jean had been. “We’re going to lose two-thirds of my account, it seems,” he said after making some progress on the dish. “A tax on cheating to remind me not to presume too much on Requin’s patience.”
“Well, it’s not as though we expected to get out of the city with the money in those accounts. Might’ve been nice to have it for a few more weeks, at least.”
“True. But I think the alternative would have been desktop surgery, whether I needed a hand amputated or not. What’re you reading?”
Jean showed him the title and Locke feigned choking. “Lucarno? Why is it always Lucarno? You drag him everywhere we go, his damn romances. Your brains will go soft with that mush. You’ll end up more fit for tending flower gardens than for running confidence games.”
“Well,” said Jean, “I shall be sure to criticize your reading habits, Master Kosta, should I ever see you develop any.”
“I’ve read quite a bit!”
“History and biography, mostly what Chains prescribed for you.”
“What could possibly be wrong with those subjects?”
“As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It’s not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination.”
“But romances aren’t real, and surely never were. Doesn’t that take away some of the savor?”
“What an interesting choice of words. ‘Not real, and never were.’ Could there be any more appropriate literature for men of our profession? Why are you always so averse to fiction, when we’ve made it our meal ticket?”
“I live in the real world,” said Locke, “and my methods are of the real world. They are, just as you say, a profession. A practicality, not some romantic whim.”
Jean set the book down before him and tapped its cover. “This is where we’re headed, Thorn—or at least you are. Look for us in history books and you’ll find us in the margins. Look for us in legends, and you might just find us celebrated.”
“Exaggerated, you mean. Lied about. Trumped up, or stamped down. The truth of anything we do will die with us and nobody else will ever have a bloody clue.”
“Better that than obscurity! I recall you once had quite a taste for drama. For plays, if nothing else.”
“Yes.” Locke folded his hands on the table and lowered his voice even further. “And you know what happened to it.”
“Forgive me,” said Jean with a sigh. “I should have known better than to bring up that particular redheaded subject once again.”
A waiter appeared at the entrance to the little booth, looking attentively at Locke.
“Oh, no,” said Locke, and set Jean’s fork back on the eel plate. “Nothing for me, I’m afraid. I’m just here waiting for my friend to finish his little candy wasps.”
“Dragonflies.” Jean popped the last one into his mouth, swallowed it nearly whole, and tucked his book away within his coat. “Give over the bill, and I’ll settle up with you.”
The waiter nodded, cleared away the used dishes, and left a scrap of paper pinned to a small wooden tablet.
“Well,” said Locke as Jean counted copper coins from his purse, “We’ve no responsibilities for the rest of the evening. Requin is no doubt setting eyes on us as we speak. I think a night or two of light relaxation would be in order, to avoid upsetting him.”
“Great,” said Jean. “Why don’t we wander around a bit, and maybe catch a boat over to the Emerald Galleries? They’ve got coffeehouses there, and music. Would it be in character for Leo and Jerome to get a bit tipsy and chase tavern dancers?”
“Jerome can murder as much ale as he likes, and bother tavern dancers until the sun chases us home to bed. Leo will sit and watch the festivities.”
“Maybe play spot-the-shadow with Requin’s people?”
“Maybe. Damn, I wish we had Bug to lurk on a few rooftops for us. We could use a pair of top-eyes; there’s not a trustworthy one in this damn city.”
“I wish we still had Bug, period,” said Jean with a sigh.
They made their way to the foyer of the club, chatting quietly of imaginary business between Masters Kosta and de Ferra, batting little improvisations back and forth for the sake of any prying ears. It was just after midnight when they stepped out into the familiar quiet order and high walls of the Savrola. The place was artificially clean—no knackers here, no blood in the alleys, no piss in the gutters. The gray brick streets were well lit by silvery lanterns in swaying iron frames; the whole district seemed framed in bright moonlight, though the sky tonight was occluded by a high ceiling of dark clouds.
The woman was waiting for them in the shadows on Locke’s left.
She matched pace with him as he and Jean moved down the street. One of Locke’s sleeve-stilettos fell into the palm of his hand before he could control the reflex, but she stayed a full yard away, with her hands folded behind her back. She was youngish, short and slender with dark hair pulled back into a long tail. She wore a vaguely fashionable dark coat and a four-cornered hat with a long gray silk scarf that trailed behind her like a ship’s pennant as she walked.
“Leocanto Kosta,” she said in a pleasant, even voice. “I know you and your friend are armed. Let’s not be difficult.”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“Move that blade in your hand, and it’s a shaft through the neck for you. Tell your friend to keep his hatchets under his coat. Let’s just keep walking.”
Jean began to move his left hand beneath his coat; Locke caught him with his right hand and swiftly shook his head. They were not alone on the street; people hurried here and there on business or pleasure, but some of them were staring at him and Jean. Some of them were standing in alleys and shadows, wearing unseasonably heavy cloaks, unmoving.
“Shit,” Jean muttered. “Rooftops.”
Locke glanced up briefly. Across the street, atop the three- and four-story stone buildings, he could see the silhouettes of at least two men moving slowly along with them, carrying thin, curved objects in their hands. Longbows.
“You appear to have us at a disadvantage, madam,” said Locke, slipping his stiletto into a coat pocket and showing her his empty hand. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your attention?”
“Someone wants to have a conversation with you.”
“Clearly they knew where to find us. Why not simply join us for dinner?”
“Conversation should be private, don’t you think?”
“Did a man in a rather tall tower send you?”
She smiled but said nothing. A moment later, she gestured ahead of them. “At the next corner, take a left. You’ll see an open door, first building on your right. Go there. Follow directions.”
Sure enough, the promised open door was waiting just past the next crossroads, a rectangle of yellow light casting a pale twin across the ground. The woman went in first. Locke, conscious of the presence of at least four or five nearby lurkers in a
ddition to the rooftop archers, sighed and passed Jean a quick hand signal—easy, easy.
The place looked like a shop, disused but otherwise in good repair. There were six more people inside the room, men and women in silver-banded leather doublets with their backs up against the walls. Four of them held loaded crossbows, which neatly quashed any thoughts of resistance Locke might have been teasing around inside his head. Even Jean couldn’t balance those odds.
One of the crossbowmen quietly closed the door, and the woman who’d led Locke and Jean in turned. The front of her coat fell open and Locke could see that she, too, was wearing reinforced leather armor. She held out her hands.
“Weapons,” she said, politely but firmly. “Smartly, now.”
When Locke and Jean glanced at each other, she laughed.
“Don’t be dense, gentlemen. If we wanted you dead you’d already be pinned to the wall. I’ll take good care of your property for you.”
Slowly, resignedly, Locke shook his two stilettos out of his coat, and Jean followed suit with his matched pair of hatchets and no fewer than three daggers of his own.
“I do like men who travel prepared,” said the woman. She passed their weapons to one of the men behind her and drew two lightweight cloth hoods out of her coat. She tossed one to Locke and one to Jean.
“On over your heads, please. Then we can get on with our business.”
“Why?” Jean sniffed at his hood suspiciously, and Locke followed suit. The cloth seemed to be clean.
“For your own protection. Do you really want your faces out in the open if we drag you through the streets under guard?”
“I suppose not,” said Locke. Frowning, he slipped the hood on and found that it put him in total darkness.
There was a sound of footsteps and the swirl of moving coats. Strong hands seized Locke’s arms and forced them together behind his back. A moment later, he felt something being woven tightly around his wrists. There was a louder tumult and a number of irritated grunts from beside him; presumably they had ganged up on Jean in heavy numbers.
“There,” came the voice of the woman, now behind Locke. “Now, step lively. Don’t worry about falling over—you’ll be assisted.”
By “assisted” she clearly meant that they’d be seized and carried along by the arms. Locke felt hands close around his biceps, and he cleared his throat.
“Where are we going?”
“For a boat ride, Master Kosta,” said the woman. “Don’t ask any more questions, because I won’t answer them. Let’s be on our way.”
There was a creak as the door was thrown open once again, and a brief whirling sensation as he was pushed around and reoriented by the people holding him. Then they were moving back out into the muggy Verrari night, and Locke could feel heavy beads of sweat begin to slide their ticklish paths down his forehead.
REMINISCENCE
Best-Laid Plans
1
“Shit,” said Locke as the deck of cards exploded outward from his sore left hand. Jean flinched back from the blizzard of paper that fluttered around the compartment of the carriage.
“Try again,” said Jean. “Perhaps the eighteenth time’s the charm.”
“I used to be so damned good at this one-handed shuffle.” Locke began plucking up cards and reorganizing them into a neat pile. “I bet I could do it better than Calo and Galdo, even. Damn, my hand aches.”
“Well, I know I pushed you to exercise,” said Jean, “but you were a little out of practice even before you got hurt. Give it time.”
A hard rain was falling around the jouncing black luxury carriage as it threaded its way along the old Therin Throne road through the foothills just east of the Tal Verrar coast. A hunched middle-aged woman worked the reins of the six-horse team from her open box atop the cabin, with the cowl of her oilcloak pulled forward to protect the smoldering bowl of her pipe. Two outrider guards huddled in misery on the rear footboard, secured by wide leather straps around their waists.
Jean was peering over a sheaf of notes, flipping parchment pages back and forth, muttering to himself. The rain was beating hard against the right side of the closed cabin, but they were able to keep the left-hand window open, with its mesh screens and leather shutters drawn back to admit muggy air that smelled of manured fields and salt marshes. A little yellow alchemical globe on the padded seat beside Jean provided reading light.
They were two weeks out from Vel Virazzo, a good hundred miles to the northwest, and well past the need to paint themselves up with apple mash to move freely.
“Here’s what all my sources say,” said Jean when Locke had finished recovering all of his cards. “Requin’s somewhere in his forties. Native Verrari, but he speaks a bit of Vadran and supposedly he’s a genius at Throne Therin. He’s an art collector, mad about the painters and sculptors from the very last years of the empire. Nobody knows what he did prior to twenty years ago. Apparently he won the Sinspire on a bet and threw the previous owner out a window.”
“And he’s tight with the Priori?”
“Most of them, it seems.”
“Any idea how much he keeps in his vaults?”
“Conservative estimate,” said Jean, “at least enough to pay out any debts the house might incur. He could never allow himself to be embarrassed in that respect—so let’s say fifty thousand solari, at least. Plus his personal fortune, plus the combined goods and fortunes of a great many people. He doesn’t pay interest like the best countinghouses, but he doesn’t keep transaction ledgers for the taxmen, either. Supposedly he has one book, hidden gods know where, amended only by his own hand. This is mostly hearsay, of course.”
“That fifty thousand doesn’t cover anything but the house’s operating funds, right? So how much do you presume the total contents of his vault would be worth?”
“It’s pure entrail-reading, without the entrails, even, but…three hundred thousand? Three hundred fifty?”
“Seems reasonable.”
“Yes, well, the details on the vault itself are much more solid. Apparently, Requin doesn’t mind letting some of the facts get out. Thinks it dissuades thieves.”
“They always do, don’t they?”
“In this case, they may be onto something. Listen. The Sinspire is nearly sixty yards high, one thick Elderglass cylinder. You know about those; you tried to jump off one about two months ago. Goes down another hundred feet or so into a glass hill. It’s got one door at street level, and exactly one door into the vault beneath the tower. One. No secrets, no side entrances. The ground is pristine Elderglass; no tunneling through it, not in a thousand years.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Requin’s got at least four attendants on each floor at any given time, plus dozens of table minders, card dealers, and waiters. There’s a lounge on the third floor where he keeps more out of sight. So figure, at a minimum, fifty or sixty loyal workers on duty with another twenty to thirty he can call out. Lots of nasty brutes, too. He likes to recruit from ex-soldiers, mercenaries, city thieves, and such. He gives cushy positions to his Right People for jobs well done, and he pays them like he was their doting mother. Plus, there are stories of dealers getting a year’s wages in tips from lucky blue bloods in just a night or two. Bribery won’t be likely to work on anyone.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“He’s got three layers of vault doors, all of them iron-shod witchwood, three or four inches thick. Last set of doors is supposedly backed with blackened steel, so even if you had a week to chop through the other two, you’d never get past the third. All of them have clockwork mechanisms, the best and most expensive Verrari stuff, private designs from masters of the Artificers’ Guild. The standing orders are, not one set of doors opens unless he’s there himself to see it; he watches every deposit and every withdrawal. Opens the doors a couple times per day at most. Behind the first set of doors are four to eight guards, in rooms with cots, food, and water. They can hold out there for a week, under siege.”
“Mmm
m-hmmm.”
“The inner sets of doors don’t open except for a key he keeps around his neck. The outer doors won’t open except for a key he always gives to his majordomo. So you’d need them both to get anywhere.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“And the traps…they’re demented, or at least the rumors are. Pressure plates, counterweights, crossbows in the walls and ceilings. Contact poisons, sprays of acid, chambers full of venomous serpents or spiders…One fellow even said that there’s a chamber before the last door that fills up with a cloud of powdered strangler’s orchid petals, and while you’re choking to death on that, a bit of twist-match falls out and lights the whole mess on fire, so then you burn to a crisp. Insult to injury.”
“Mmmm-hmmm.”
“Worst of all, the inner vault is guarded by a live dragon, attended by fifty naked women armed with poisoned spears, each of them sworn to die in Requin’s service. All redheads.”
“You’re just making that up, Jean.”
“I wanted to see if you were listening. But what I’m saying is, I don’t care if he’s got a million solari in there, packed in bags for easy hauling. I’m inclined to the idea that this vault might not be breakable, not unless you’ve got three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about.”
“Right.”
“Do you have three hundred soldiers, six or seven wagons, and a team of master clockwork artificers you’re not telling me about?”
“No, I’ve got you, me, the contents of our coin purses, this carriage, and a deck of cards.” He attempted a complicated manipulation of the cards, and they erupted out of his hand yet again, scattering against the opposite seat. “Fuck me with a poleax!”