by Scott Lynch
“How the hell do we do this?”
“That’s a grand question,” said Locke. “The best question you’ve ever asked. I know we need some things. First, the way it’s been lately, every person in Tal Verrar is likely to be waiting for us at the docks with crossbows and torches. We need better disguises. Shoddiest priesthood of the twelve?”
“Callo Androno,” said Jean.
“Begging His forgiveness, you got it,” said Locke.
Callo Androno; Eyes on the Crossroads; god of travel, languages, and lore. His itinerant priests as well as his settled scholars disdained finery, taking pride in the roughness of their garments.
“Zamira,” said Locke, “if there’s anyone on board who can still push a needle and thread, we need two robes. Make them from sailcloth, spare clothes, anything. I hate to say it, but there’s got to be a lot of spare clothing lying around now.”
“The survivors will dice for the goods, and I’ll share out the coin among them,” she said. “But I can claim a few things first.”
“And we need something blue,” said Locke. “The blue Androni headbands. As long as we wear those, we’re holy men, not just ill-dressed vagrants.”
“Ezri’s blue tunic,” said Jean. “It’s … it’d be in her cabin, where she left it. It’s a bit faded, but—”
“Perfect,” said Locke. “Now, Zamira, when we came back from our first visit to Tal Verrar with this ship, I gave you a letter for safekeeeping. It has Requin’s seal on it. Jerome, I need you to finesse that thing off like Chains showed us. You’re better at it than me and it has to be good.”
“I suppose I can try. I’m not sure … how good I can be at anything right now.”
“I need your best. I need you to do it. For me. And for her.”
“Where do you want the seal moved?”
“Clean parchment. Paper. Anything. Do you have one sheet, Zamira?”
“A full sheet? I don’t think Paolo and Cosetta have left us any. But several of them are only partially scribbled on; I may be able to cut one in half.”
“Do it. Jerome, you’ll find some of the tools you need in my old sea chest, in Zamira’s cabin. Can he use it, and some lanterns, Captain?”
“Paolo and Cosetta refuse to come out of the rope locker,” said Zamira. “They’re too upset. I’ve brought bed things and alchemical lights down for them. The cabin is at your disposal.”
“You’ll need your cards, too,” said Jean. “Or so I presume.”
“Hell yes, I mean to use the cards. I’ll need them, plus the best set of gear we can scrape together. Daggers. Short lengths of cord, preferably demi-silk. Coin, Zamira—tight little purses of fifty or sixty solari in case we have to buy our way past a problem. And some coshes. If you don’t have any, there’s sand and sail canvas—”
“And a pair of hatchets,” said Jean.
“There’s two in my cabin. I took them out of your chest, actually.”
“What?” A flicker of excitement actually crossed Jean’s face. “You have them?”
“I needed a pair. I didn’t know they were special; otherwise I’d have given them back when you came off the scrub watch—”
“Special? They’re more like family than weapons,” said Locke.
“So how does this all fall together, then?” said Jean.
“As I said, excellent question, one I intend to ponder at length—”
“We won’t see Tal Verrar again until tomorrow night if this weather holds,” said Zamira. “I guarantee you’ll have a good long time to ponder. And you’ll be doing most of it up the foremast as top-eyes. I still need you to make yourself useful.”
“Of course,” said Locke. “Of course. Captain, when we come in to Tal Verrar, bring us from the north, if you would. Whatever else we do, our first stop needs to be the Merchants’ Quarter.”
“Cordo?” asked Jean.
“Cordo,” said Locke. “Older or Younger, I don’t care. They’ll see us if we have to crawl in through their gods-damned windows.”
2
“WHAT THE—,” said a portly, well-dressed servant who had the misfortune to walk around the corner, past the alcove containing the fourth-floor window Locke and Jean had just crawled in through.
“Hey,” said Locke. “Congratulations! We’re reverse burglars, here to give you fifty gold solari!” He tossed his coin purse at the servant, who caught it in one hand and gaped at its weight. In the next second and a half the man spent not raising an alarm, Jean coshed him.
They’d come in through the northwest corner of the top story of the Cordo family manor; battlements and iron spikes had made a climb to the roof unattractive. It was just shy of the tenth hour of the evening, a perfect mid-Aurim night on the Sea of Brass, and Locke and Jean had already squirmed through a thorny hedgerow, dodged three parties of guards and gardeners, and spent twenty minutes scaling the damp, smooth stone of Cordo Manor just to get this far.
Their makeshift priestly robes of Callo Androno, along with most of their other needs, were tucked into backpacks sewn with haste by Jabril. Possibly thanks to those robes, no one had loosed a crossbow bolt at them since they’d set foot on solid Verrari ground, but the night was young, thought Locke—so very, very young.
Jean dragged the unconscious servant into the window alcove and glanced around for other complications while Locke quietly slipped the double frosted-glass windows shut and rehitched their latch. Only a slender, carefully bent piece of metal had allowed him to open that latch; the Right People of Camorr called the tool a “breadwinner,” because if you could get in and out of a household rich enough to own latching glass windows, your dinner was assured.
As it happened, Locke and Jean had stolen into just enough great houses much like this one—if none quite so vast—to know vaguely where to look for their quarry. Master bedchambers were often located adjacent to comforts like smoking rooms, studies, sitting parlors, and—
“Library,” muttered Jean as he and Locke padded quietly down the right-hand corridor. Alchemical lights in tastefully curtained alcoves gave the place a pleasantly dim orange-gold glow. Through a pair of open doors in the middle of the hall, on their left, Locke could just glimpse shelves of books and scrolls. No other servants were in sight.
The library was a thing of minor wonder; there must have been a thousand volumes, as well as hundreds of scrolls in orderly racks and cases. Charts of the constellations, painted on alchemically bleached leather, decorated the few empty spots on the walls. Two closed doors led to other inner rooms, one to their left and one in front of them.
Locke flattened himself against the left-hand door, listening. He heard a faint murmur and turned to Jean, only to find that Jean had halted in his tracks next to one of the bookshelves. He reached out, plucked a slim octavo volume—perhaps six inches in height—from the stacks, and hurriedly stuffed it into his backpack. Locke grinned.
At that moment, the left-hand door opened directly into him, giving him a harmless but painful knock on the back of the head. He whirled to find himself face-to-face with a young woman carrying an empty silver tray. She opened her mouth to scream and there was nothing else for it; Locke’s left hand shot out to cover her mouth while his right went for a dagger. He pushed her back into the room from which she’d come, and past the door Locke felt his feet sinking into plush carpet an inch deep.
Jean came through right behind him and slammed the door. The servant’s tray fell to the carpet, and Locke pushed her aside. She fell into Jean’s arms with an “Oooomph!” of surprise, and Locke found himself at the foot of a bed that was roughly ten feet on a side, draped in enough silk to sail a rather substantial yacht.
Seated on pillows at the far end of that bed, looking vaguely comical with his thin body surrounded by so much empty, opulent space, was a wizened old man. His long hair, the color of sea foam, fell free to his shoulders above a green silk gown. He was sorting through a pile of papers by alchemical light as Locke, Jean, and the unwilling servant woma
n all barged into his quarters.
“Marius Cordo, I presume,” said Locke. “For the future, might I suggest an investment in some artificer gearwork for your window latches?”
The old man’s eyes went wide, and the papers scattered from his hands. “Oh, gods,” he cried. “Oh, gods protect me! It’s you!”
3
“OF COURSE it’s me,” said Locke. “You just don’t know who the hell I am yet.”
“Master Kosta, we can discuss this. You must know that I am a reasonable and extremely wealthy man—”
“All right, you do know who the hell I am,” said Locke, disquieted. “And I don’t give a shit about your money. I’m here to—”
“In my place, you would have done the same,” said Cordo. “It was business is all, just business. Spare me, and let that too be a business decision, based on gain of gold, jewels, fine alchemicals—”
“Master Cordo,” said Locke, “look, I—” He scowled, turned to the servant. “Is this man, ah, senile?”
“He’s absolutely competent,” she answered coldly.
“I assure you I am,” roared Cordo. Anger changed his countenance utterly. “And I will not be put off from business by assassins in my own bedroom! Now, you will either kill me immediately or negotiate the price of my release!”
“Master Cordo,” said Locke, “tell me two things, and be perfectly bloody clear about them both. First, how do you know who I am? Second, why do you think I’m here to kill you?”
“I was shown your faces,” said Cordo, “in a pool of water.”
“In a pool of—” Locke felt his stomach lurch. “Oh, damn, by a—”
“By a Karthani Bondsmage, representing his guild on a personal matter. Surely you now realize—”
“You,” said Locke. “I’d have done the same in your place, is what you said. You’ve been sending those gods-damned assassins after us! Those fuckers at the docks, that barkeeper with the poison, those teams of men on festa night—”
“Obviously,” said Cordo. “And you’ve been elusive, unfortunately. With a bit of help from Maxilan Stragos, I believe.”
“Unfortunately? Unfortunately? Cordo, you have no idea what a lucky son of a bitch you are that they didn’t succeed! What did the Bondsmagi tell you?”
“Come now. Surely your own plans—”
“Tell me in their words or I will kill you!”
“That you were a threat to the Priori, and that in light of sums paid for their services previously, they thought it in their best interests to tender a warning of your presence.”
“To the Inner Seven, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“You stupid bastards,” said Locke. “The Bondsmagi used you, Cordo. Think on that next time you consider giving them money. We—Master de Ferra and myself—are on their fuck-with list, and they tossed us between you and Stragos for a laugh. That’s all! We didn’t come here to do anything to the Priori.”
“So you say—”
“Why aren’t I murdering you right now, then?”
“A simultaneously pleasing and vexing point,” said Cordo, biting his lip.
“The fact is,” said Locke, “that for reasons which are forever going to remain way the hell beyond your understanding, I’ve broken into your manor to do one thing—give you the head of Maxilan Stragos on a platter.”
“What?”
“Not literally. I have plans for that head, actually. But I know how gods-damned happy you’d be to have the archonate kicked over like an anthill, so I’m only going to say this once: I mean to remove Maxilan Stragos from power permanently, and I mean to do it tonight. I must have your help.”
“But … you are some sort of agent of the archon—”
“Jerome and I are unwilling agents,” said Locke. “Stragos’ personal alchemist gave us a latent poison. So long as Stragos controls the antidote, we can serve him or die pretty awfully. But the fucker just had to keep pushing us, and now he’s pushed too far.”
“You could be … you could be provocateurs, sent by Stragos to—”
“What, test your loyalty? In what court, under what oath, before what law? Same question as before, this time in relation to the idiotic conjecture that I actually do Stragos’ bidding—why aren’t I murdering you, then?”
“As to that … a fair point.”
“Here,” said Locke, moving around the bed to sit beside Cordo. “Have a dagger.” He tossed his blade into the old man’s lap. At that moment, there was a pounding on the door.
“Father! Father, one of the servants is injured! Are you well? Father, I’m coming in!”
“My son has a key,” said the elder Cordo as the click of it sounded in the door mechanism.
“Ah,” said Locke, “I’ll be needing this back, then.” He snatched his dagger again, stood beside Cordo, and pointed it at the old man in a vaguely threatening fashion. “Hold still. This won’t take but a minute.”
A well-built man in his midthirties burst into the room, an ornate rapier in his hands. Lyonis Cordo, second-tier Priori, his father’s only heir, and a widower for several years. Perhaps the most eligible bachelor in all of Tal Verrar, all the more notable in that he rarely visited the Sinspire.
“Father! Alacyn!” Lyonis took a step into the room, brandishing his weapon with a flourish and spreading his arms to block the door. “Release them, you bastards! The household guards are roused, and you’ll never make it down to the—”
“Oh, for Perelandro’s sake, I’m not even going to pretend,” said Locke. He passed the dagger back to the elder Cordo, who held it between two fingers like some sort of captured insect. “Look. There. What sort of whimsical assassin am I, then? Sheathe your sword, shut the door, and open your ears. We have a lot of business to discuss.”
“I … but—”
“Lyonis,” said the elder Cordo, “this man may be out of his mind, but as he says, neither he nor his partner are assassins. Put up your weapon and tell the guards to …” He turned to Locke suspiciously. “Did you badly injure any of my people breaking in, Kosta?”
“One slight bump on the head,” said Locke. “Do it all the time. He’ll be fine, whoever he was.”
“Very well.” Marius sighed and passed the dagger fussily back to Locke, who tucked it back into his belt. “Lyonis, tell the guards to stand down. Then be seated and lock the door again.”
“May I go, if nobody’s going to be doing any assassinating in these chambers?” asked Alacyn.
“No. Sorry. You’ve already heard too much. Take a seat and get comfortable while you listen to the rest.” Locke turned to the elder Cordo. “Look, for obvious reasons, she cannot leave this house until our business is done tonight, right?”
“Of all the—”
“No, Alacyn, he’s right.” The elder Cordo waved his hands placatingly. “Too much rides on this, and if you’re loyal to me, you know it. If, forgive me, you’re not, you know it all the more. I’ll have you confined to the study, where you’ll be comfortable. And I’ll compensate you very, very handsomely for this, I promise.”
Released by Jean, she sat down in a corner and folded her arms grumpily. Lyonis, looking as though he doubted his own sanity, briskly dismissed the squad of tough-looking brutes that pounded into the library a moment later, sheathed his rapier, and pulled the bedchamber door closed. He leaned back against it, his scowl matching Alacyn’s.
“Now,” said Locke, “as I was saying, by the end of this night, come hell or Eldren-fire, my partner and I will be in close physical proximity to Maxilan Stragos. One way or another, we are removing him from power. Possibly from life itself, if we have no choice. But in order to get there our way, we’re going to need to demand some things of you. And you must understand, going in, that this is it. This is for real. Whatever your plans are to take the city from Stragos, have them ready to spring. Whatever your measures are to keep his army and navy tied down until you can remind them who pays their salaries, activate them.”
“R
emove Stragos?” Lyonis looked simultaneously awed and alarmed. “Father, these men are mad—”
“Quiet, Lyo.” The elder Cordo raised his hand. “These men claim to be in a unique position to effect our desired change. And they have … declined to harm me for certain actions already taken against them. We will hear them out.”
“Good,” said Locke. “Here’s what you need to understand. In a couple of hours, Master de Ferra and I are going to be arrested by the Eyes of the Archon as we leave the Sinspire—”
“Arrested?” said Lyonis. “How can you know—”
“Because I’m going to set an appointment,” said Locke. “And I’m going to ask Stragos to have us arrested.”
4
“THE PROTECTOR will not see you, nor will the waiting lady. Those are our orders.”
Locke was sure he could feel the Eye officer’s disdainful glare even through his mask.
“He will now,” said Locke, as he and Jean pulled alongside the archon’s landing in the smaller, more nimble boat they had talked out of the elder Cordo. “Tell him that we’ve done as he requested when we last met, and we really need to speak about it.”
The officer took a few seconds to consider, then went for the signal chain. While they waited for a decision, Locke and Jean removed all of their weapons and gear, stashed it in their bags, and left those in the bottom of the boat. Eventually, Merrain appeared at the top of the landing stairs and beckoned; they were patted down with the usual thoroughness and escorted up to the archon’s study.
Jean trembled at the sight of Stragos, who was standing behind his desk. Locke noticed Jean clenching and unclenching his fists, so he squeezed his arm hard.
“Is this happy news?” asked the archon.
“Has anyone come in to report a fire at sea yesterday, around noon, anywhere west of the city?” asked Locke.
“Two merchant ships reported a large pillar of smoke on the western horizon,” said Stragos. “No further news that I’m aware of, and no syndicate claiming any loss.”