by Scott Lynch
Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office, ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.
“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse. His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk, framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage, perhaps?”
“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”
“Supply the details.”
“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.
“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”
“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.
“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”
“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.
“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”
“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”
“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”
“Our friend is … next to penniless.”
“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are quite elastic. Anything else?”
“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”
Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha. Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”
“You know him?” said Locke.
“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s your interest in his cause?”
“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived in the city.”
“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”
“Anything,” said Sabetha.
“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case, his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and—”
“We need him back now,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody.”
“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now, now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have heard of Amilio Basanti.”
“Actually, no,” said Locke.
“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn Salvard.”
“Oh,” said Sabetha.
“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could only be … chilling.”
“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.
“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it for pleasure. I enjoy annoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”
“But those excuses you just came up with—”
“Could mitigate the situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors. I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last about as long as this conversation.”
“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.
“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”
Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”
“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”
“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”
“What else?” said Locke.
“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”
“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even talk to Moncraine?”
“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”
“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”
“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”
3
A THOUSAND dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.
The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years, wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.
Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion, and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard arc of the stairs.
“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.
“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.
“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps of a pittance won’t be easy.”
“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”
“Yes,” said Lo
cke. “I won’t do it, though.”
“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.
“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.
“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to live like this.”
What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more of a gaping jagged-sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.
Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying. They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward employment.
“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide. “Name your business.”
“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was assertive but not imperious. Locke had seen her use it before. “We’re here to speak with Jasmer Moncraine.”
“Moncraine’s not going to be entertaining for a long time,” said the guard. “What does a Camorri have to say to him?”
“We’re members of the Moncraine Company, and we need to make business arrangements now that he’s indisposed. Our solicitor advised us that we’re entitled to one audience before his trial.”
Gods, as far as Locke was concerned, watching Sabetha handle people was as good as watching any other girl in the world take off her clothes. The way she chose her words—“entitled,” not something meeker like “allowed.” And the specific mention of one audience—a signal to the guard that the rules had been researched, would be obeyed. Sabetha had asserted all their wants while giving the firmest support to the notion that she and Locke were completely enfolded in the power of the law and these guards that served it.
It turned out the woman was quite pleased to let them in. Not, of course, without an embarrassing full-body search, or their marks on parchment, or an inventory of their purses, or a forty-minute wait. But that was all for the best, Locke thought. Only prisoners were ever granted easy passage into a prison.
4
FOR THE second time that day Locke and Sabetha found themselves in a chamber cut in half by a physical barrier, but now it was bars of black iron. The audience room of the Weeping Tower had smooth stone walls and a rough stone floor, with no windows, no decorations, no furniture. The guards locked the door behind them and remained at attention in front of it.
They were made to wait another few minutes before the door on the opposite side of the room slid open. Two more guards brought in a man, manacled at hands and feet, and clipped a chain to a bolt in the floor. They attached this to the prisoner’s leg irons, giving him a range of movement that ended about two feet from the iron bars. The prisoner’s guards withdrew to a position mirroring that of the ones on Locke and Sabetha’s side of the room.
The man in chains was tall, with skin like polished boot leather and hair scraped down to a gray shadow. He was heavyset but not ponderous. The weight of his years and appetites seemed to have spread evenly, settled in all his joints and crevices, and there was still a hint of dangerous vitality to him. His eyes were wide and bright against the darkness of his face, and he fixed them hard on Locke and Sabetha as though blinking were somehow beneath his interest.
“An opportunity to walk down two flights of stairs and be chained up again,” he said. “Hooray. Who the hell are you?”
“Your new actors,” said Locke. “Your very surprised new actors.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” Moncraine’s seamed jowls moved as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Weren’t there supposed to be five of you?”
“Weren’t you supposed to be at liberty?” said Sabetha. “The other three are trying to hold your troupe together at Gloriano’s.”
“Too bad you didn’t come sooner,” said Moncraine. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to look forward to but packing for your return. Tell your master I appreciate the gesture.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Locke. “We were sent here to go on stage. We were sent here to learn from you!”
“You want a lesson, boy? If you find yourself being born, climb back in as quick as you can, because life’s a bottomless feast of shit.”
“We can get you out of here,” said Sabetha.
“If you cooperate,” said Locke.
“Oh, you can spring me, can you?” Moncraine knelt and ran one manacled hand across the floor. “You have an army of about a thousand men hidden outside the city? Let me know when they’re storming the tower, so I can be sure to have my breeches on.”
“You know our master,” said Locke, lowering his voice. “You can surely guess the nature of his students.”
“I knew your master,” said Moncraine. “Years ago. And I thought he was sending me actors. Is that what you are? Is that where the gods have reached down and touched your little Camorri souls, eh? Given you the gift of silver tongues?”
“We can act,” said Sabetha.
“Can you? But are you lions? There’s no room for any but lions in my company!” He turned his head to the guards at his door. “Lions, aren’t we boys?”
“Only if you don’t lower your fucking voice,” said one of them.
“You see? Lions! Can you roar, children?”
“Onstage and off,” said Sabetha coolly.
“Hmmm. That’s fascinating, because from where I’m sitting, you look about what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ve certainly never been wet for anything but dreams in the night, have you? Well, you might pass onstage, love … let your hair down and fly your tits like flags—you could certainly keep the groundlings awake. But you,” he said, turning to Locke. “Who are you fooling? Small-boned sparrow of a lad. Got fig seeds in your sack where men should have the full fruit, eh? Do you even shave? What the hell do you mean by coming in here and trying to shove good cheer up my ass?”
“We’re your only chance to go free,” said Locke, fuming, considering saying a number of less productive things.
“Go free? Why? I like it here. I’m fed, and my creditors can’t reach me for at least the next year. The state of Espara will stop at one hand. Hells, that’s a bargain compared to what I might get when my markers are called in on the street.”
“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” said Sabetha.
“Why do you care?” said Moncraine. “How can it possibly be of aid to you as you SCURRY BACK WHERE YOU FUCKING CAME FROM?”
“Keep your voice down,” said one of the guards. “Or you’ll have to be carried into court tomorrow.”
“You know, that might be pleasant,” said Moncraine. “Can we give that a try?”
“Jasmer,” said Sabetha sharply. “Look at me, you stupid ass.”
Jasmer did indeed look at her.
“I don’t care what you think of us,” she whispered. “You know what kind of person our master is. What kind of organization we come from. And if you don’t stop braying like a jackass, this is what’s going to happen. We’ll leave.”
“I love this plan,” said Moncraine. “Take this plan all the way!”
“You’ll spend your year and a day inside this tower. Then they’ll cut your gods-damned hand off and throw you out the door. And do you know who’ll be standing there? More Camorri than you’ve ever seen in your fucking life. Not just us, or the other three currently toiling on your behalf on the other side of this pimple of a city. I mean big, unreasonable, cross-eyed motherfuckers straight out of the wombs of hell, and they’ll take you for a ride. Locked in a box, ten days, all the way to Camorr sloshing in your own piss.”
“Now, wait a minute,”
said Moncraine.
“You don’t have any other fucking creditors, get it? We’re the front of the line now. We’re all you need to worry about. You made a deal with our garrista. You know what that word means?”
“Of course—”
“Obviously you don’t! Our master sent you five of us, free and clear, ready to get your troupe back on its feet. All you had to do was teach us about your trade. You’d rather break the deal and insult a garrista. So, you have a comfortable year, you stupid clown. As soon as it’s over you’ll see us again. Come on, Lucaza.”
She turned sharply, and Locke, supporting her act wholeheartedly, favored Moncraine with a sour smirk before he did the same.
“Wait,” Jasmer hissed.
“What’s the name of the noble you struck?” Sabetha didn’t give him any more time to think or plead or stew; she whirled on him just as quickly as she’d pretended to leave.
“Boulidazi,” said Moncraine. “Baron Boulidazi of Palazzo Corsala.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I was drinking,” said Moncraine. “He wanted … he came down to Gloriano’s. He wanted to buy out my debts, install himself as the company’s patron.”
“For this you punched him in the teeth?” said Locke. “What are you going to do if we get you out of here, try to cut our hearts out?”
“Boulidazi’s an ass! A stuck-up little ass! He’s barely older than you, and he thinks he can buy and sell me like gods-damned furniture. A theatrical company with his name on everything, wouldn’t that be sweet! It took me twenty years to build my own troupe. I won’t be anyone’s hired man again. I’ll take the Weeping Tower to that, any day, any year.”
“How was assaulting him preferable to letting him save your troupe?” said Sabetha. She sounded as incredulous as Locke felt. “He doesn’t care about the troupe,” said Moncraine. “He wants it mounted on his wall like a fucking hunting trophy! He wants some charity project he can dangle at whatever gilded cunt he’s chasing to show what a sensitive and artistic fellow he is. I refuse to sell my good name to help rich puppies dip their wicks!”