Текст книги "The Republic of Thieves"

Автор книги: Scott Lynch

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Текущая страница: 38 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

“You wouldn’t have hired us if you hadn’t wanted the best in a very unusual business,” said Jean. “Now, if you’ve got no further plans for the moment, I could use your advice on some of these situations around the city .…”

Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working façade seemed plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid having his wits plastered over.

Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced un-self-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of coffee.

“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest things just now.”

Jean passed him the papers from Dexa, and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:

These two were upset. Fixed now. Used argument and drink. More of latter.

“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that to me. I’ve got to hit back.”

He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors to lean in closer to him.

“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond the feathers in their own nest?”

“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.

“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial or otherwise.”

“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”

“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”

“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods know where that came from. He’s got no real politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil seat often attracts.”

“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest I go about it?”

“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates. Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the Lady Emerald. If one of Nikoros’ contacts carried him a sealed letter on some boring point of nautical business, you’d have his attention and you wouldn’t need to fly Deep Roots colors anywhere near him.”

“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his empty mug. “I have my next mission.”

6

THREE DAYS later, a lean and scruffy man in a paint-spattered tunic emerged from the misty greenways of the Mara Karthani, where hanging lanterns swayed in the rain and Therin Throne statues in crumbling alcoves gave themselves up slowly to the elements.

Abutting the centuries-old park on its eastern side was the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris, Black Iris Konseil representative for the Bursadi District. The scruffy man knocked at the tradesfolk entrance and was let in by a dark-skinned hillock of a woman, gray-haired but dangerously light on her feet. The scuffed witchwood baton swinging from the woman’s belt looked as though it had met some skulls in its time.

She led the newcomer, still dripping wet, through the richly furnished passages of the house to a small, high-ceilinged chamber where warm yellow light fell like a benediction. This illumination had nothing to do with the natural sky, of course—it was an arc of alchemical lamps above stained glass engraved with common symbols of the Twelve.

The woman shoved the lean man up against one wall of the chamber, and for an instant he feared treachery. Then her strong, capable hands were sliding down his sides in a familiar fashion. Her search for weapons was thorough, but she was obviously unacquainted with the old Camorri trick of the hiltless stiletto dangled at the small of the back from a necklace chain.

Locke had no illusions of kicking down doors and leaving a swath of dead foes in his wake if complications arose, but even a nail-scraping of an arsenal was a reassuring thing to have on hand.

“He’s not armed,” said the woman, smiling for the first time. “Nor any threat if he were.”

A middle-aged Therin man with pale hair and a seamy pink face entered the room. He and the woman traded places as smoothly as stage actors, and she eased the door shut on her way out.

“You can remove that nonsense on your head,” said the man. “At least, I presume it’s nonsense, if you’re who you ought to be.”

Locke pulled off his sopping wig of black curls and his ornamental optics, thick as the bottoms of alchemists’ jars. He set them down on the room’s only table, which had but one chair, on Lovaris’ side.

“Sebastian Lazari,” said Lovaris as he sat down with a soft grunt. “Lashani prodigy with no genuine history in Lashain. Doctor without accreditation. Solicitor without offices or former clients.”

“The backtrail’s not up to my usual standards,” said Locke. “No loss to admit it, since I didn’t do the work myself.”

“You and your bigger friend are interesting counterparts to the lovely Mistress Gallante,” said Lovaris. “Though obviously not from the same place.”

“Obviously,” said Locke.

“I think you’ve come north from your usual habitations, Master Lazari. I heard rumors a few months ago, when the archon of Tal Verrar took that long fall off a narrow pedestal. Word was a few captains of intelligence managed to duck the noose and get misplaced in the shuffle.”

“My compliments,” said Locke. “But, ah, you might as well know I didn’t leave anyone behind me interested enough to chase me down, even if your … entertaining theory were to reach the proper ears.”

“Nor shall I waste my time contacting them. The election will be past before a letter could even reach Tal Verrar. No, nothing we say here will be heard by anyone else, save my forebears.” Lovaris gestured at the ornately carved nooks and drawers decorating the walls of the chamber. “This is my family’s memorial vault. Seven hundred years in Karthain. We predate the Presence. As for you, well, I’ve brought you here in answer to your interesting note because I wish to inconvenience you.”

“I’m sure your line hasn’t survived for seven centuries by refusing to carefully examine fresh opportunities,” said Locke. “My note asked for nothing but this meeting. You have no idea what I’m about to offer you.”

“Oh, but I do.” Lovaris smiled without showing teeth. “You want me to consider a turn of the coat. Specifically, you want me to wait until all the votes are safely counted and I’m back in for the Black Iris. Then and only then would I announce that my conscience had forced me to join ranks with the Deep Roots. I understand you’ve promised to invent a convincing story, but you haven’t told anyone else what it is yet.”

Locke wanted to scream. Instead he pretended to study the nails of his right hand and disguised his next deep, calming breath as a bored sigh.

“I’ll have a passable excuse for you,” he said. “And you would find the experience personally enriching.”

“So I hear,” said Lovaris. “Ten thousand ducats in gleaming gold. I supply a chest; you fill it before my eyes. On election night, the chest is to be kept at an allegedly neutral countinghouse by an equal number of my people and yours, until I undertake my public metamorphosis. Once I do so, your people walk away and leave mine the gold.”

“Elegant, don’t you think?” Locke wanted to punch the wall. This was too much. Lovaris had information from confidential conversations with Locke’s half-dozen most trusted associates, information just a day or two old. Still, Locke had stayed calm through worse. “Come now, Lovaris, we both know you’re no ideologue. The whole city knows it. Nobody’s going to be particularly surprised or hurt, and ten thousand ducats will buy an awful lot of anything.”

“Do I look like a stranger to money?” said Lovaris.

“You look like a man of a certain age,” said Locke. “How many more pleasant and healthy years will the gods give you? How much more pleasant and healthy could they be with that extra ten thousand to ease your way?”

“There is a more practical concern,” said Lovaris. “Accepting a bribe is technically an amputation offense, perhaps even a capital one if state interest can be invoked. Nobody pays attention to routine little exchanges, but ten thousand ducats is a very awkward mass of coin, and it doesn’t fit any of the usual patterns. If I did this, I would be houndedby the Black Iris. I’d be the one man in Karthain to whom the bribery laws would be applied! The only place that money could vanish to is my cellars. I wouldn’t be able to join it legally with my countinghouse funds for years, and that’s damned inconvenient. Nor can I simply take a letter of credit, for even more obvious reasons.”

“If you can assume that I’m good for ten thousand in cold metal,” said Locke, “why don’t I leave it to you to dictate how I can best conceal the transfer of funds to you?”

“I think not.” Lovaris rose and stretched. “The most important point to consider is that your little scheme is only worth the trouble if we Black Iris win the election by exactly one Konseil seat. If you win, you’ve no need to buy me at all, and if we win by two seats or more, my turning can’t shift the majority. Frankly, it’s all immaterial, because I don’t believe you’re going to win. I don’t believe you’re going to lose by so littleas one seat. You’re correct that I’m no slave to ideology, but it would be tedious and stupid to suddenly find myself on the side of the minority.”

“Many interesting things could happen between now and the election,” said Locke.

“A hazy platitude. You might as well be conducting your business in public squares, Lazari. I’ve revealed how extensive our intelligence is because I want you to understand that you’re over the barrel.”

“Fair enough,” said Locke. “This, then, is the point in the conversation where I say ‘twenty thousand.’ ”

“Ten thousand would be awkward enough. You expect me to be enthusiastic about trying to hide twice as much? The money’s only an enticement if it can reach my pockets invisibly, and if I’m still relevant to Karthani politics after I’ve earned it. No, Master Lazari, I won’t pretend I’m not ultimately for sale in some fashion, but youare not offering any sort of price I’m looking for. Now, before I have you escorted out, do you want a moment to put your wet disguise back on? For formality’s sake, if nothing else?”

7

A LEAN, scruffy man in a paint-stained tunic left the tradesman’s entrance of the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and hurried west, back into the cool green maze of the Mara Karthani. Subtle signs had been laid since his last passage, knots of brown cloth tied around hedge branches at knee level, and the man followed them rapidly through twistings and turnings, through brick arches hung with yellowing vines, to the statuary niche where Jean Tannen waited.

Jean, clad in a sensible hooded oilcloak, was sitting on a bench beside the likeness of some forgotten scholar-soldier of the old empire, a stern woman carved in the traditional mode, carrying the raised lantern of learning in one hand and a clutch of barbed javelins on the opposite shoulder. Jean pulled out a second oilcloak and swept it over Locke’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Locke, pulling off his wig and optics. “We’ve got a serious hole in our security. Lovaris knew I was coming.”

“Damn,” said Jean. “Do you want me to roust those grandmothers Sabetha’s got up on the rooftops after all?”

“Gods, they’re harmless. Just there to taunt us. Our problem is someone inside Josten’s. Lovaris had full details of my plan and my offer, things I’ve only mentioned to a handful of people, in privacy, in the past couple of days! Is there any place an eavesdropper could have their way with the Deep Roots private gallery?”

“I spent hours going over all the cellars, all the bolt-holes,” said Jean. “There’s nowhere close enough, not above or below. And the noise of the place … no, I’d stake my life on it. It’d take– Well, it’d take magic.”

“Then I’m off to hunt the rat,” said Locke. “And since my first approach bounced right off the fatuous fucker’s self-satisfaction, you’ll have to visit Lovaris and try our second approach.”

“Second approach, right.” Jean rose from the bench. “You sure our budget can bear the strain?”

“It’ll take us down to the dregs, and an emergency few thousand, and those donations from our Vadran refugees,” said Locke. “But there’s not much else to spend it on at this point, is there?”

“So be it,” said Jean. “If he bites, I’ll start visiting jewelers tonight. I’ve picked some discreet ones.”

“Good. I’d say diamonds and emeralds, mostly, but you’ve got a sharp eye. Trust your own discretion.”

“And we’ll need a boat,” said Jean.

“Already thinking on it!” Locke tapped his own forehead. “But let’s cover first, second, third, and fourth things before we go chasing down fifths or sixths, eh?”

“Gods keep you,” said Jean. “Don’t trip over your feet on the way home. What are you going to do about our rat?”

“Well, since someone we trust is feeding my confidential instructions to Sabetha,” said Locke, “I reckon I might feed some confidential instructions to all the people we trust.”

8

THAT NIGHT, as a hard rain beat down outside, Locke put his arm around Firstson Epitalus and drew the old man into a whispered conversation in the Deep Roots private gallery.

“You know more about the Isas Thedra than I do,” said Locke. “I need a quiet, out-of-the-way place in your district to store some barrels of fire-oil. A shack, a cellar. Somewhere nobody will disturb, at least not before the election.”

“Fire-oil? What’s this for, Master Lazari?”

“I’m going to see to it that our Black Iris friends have a fairly damaging fire a few nights before the election at one of their Bursadi District properties. I’ll take pains to see that nobody gets hurt. I just want them to lose some papers and some comforts.”

“Capital!” Epitalus thumped his cane on the floor approvingly. “Well, in that case, there’s an outbuilding on my own estate. The old boathouse. I’m not using it at all.”

“Good. One more thing, Epitalus. This is absolutely, vitally secret. Speak of this to no one. Am I clear?”

“As an empty glass, Master Lazari.”

The reference left them both thirsty. They toasted the frustration of the Black Iris with small glasses of cinnamon lemon cordial, and then Jean reappeared from his errand, shrugging himself out of his rain-slick oilcloak. Locke waved Epitalus off, then conversed in whispers with Jean.

“We’re on,” said Jean. “I think Lovaris was perversely pleased by the idea of us doing our part tonight, in the rain.”

“Of course. He’s a miserable sack of smugness. When?”

“Hour before midnight.”

“Not much time if we’re going to be careful.”

“Time enough for me to arm myself with dinner and coffee,” said Jean.

“Then I’ll get the things we need from our rooms,” said Locke. “You plant yourself in front of a fire and eat– Damn, here come Dexa and Nikoros, just the people I can’t miss.”

The two Gentlemen Bastards separated, Jean headed for the kitchens and Locke headed to intercept his targets and guide them up to the private gallery. He begged a moment alone with Nikoros first.

“Look, uh, Master Lazari, here’s the latest reports,” said Nikoros, fumbling with his satchel as Locke pushed him toward a quiet corner. “We had a break-in last night at Cavril’s office in the Ponta Corbessa, nothing major, but I suspect they got away with some confidential minutes and voter lists. Our delegations to the temples paid for a public sacrifice for each of the Twelve. A lash and a silver compass for Morgante, a silk shroud for Aza Guilla, a dove’s heart for Preva—”

“Nikoros,” said Locke, “I’m devout. I know the usual sacrifices. Just tell me there were no complications.”

“Well, ah, the rain probably cut down on the crowds, but they all went well. The whole city knows we’ve done our duty to the gods and asked their blessing.”

“If nobody got struck by lightning, I’m content. Now, I need you to get something for me. A hiding place. A shack, a cellar, a hole, anything, preferably deserted or disused. Near the Vel Vespala, as close to the Sign of the Black Iris as you can safely get. Do you know any spots?”

“I, well, let me think.” Nikoros rubbed his eyes and muttered to himself. “There’s a foreclosed chandlery that doesn’t have a new tenant, about three blocks from the Sign of the Black Iris. What should I do with it?”

“Just get me the place and I’ll do the work,” said Locke. “I’m going to repeat my stunt at the Enemy Tavern, smoke it up with harmless alchemy, only this time it’s going to last hours and it’s going to hit ’em at the worst possible time. I’ll decide when that is, but I need my fire-oil and powders stored nearby. This chandlery sounds perfect.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“And Nikoros,” said Locke, “this is the deepest, darkest sort of secret. Don’t write any notes or take any minutes on it. Keep this between you and me and the gods. Absolutely nobody else. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Master Lazari.”

“Good. Off on your other business, now, and send Dexa over to me as you go.”

“Master Lazari,” she said, waving her cigar at him. “You look busy. Can’t say I disapprove. What did you want to see me about?”

“What we’re going to discuss must remain absolutely confidential,” whispered Locke, leaning in so close he was immersed in tendrils of her smoke. “You know the Isas Mellia better than anyone. I need you to find me a shack, or a cellar, a bolt-hole of just about any sort, where I can store a certain quantity of …”

9

AN HOUR before midnight the rain flashed down like silver harpstrings against the darkness. A lean man and a burly man stood beneath a snuffed lantern at the edge of the Mara Karthani. They watched the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and shivered under their oilcloaks.

“There she is,” said Locke.

A heavy dark shape, sensibly dressed like themselves, emerged from the tradesfolk entrance and walked away from them, north, in the direction of the city streets.

“And if this is a trap?” said Jean.

“I took a precaution.” Locke knelt to lift a light wooden crate onto his shoulders. Jean picked up another. “There should be a carriage running one green alchemical lamp about a block north of the manse. Two of our drivers and two of our guards watching for trouble. If we come running, they’ll snatch us up and get us home.”

“Good thought,” said Jean. “Assuming we can run. I hope this is the last risky stupidity we dive into before this mess is over. I’m not sure we can get much less cautious than this.”

“May the Crooked Warden bless us for keeping Him entertained,” said Locke. “Let’s go. What kind of house-breakers would we be if we didn’t keep our appointment?”

10

TWO MORE nights and the weather moderated. The sky took back its rain, and the soft brisk wind off the Amathel felt like the kiss of cool silk. Milky moonlight spilled down on the Vel Vespala as Jean Tannen approached the Sign of the Black Iris, calmly and openly.

The foyer guards, not in the market for fresh concussions, actually held the inner doors open for him. Then came Vordratha.

“One of us must be dreaming,” he said, halting Jean three paces into the lobby. “And I’m quite certain I’m awake, so I suggest you sleepwalk your silly ass back to someplace they don’t mind your smell.”

“I’m here as an ambassador,” said Jean. “Touching on a personal matter of Mistress Gallante’s. Of course I don’t have an appointment, but she’ll want to see me anyway.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said Vordratha, “you’re free to kneel and kiss one of my boots, in which case I might possibly consider relaying your petition.”

“Friend Vordratha,” said Jean with a smile, “in your capacity as Verena’s majordomo and all-around mirthless damp prick, you deserve congratulations. In your capacity as any sort of meaningful opposition to my fists, you’re half a second of easy work.”

“You’re a crude bastard, Callas.”

“And you’re still favoring lamentably tight breeches.” Jean feigned a yawn. “I’ll take the same two hostages my colleague did. I invite you to ponder the difference in our sizes and proportional strength of grip.”

Vordratha showed Jean to the now-familiar private dining hall, warned him that the wait might be lengthy, and slammed the door behind him.

Time passed, and Jean paced quietly, alert for trouble. He estimated it was a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Sabetha came in.

She was dressed mostly in black, black tunic and breeches under a heavy mantled black coat with silver buttons and chasings. Her hair was loose and wind-whipped, her white scarf hanging in folds around her neck, her boots covered in fresh mud.

Not for the first time, Jean felt a strange sense of displacement as his memories of Sabetha tangled with the woman before his eyes. It was like looking at a reverse ghost, a reality somehow less tangible than the recollections five years gone. He’d lived those five years so gradually, but to his eyes she’d received them all at once, and in studying the new lines time had sketched for her he felt the faint tug of his own passing years, like a weight in his heart. How much older did he look to her?

He took a deep breath, banishing the broody thought. While Jean was often bemused by the philosophical notions that made free with his heart and head, long hours of tutelage in arms had also given him the trick of shoving such notions aside, cubbyholing them for contemplation once he’d survived his immediate responsibilities.

Sabetha pressed herself back against the door, closing it, and folded her arms.

“If this continues,” she said, “Vordratha might become the first man in the history of the world to have himself made into a eunuch for reasons of self-defense.”

“In fairness,” said Jean, “I can’t imagine he’s ever found much use for the blighted things.”

“He’s a devoted father of seven.”

“You’re joking!”

“I was as surprised as you. Seems he’s equally dedicated to his children and his career as a professional asshole. Please don’t actually hurt him again.”

“My oath to the Crooked Warden,” said Jean. He pulled an envelope from within his coat. “Now, to why I came. This– Well, I don’t want to speak for him. But you ought to know it’s taken him a few nights to finish this. Much lost sleep and many false starts.”

“As it was in the beginning, I suppose.” She took the envelope with a hand that shook just enough for Jean to notice, then slipped it into her coat. “And … is that it, then?”

Had the question sounded tired, Jean would have taken it for a dismissal, but Sabetha sounded wistful, almost hurt. He cleared his throat.

“Diplomacy and curiosity don’t always mix,” he said.

“We’re not strangers, Jean.”

Jean slipped off his optics and made a show of polishing them against a coat sleeve while he considered his words.

“All I can see,” he said at last, “is two people I care for being divided and ruled by the words of a stranger. This bullshit of Patience’s! I’m sorry. I didn’t come to lecture you. But surely you can—”

“You delivered his letter,” said Sabetha. “Now you’re inquiring into his business. Is Jean even here right now? Jean I could speak to, but Locke’s … legate to my court, that man’s business is dispensed with and the door is open.”

“Again, I’m sorry.” Jean realized that their physical situation had the look and feel of a standoff; so long as they both remained on their feet informality and relaxation would be difficult to kindle. He eased himself into a chair. “You know that I worry about him. I worry about the pair of you. And I regret that I haven’t, ah, exactly paid you a social call since our return. When you first invited us here, I was a little cold.”

“You were preoccupied.”

“That’s kind of you to suggest.”

“And then I dropped twenty hirelings on your head and packed you off to sea.” Sabetha sat down and crossed her legs. “It couldn’t have helped. I hope you don’t think I was pleased you broke your nose.”

“You provided us with a comfortable ship,” said Jean. “Leaving it in the middle of the night was our decision. I was annoyed at the time, but I know it was just business.”

“Maybe there’s been a little too much ‘just business.’ ” Sabetha fussed self-consciously with her gloves. “I kept your hatchets as a sort of assurance, and then as a sort of joke, and then I handed them to Locke like you were some kind of … hireling. I would not have desired to give that impression.”

“Gods, Sabetha, I’m not made of porcelain! Look, we’re not– We haven’t been badfriends, merely absent ones, long apart. And if there are more difficult possible circumstances for a reunion, I’ll eat my boots. Cold. With mustard.”

“Now who’s being kind?” she said. “I’ve missed you. Personally and professionally.”

“I’ve missed you,” said Jean. “Sharp edges and all. Life was always better with you around. Everyone around you catches your light. We’re doing it now, even across the city, working against you. I haven’t seen him like this … well, not for a long while. Sick with worry and totally exhilarated.”

“The conversation turns to our mutual friend again.”

“Yes. I mean– Look. Let me say this much, please.” Jean took a deep breath and pushed on before she could interrupt. “He and I had a dangerous misunderstanding in Tal Verrar. We both looked at the same thing, and we both made bad assumptions that led us in opposite directions. We got lucky, but bad assumptions … they’re a possibility to be aware of, you see?”

“Jean.” She spoke haltingly, each word crisp and fragile. “You must trust … do I seem at ease to you? Do I seem wholly myself? You must trust that I have reasons, urgentreasons for my behavior, and that they are as much to my grief as they are to his—”

“Stop.” Jean raised his hands placatingly. “Sabetha, however damned foolish I think you’re being, you do have a right to your own judgment. I don’t like the judgment, but I’ll respect the right, all the way to my grave. I’ve said my piece.”

“Thank you,” she said, and her smile warmed him like a fire. “It seems you and he have both grown more diplomatic since we parted.”

“We’ve made second careers out of finding excuses not to murder one another. It’s had a salutary effect on our manners.” Jean found his feet again and held out his hand. “Sister Bastard, I’d like to detain you longer and make my job that much easier, but I imagine we’re being watched. We can’t afford to try the patience of our employers.”

“Brother Bastard.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I wish I didn’t have to agree. Thank you for talking to me.”

“I hope we get to do it again.”

“One day at a time,” she said, softly. “Until we find out what’s waiting at the end of all this. But hope is a good word. I hope you’re right. About everything.”

“Is there any message I can take back for you?”

“No,” she said. “Whatever there is to say, I’ll say it myself, in my own time.”

They embraced, and Jean swept her off her feet. She laughed, and he turned the sweep into a complete twirl that ended with her elegantly set down atop a table. He bowed.

“I return madam to the pedestal on which she usually resides.”

“You cheeky lump! And here I was almost feeling sorry about trouncing the bright red fuck out of you in the election.”

“Tsk. Whatever you are, you’re not the least bit sorry,” said Jean, waving as he let himself out. “As you said … we’re not strangers.”

11

THE ROOM, so warmly lit, so invitingly decorated, felt cold after the door closed behind Jean. Strange how the empty seats and unused tables suddenly contrived to give the place the air of a deserted temple. Sabetha had never felt so isolated here before.

She leapt off the table and landed softly on the toes of her boots, scarf and coat rustling. The envelope was out of her pocket before she knew it, hands moving faster than the thoughts that usually ruled them.

“Of course I’m not alone,” she said. “You’re here.”

The room was still. The bustle of Black Iris business could be heard only faintly through the floor.

“I am a grown woman having a conversation with an envelope,” she muttered several heartbeats later.

He was there like smoke, like a ghost in the room, like a scent in her clothing. It had been so long that she had forgotten the actual scent, only that she remembered carrying it. Remembered wanting it, then not wanting it, then wanting it again despite herself.

There were two Lockes, she thought, turning the envelope back and forth in her hands. Two real Lockes under all the faces he wore in the course of his games. One of them put such a sweet sharp ache in her heart she could scarcely believe that a younger, softer Sabetha had sealed the feeling away and managed to leave. That man broke all the patterns of law and custom and dared the world to damn him for it.

The other Locke … that man was bound tight to those patterns, their absolute prisoner. He would do thusbecause thuswas the way it always had been in Camorr, or the way it had always been for a garrista, or for a priest, or a Right Person, or a Gentleman Bastard. The reasons were endless, and he would cling to them viciously, thoughtlessly, tangling everyone around him into the bargain.