“You know how a scytale cipher works?” I said as I set them on the desk. Lyconnis nodded. “Have a read.”
Lyconnis wrapped, read, unwrapped, and wrapped again as I scoured the contents of the drawer. I didn’t need to see his face to know what he was seeing-I’d read and reread the strips so many times at Christiana’s, I’d committed them to memory.
The message from Athel’s bag had been straightforward. The thief is getting anxious, it read. Trade imperial relic for book. Stall the Nose until we can make other arrangements. There is new action in Ten Ways-act with haste. Whoever Athel had been dealing with, he had decided it was better for him to trade the relic than to sell it to me. I suspected “the thief” was Larrios, and that he’d demanded payment sooner than they had expected. I didn’t know if the book was supposed to be a final payment or just collateral until they could get him the hawks, but, either way, the plan had gotten Athel-and likely Fedim-killed.
Why hadn’t Athel told me what he’d done with the book? Had he or his masters been afraid I would go after it? Why had it been worth dying for?
Or killing for, for that matter?
The message to Sylos had been a more hastily scrawled thing: Jarkman says Nose got to Athel. Has made arrangements. Blade will deliver the message, arrange for cleaning. Cooperate. I had no doubt the Jarkman in question was Baldezar, but I had been wanting to confirm it in person. That, and find out why they had felt it was necessary to dust me in the first place.
The first drawer held nothing more than a few incriminating letters on some minor gentry and a handful of falsed seals. I dumped it out on the desk, checked the bottom and sides for hidden panels, and then got to work on the second lock.
“He said it was an exercise,” said Lyconnis as I tickled the second set of tumblers.
“What?” I said.
“The letter to you,” said Lyconnis. “An exercise for me. And a lesson for you.”
I stopped picking the lock and looked up over the desk. Lyconnis was staring down at the strips in his hand.
“You forged the letter to Chr-To the baroness?” I said.
“ ‘A good scribe should be able to compose his cephta in almost any style,’ ” recited Lyconnis. “At least, that’s what Master Baldezar says. I don’t agree, but he’s a master of my guild, and I’m in his shop. If I ever want to be a master in my own right, I have to heed him. So I do copies and minor forgeries from time to time.”
“Didn’t you wonder why he was having you forge a letter to me?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He’s a master in my guild,” repeated Lyconnis, this time almost pleading. “He told me it was to show you up-to teach you a lesson. You have to believe me when I say I didn’t know what it was about! If I had even thought he was capable of hiring a… an…”
“I get the idea,” I said sourly. “Baldezar was covering his ass, and he used you to do it.” I bent back to the lock. “If things didn’t work out and I came hunting, he could point out the flaws and deny writing it.” And, I thought, point to Lyconnis if I got too close. I had no doubt that if it had come to that, Baldezar would have made sure Lyconnis wasn’t in a position to argue by the time I made it to him.
The second lock gave way more easily than the first. Among a collection of castings for chops and silk sealing ribbons, I found four blank strips of paper that matched my own and a narrow wooden rod. Beneath the rod was a fifth strip of paper with markings on it. I picked it up and wrapped it around the rod. The symbols lined up perfectly.
Heard the second attempt failed, it read in a shaky hand. Nose suspects me. I need protection. I need- The message ended in midsymbol, unfinished. That meant Baldezar had either been in too much of a hurry to finish it, or that he had been interrupted by someone before he disappeared. I hoped it was the former, because I wanted him alive.
“Best tell your guild they need a new master here,” I said, standing up.
Lyconnis stared at the slip as I unwound it and put it in my ahrami pouch.
“Is he dead?” he said.
“If he’s not,” I said, “he will be by the time I’m done with him.”
I put the word on the street to watch for Baldezar, but I didn’t hold out much hope. If he was smart, the scribe was already out of the city; if not, he was likely hiding or dead. Either way, the chances of someone spotting him in passing were slim.
Which left me Ten Ways.
Kells was right: I needed to stop Nicco from going to war, or at least delay him. Ten Ways was an avalanche waiting to happen-one that could very well sweep me along if I wasn’t careful. There were too many things tying me to the cordon now, and too many ways they could go wrong. Long Nosing aside, if Kin started killing Kin down there, someone could use it as an excuse to take care of me. Loose ends and vendettas are easy to resolve when blood is already running in the gutters.
A little asking around told me Nicco had gotten back into Ildrecca earlier in the day. I found him at his favorite gymnasium on the east side of Stone Arch cordon. Stripped to his smallclothes, he was working in the sandpit with a towering slab of muscle almost half his age. I couldn’t help noticing that the younger wrestler was both dirtier and bloodier than his opponent, which didn’t surprise me. Even when training, Nicco made a habit of using nasty tricks whenever he could.
I approached the ring and was stopped a dozen feet away by Salt Eye. That wasn’t a good sign.
“What the hell?” I said, staring up at the Arm.
“He’s busy.”
“And?” I said, throwing on a heavy dose of bravado.
Salt Eye hesitated. He was used to letting me pass, used to not giving me a second glance. That he now had to do both told me my status had changed. That he hesitated told me the change had happened recently.
“Screw you,” I said as I feinted left and dodged right. I could hear Salt Eye spin and come after me. I sped up my pace, but not so much that I lost any dignity in the process.
“Drothe,” said Nicco, not looking away from his opponent as I neared the oval pit. “Nice of you to come see me on your own for a change. Salt Eye, it’s all right.”
I heard Salt Eye stop, then retreat behind me.
“I tried last night, but you were out,” I said.
“I heard.” Nicco feinted low at his opponent, went high, and locked his arms around his neck and behind one shoulder. It didn’t seem like a good hold to me, and the other man began to easily twist his way out. That was when Nicco brought his knee into the other man’s midriff, lifting him off the ground. When the younger man hit the pit floor, Nicco was there in an instant, managing to kick sand in his face even as he got the pin.
Nicco rose, dusted himself off, and strolled over to the edge of the pit. He didn’t spare a backward glance for the man busy trying to brush sand out of his eyes; nor for the scowling trainer who handed the Upright Man a bowl of water but kept his mouth shut. No-Nicco merely drank, spit, and stepped out of the pit. All that mattered was that he had won.
“Come with me.” Nicco led me to a series of doorways on one side of the training room. He opened one and gestured for me to enter. I did.
The moist heat hit me immediately. It was a hot room-the first room of a three-room private bath, used for scrub massages and steam baths. Beyond the opposite door were the warm and cool rooms, for washing and relaxing respectively. I hoped Nicco would head to the last; instead, he sat down on one of the benches and started filling a shallow bowl from a tap beside him in the wall.
The sweat started gathering beneath my arms and along my forehead almost immediately. Nicco ignored my loosening my collar and cuffs, and instead sluiced water down his back. Then he refilled the bowl.
So, it was going to be like that.
I helped myself to one of the towels stacked in a corner, wiped my face with it, and sat on the heavy marble massage table in the middle of the room.