"No, listen. How likely is it that Stragos is ever going to just accidentally leave us the glasses he uses to give us our antidote? Or let a dose slip out of his pocket?" "Easy question," said Jean. "It's bloody impossible."
"Right. So it's no use waiting for him to make a mistake — we've got to make contact with that alchemist."
"He's one of the Archon's personal retinue," said Jean. "Maybe the most important person in Stragos's service, if Stragos makes a habit of doing this frequently. I doubt he has a nice, convenient, out-of-the way house where we can pay him a visit. He probably lives at the Mon Magisterial
"But there's got to be something we can do," said Locke. "The man has to have a price. Think of what we've got at the Sinspire, or what we could get with Drakasha's help." "I'll admit it's the best idea yet," said Jean. "Which isn't saying much."
"Eyes wide, ears open and hope in the Crooked Warden," Locke muttered.
On this side of the city, Tal Verrar's inner harbour was thick with pleasure-boats, barges and hired gondolas. The wealthy (and the not-so-wealthy who didn't care whether or not they woke up without a centira the next day) were in full migration from the professional crescents to the bars and coffee houses of the Emerald Galleries. Locke and Jean slipped into the stream and rowed against the prevailing current, dodging larger vessels and exchanging choice vulgarities with the shouting, leering, bottle-throwing customers on some of the rowdier barges.
Having dished out more abuse than thed'r received, they slipped at last between the Artificers" Crescent and the Alchemists" Crescent, admiring the vivid blue and green fireballs that the alchemists were hurling, presumably in support of the Festa (though one never knew) forty or fifty feet into the air over their private docks. The prevailing wind was toward Locke and Jean, and as they rowed they found themselves pursued by a brimstone-scented rain of sparks and burned paper scraps.
Their destination was easy enough to find; at the north-western end of the Castellana lay the entrance grotto to the Elderglass caverns from which thed'r emerged with Merrain, the first night she'd kidnapped them on the Archon's behalf.
Security at the Archon's private landing had been enhanced. As Locke and Jean rowed around the final bend into the prismatic glass hollow, a dozen Eyes hefted crossbows and knelt behind curved iron shields, five feet high, set into the floor to provide cover. Behind them a squad of regular Verrari soldiers manned a ballista, a minor siege engine capable of shattering their boat with a ten-pound quarrel. An Eye officer pulled a chain leading into a wall aperture, presumably ringing an alarm above. "Use of this landing is forbidden," shouted the officer.
"Please listen carefully," shouted Locke. The dull roar of the waterfall high above echoed throughout the cavern, and there was no room for error. "We have a message for the waiting lady."
Their boat bumped up against the edge of the landing. It was disconcerting, thought Locke, having so many crossbows large and small dedicated to their intimidation. However, the Eye officer stepped over and knelt beside them. His voice echoed metallically through the speaking holes of his featureless mask. "You're here on the waiting lady's business?"
"We are," said Locke. "Tell her precisely this: "Two sparks were kindled, and two bright fires returned." " "I shall," said the officer. "In the meantime…"
After carefully setting their crossbows down, half a dozen Eyes stepped out from behind their shields to haul Locke and Jean from their boat. They were restrained and patted down; their boot-daggers were confiscated, along with Locke's bag of gold. An Eye examined it, and then passed it to the officer. "Solari, sir. Confiscate it?"
"No," said the officer. "Take them to the waiting lady's chamber and give it back to them. If money alone could kill the Protector, the Priori would already have done it, eh?"
10
"You did what to the Red Messenger?"
Maxilan Stragos was red-faced with wine, exertion and surprise. The Archon was dressed more sumptuously than Locke had ever seen him, in a vertically striped cape of sea-green silk that alternated with cloth-of-gold strips, over a coat and breeches that also gleamed gold. He wore rings on all ten of his fingers, set alternately with rubies and sapphires, very close approximations of the Tal Verrar colours. He stood before Locke and Jean in a tapestry-walled chamber on the first floor of the Mon Magisteria, attended by a pair of Eyes. If Locke and Jean had not been granted chairs, neither had they been trussed up. Or placed in the sweltering chamber. "We, ah, used it to initiate successful contact with pirates." "By losing it to them." "In a word, yes." "And Caldris is dead?" "For some time."
"Now tell me, Lamora, just what sort of reaction were you hoping for when you brought me this news?"
"Well, a fucking heart attack would have been nice, but I'll settle for a bit of patience while I explain further." "Yes," said the Archon. "Do."
"When the Messenger was taken by pirates, all of us aboard were made prisoners." Locke had decided that the specific details of injuries and scrub watches and so forth could be safely left out of the story. "By whom?" "Drakasha." "Zamira lives, does she? With her old Poison Orchid?
"Yes," said Locke. "It's in fine condition, and in fact it's currently riding at anchor about two miles, um…" He pointed with a finger towards what he believed to be south."… that way." "She dares?" "She's practising an obscure technique called "disguise", Stragos." "So you're… part of her crew now?"
"Yes. Those of us taken from the Messenger were given a chance to prove our intentions by storming the next prize Drakasha took. You won't see the Messenger again, as it's been sold to a sort of, um, wrecker baron. But at least now we're in a position to give you what you want."
"Are you?" The expression on Stragos's face went from annoyance to plain avarice in an eyeblink. "How… refreshing to hear you deliver such a report, in lieu of vulgarity and complaint."
"Vulgarity and complaint are my special talents. But listen — Drakasha has agreed to drum up the scare you want. If we get our antidote tonight, by the end of the week you'll have reports of raids at every point of the compass. It'll be like dropping a shark in a public bath." "What do you mean, precisely, by "Drakasha has agreed"?"
Improvising a fictional motive for Zamira was elementary; Locke could have done it in his sleep. "I told her the truth," he said. "The rest was easy. Obviously, once our job is done, you'll send your navy south to kick sixteen shades of shit out of every Ghostwind pirate you find. Except the one that actually started the mess, who will conveniently hunt elsewhere for a few months. And once you" ve got your grand little war sewn up, she goes back home to find that her former rivals are on the bottom of the ocean. Alas."
"I see," said Stragos. "I would have preferred not to have her aware of my actual intentions—"
"If there are any survivors in the Ghostwinds," said Locke, "she can hardly speak of her role in the matter to them, can she? And if there are no survivors… who can she talk to at all?" "Indeed," muttered Stragos.
"However," said Jean, "if the two of us don't return quite soon, the Orchid will head for the open sea and you'll lose your one chance to make use of her."