The wide balcony doors on the eastern side of Requin's office were open, but for a fine mesh screen to keep out insects. Through it, Locke could see the torchlike pyres of two ships in the harbour, surrounded by hundreds of specks of lantern-light that had to be spectators in smaller craft.
"They" re burning four this year," said Requin, noticing that the view had caught Locke's attention. "One for each season. I think they're just finishing the third. The fourth should go up soon, and then all will be well. Fewer people in the streets, and more crowding into the chance-houses."
Locke nodded and turned to admire what Requin had done with the suite of chairs he'd had crafted for him. He tried to keep a smirk of glee off his face and managed to look only vaguely appreciative. The four replica chairs were placed around a thin-legged table in a matching style, holding bottles of wine and an artful flower arrangement. "Is that—"
"A replica as well? I'm afraid so. Your gift spurred me to have it made."
"My gift. Speaking of which…" Locke reached beneath his cloak, removed the purse and set it down atop Requin's desk. "What's this?"
"A consideration," said Locke. "There are an awful lot of sailors in Port Prodigal with more coins than card sense."
Requin opened the satchel and raised an eyebrow. "Handsome," he said. "You really are trying very hard not to piss me off, aren't you?" "I want my job," said Locke. "Now more than ever." "Let's discuss your task, then. Does this Calo Callas still exist?" "Yes," said Locke. "He's down there." "Then why the hell didn't you bring him back with you?" "He's out of his fucking mind," said Locke. "Then he's useless—"
"No. Not useless. He feels persecuted, Requin. He's delusional. He imagines that the Priori and the Artificers have agents on every corner in Port Prodigal, in every ship, every tavern. He barely leaves his house." Locke took pleasure at the speed with which he was conjuring an imaginary life for an imaginary man. "But what he does inside that house. What he has! Locks, hundreds of them. Clockwork devices. A private forge and bellows. He's as insatiable about his trade as he ever was. It's all he has left in the world."
"How is a madman's detritus significant?" asked Selendri. She stood between two of Requin's exquisite oil paintings, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.
"I experimented with all kinds of things back when I thought I might have a chance to crack this tower's vault. Acids, oils, abrasives, different types of picks and tools. I'd call myself a fair judge of mechanisms as well as lockbreaking. And the things this bastard can do, the things he builds and invents, even with a magpie mind—" Locke spread his hands and shrugged theatrically. "Gods!" "What will it take to bring him here?"
"He wants protection," said Locke. "He's not averse to leaving Port Prodigal. Hell, he's eager to. But he imagines death at every step. He needs to feel that someone with power is reaching out to put him under their cloak."
"Or you could just hit him over the head and haul him back in chains," said Selendri.
"And risk losing his actual cooperation for ever? Worse — deal with him on a three-week voyage after he wakes up? His mind is delicate as glass, Selendri. I wouldn't recommend knocking it around." Locke cracked his knuckles. Time to sweeten the pitch.
"Look, you want this man back in Tal Verrar. He'll drive you mad — you may even have to appoint some sort of nurse or minder for him, and you'll definitely have to hide him from the artificers — but the things he can do could make it worthwhile a hundred times over. He's the best lockbreaker I" ve ever seen. He just needs to believe that I truly represent you." "What do you suggest?" "You have a wax sigil on your ledgers and letters of credit. I" ve seen it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment—" "And incriminate myself?" said Requin. "No."
"Already thought about that," said Locke. "Don't write a name on it. Don't date it, don't sign it to anyone, don't even add your usual "R". Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. "Look forward to comfort and hospitality." Or, "Expect every due consideration.""
"Trite bullshit. I see," said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. "And this childish device will be sufficient?"
"As far as his fears are concerned," said Locke, "Callas is a child. He'll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit." "Or a grown man," muttered Selendri.
Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. Finally, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.
"Your bait, Master Kosta." He passed the sheet over. "The fact that you're skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you're not planning on staying in the city for long."
"Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal." That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources. "And you'll bring Callas back with you." "Yes."
"If the sigil isn't sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that's not enough, take Selendri's suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don't come back empty-handed." "As you wish."
"What then, for you and the Archon? With Callas in hand, you'll likely be back to this scheme for my vault—"
"I don't know," said Locke. "I'll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don't you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the Archon as a double agent, fine. If you want me to tell the Archon that he died or something… I just don't know. My skull aches. You're the man with the big picture. I'll look forward to new orders."
"If you can stay this polite," said Requin, hefting the purse, "bring me Callas and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things… you may well have a future in my service." "I appreciate that."
"Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me."
Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching and so delicate that a moth's fart might knock it to pieces — but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.
Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication and row themselves to safety.
13
"We're being followed," said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which thed'r come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance-houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; thed'r snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk. "Where are they?"
"Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now."
"Shit," muttered Locke. "Would that this city's entire population of lurking arseholes shared just one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly"