Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground and stood over him, seething. "The deal, Cordo!"
"Yeah," said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground, "well, it's like this. You" ve done us quite a service, but we don't feel comfortable having loose ends running around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—"
"You amateur double-crossers," said Locke. "You make us professionals cringe. You think you're so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual friend offer an opinion on the subject."
Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled, knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read: / — would take it as a personal affront if the bearers of this note were to be harmed or hindered in any way, engaged as they are upon an errand of mutual benefit. The extension of every courtesy to them will be noted and returned as though a courtesy to myself They bear my full and absolute trust. R All, of course, above Requin's personal seal.
"I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance-house," said Locke. "But you must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—"
"Enough. I take your point." Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back at Locke. "What do you ask?"
"I only want two things," said Locke. "The Archon and his alchemist. What you do with this gods-damned city is entirely your business." "The Archon must—"
"You were about to gut him like a fish. He's my business now. Just know that whatever happens to him won't be an inconvenience for you."
The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected himself— the other side of the fortress. "What the hell is that?" he asked.
"We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisterial gate," said Cordo. "We're bringing people in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known." "If you try to storm—"
"We're not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside comprehend the new situation, we're confident they'll accept the authority of the councils."
"You" d better hope that's the case across Tal Verrar," said Locke. "But enough of this shit. Hey, Stragos, let's go and have a chat with your pet alchemist."
Jean hoisted the Archon — still clearly in shock — to his feet, and began to haul him over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.
"You," said Locke, pointing at the bald man, "are about to start explaining a hell of a lot of things, if you know what's good for you." The alchemist shook his head. "Oh, but I… I—"
"Pay close attention," said Locke. "This is the end of the Archonate, understand? The whole institution will be sunk in the harbour once and for all tonight. After this, Maxilan Stragos won't have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with nobody to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a permanent antidote?"
"I… I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the Archon's service, yes. Just in case." "Xandrin, don't—" said Stragos. Jean punched him in the stomach. "Oh, no. Do, Xandrin, do," said Locke.
The bald man reached into his satchel and held up a glass vial full of transparent liquid. "One dose is what I carry. This is enough for one man — do not split it. This will cleanse the substance from the humours and channels of the body."
Locke took the vial from him, his hand trembling. "And this… how much will it cost to have another alchemist make more?"
"It's impossible, said Xandrin. "I designed the antidote to defy reactive analysis. Any sample subjected to alchemical scrutiny will be ruined. The poison and its antidote are my proprietary formulation—" "Notes," said Locke. "Recipes, whatever you call the damn things." "In my head," said Xandrin. "Paper is a poor keeper of secrets."
"Well then," said Locke, "until you cook us up another dose, it looks like you're fucking well coming with us. Do you like the sea?"
11
Merrain made her decision then. If the antidote couldn't be duplicated, and she could knock the vial to the ground… the troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin.
If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.
She moved her right arm slightly, dropping the hilt of her poisoned dagger into her hand, and took a deep breath.
Merrain moved so fast that the false Eye standing to her side never even had the chance to raise his sword. Her sideways stab, not preceded by any telltale glance or lunge, took him in the side of the neck. She slid the blade sideways as she withdrew, tearing whatever she could in case the poison took a few extra seconds to do its work.
12
Merrain's first victim had just uttered a gasp of surprise when she moved again, slashing across the back of Xandrin's neck with a knife she'd produced from nowhere. Locke stared for a split second, startled; he counted himself fast, but if she'd been aiming for him he realized that he never would have seen the blow coming in time.
As Xandrin cried out and stumbled forward, Merrain kicked at Locke, a fast attack rather than a solid one. She caught his arm and the vial flew from his fingers; Locke barely had time to yell, "Shit!" before he was diving after it, heedless of the gravel he was about to skin himself against or anything else Merrain might care to do to him. He plucked the still-intact vial off the ground, uttered a whisper of thanks and was then knocked aside as Jean rushed past, arms extended.
As he hit the ground with the vial clutched to his chest, Locke saw Merrain wind up and hurl her knife; Jean struck her at the moment of release, so that rather than impaling Stragos through the neck or chest as she'd clearly intended, she bounced her blade off the gravel at his feet. The Archon flinched away from the weapon nonetheless.
Merrain, improbably, put up an effective struggle against Jean; she freed one arm from his grasp somehow and elbowed him in the ribs. Lithe and no doubt desperate as all hell, she kicked his left foot, broke his grip and tried to stumble away. Jean retained enough of a hold on her tunic to tear off her left sleeve all the way to the shoulder; thrown off-balance as it gave way, he fell to the ground.
Locke caught a flash of an elaborate, dark tattoo against the pale skin of Merrain's upper arm — something like a grapevine entwined around.-..I. _„a sword. Then she was off like a crossbow bolt, darting into the night, away from Jean and the false Eyes who chased her in vain for a few dozen steps before giving up and swearing loudly.
"Well, what the— Oh, hell," said Locke, noticing for the first time that the false Eye Merrain had stabbed, along with Xandrin, was writhing on the ground with rivulets of foaming saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth. "Oh, shit, shit, hell," Locke shouted, bending helplessly over the dying alchemist. The convulsions ceased in just a few seconds, and Locke stared down at the single vial of antidote in his hands, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "No," said Jean from behind him. "Oh, gods, why did she do that?" "I don't know," said Locke. "What the hell do we do?" "We… shit. Damned if I know that, either." "You should—"
"Nobody's doing anything," said Locke. "I'll keep this safe. Once this is over, we'll sit down with it, have dinner, talk it over. We'll come up with something." "You can—"
"Time to go," said Locke, as firmly as he could. "Get what we came here for and go, before things get more complicated." Before troops loyal to the Archon notice that he's having a bad night. Before Lyonisfinds out that Requin is actually hunting for us as we speak. Before some other gods-damned surprise crawls out of the ground to bite us on the arse. "Cordo," he shouted, "where's that bag you promised?"