Giancana Meraggio wore a frock coat in the ideal present fashion, loose and open, with flaring cuffs and polished silver buttons. His coat, breeches, and cravats were of a singularly pleasing dark blue, the color of the sky just before Falselight. There was little surface ostentation, but the clothes were fine, rich and subtle in a way that made their expense clear without offending the senses. It had to be Meraggio, for there was an orchid pinned at the right breast of his coat-that was Meraggio’s sole affectation, a fresh orchid picked every single day to adorn his clothes.
Judging by the advisors and attendants who stood close behind the man, Locke estimated that Meraggio was very close in height and build to himself.
The plan seemed to come up out of nowhere; it swept into his thoughts like a boarding party rushing onto a ship. In the blink of an eye, he was in its power, and it was set out before him, plain as walking in a straight line. He dropped his Talishani accent and smiled back at Magris.
“Oh, you’re too clever for me, Master Magris. Too clever by half. My congratulations; you were only too right to refuse. And never fear-I shall report to Meraggio himself, quite presently and directly. Your perspicacity will not escape his notice. Now, if you will excuse me…”
4
AT THE rear of Meraggio’s was a service entrance in a wide alley, where deliveries came in to the storage rooms and kitchens. This was where the waiters took their breaks, as well. Newcomers to the countinghouse’s service received scant minutes, while senior members of the staff might have as long as half an hour to lounge and eat between shifts on the floor. A single bored guard leaned on the wall beside the service door, arms folded; he came to life as Locke approached.
“What business?”
“Nothing, really,” said Locke. “I just wanted to talk to some of the waiters, maybe one of the kitchen stewards.”
“This isn’t a public park. Best you took your stroll elsewhere.”
“Be a friend,” said Locke. A solon appeared in one of his hands, conveniently held up within the guard’s reach. “I’m looking for a job, is all. I just want to talk to some of the waiters and stewards, right? The ones that are off duty. I’ll stay out of everyone else’s way.”
“Well, mind that you do.” The guard made the silver coin vanish into his own pockets. “And don’t take too long.”
Just inside the service entrance, the receiving room was unadorned, low-ceilinged, and smelly. Half a dozen silent waiters stood against the walls or paced; one or two sipped tea, while the rest seemed to be savoring the simple pleasure of doing nothing at all. Locke appraised them rapidly, selected the one closest to his own height and build, and quickly stepped over to the man.
“I need your help,” said Locke. “It’s worth five crowns, and it won’t take but a few minutes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Locke reached down, grabbed one of the waiter’s hands, and slapped a white iron crown into it. The man jerked his hand away, then looked down at what was sitting on his palm. His eyes did a credible imitation of attempting to jump out of their sockets.
“The alley,” said Locke. “We need to talk.”
“Gods, we certainly do,” said the waiter, a bulldog-faced, balding man somewhere in his thirties.
Locke led him out the service door and down the alley, until they were about forty feet from the guard, safely out of earshot. “I work for the duke,” said Locke. “I need to get this message to Meraggio, but I can’t be seen in the countinghouse dressed as myself. There are…complications.” Locke waved his blank parchment pages at the waiter; they were wrapped into a tight cylinder.
“I, ah, I can deliver that for you,” said the waiter.
“I have orders,” said Locke. “Personal delivery, and nothing less. I need to get on that floor and I need to be inconspicuous; it just needs to be for five minutes. Like I said, it’s worth five crowns. Cold spending metal, this very afternoon. I need to look like a waiter.”
“Shit,” said the waiter. “Usually, we have some spare togs lying around…black coats and a few aprons. We could fix you up with those, but it’s laundry day. There’s nothing in the whole place.”
“Of course there is,” said Locke. “You’re wearing exactly what I need.”
“Now, wait just a minute. That’s not really possible…”
Locke grabbed the waiter’s hand again and slid another four white iron crowns into it.
“Have you ever held that much money before in your life?”
“Twelve gods, no,” the man whispered. He licked his lips, stared at Locke for a second or two, and then gave a brief nod. “What do I do?”
“Just follow me,” said Locke. “We’ll make this easy and quick.”
“I have about twenty minutes,” said the waiter. “And then I need to be back on the floor.”
“When I’m finished,” said Locke, “that won’t matter. I’ll let Meraggio know you’ve helped us both; you’ll be off the hook.”
“Uh, okay. Where are we going?”
“Just around the corner here…We need an inn.”
The Welcoming Shade was just around the block from Meraggio’s Countinghouse. It was tolerably clean, cheap, and devoid of luxuries-the sort of place that hosted couriers, scholars, scribes, attendants, and lesser functionaries rather than the better classes of businessfolk. The place was a two-story square, built around an open central space in the fashion of a Therin Throne villa. At the center of this courtyard was a tall olive tree with leaves that rustled pleasantly in the sunlight.
“One room,” said Locke, “with a window, just for the day.” He set coins down on the counter. The innkeeper scurried out, key in hand, to show Locke and the waiter to a second-story room marked “ 9.”
Chamber nine had a pair of folding cots, an oiled-paper window, a small closet, and nothing else. The master of the Welcoming Shade bowed as he left, and kept his mouth shut. Like most Camorri innkeepers, any questions he might have had about his customers or their business tended to vanish when silver hit the counter.
“What’s your name?” Locke drew the room’s door closed and shot the bolt.
“Benjavier,” said the waiter. “You’re, ah, sure…this is going to work out like you say it is?”
In response, Locke drew out his coin purse and set it in Benjavier’s hand. “There’s two more full crowns in there, above and beyond what you’ll receive. Plus quite a bit of gold and silver. My word’s as good as my money-and you can keep that purse, here, as an assurance until I return.”
“Gods,” said Benjavier. “This is…this is all so very odd. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such incredible fortune?”
“Most men do nothing to deserve what the gods throw their way,” said Locke. “Shall we be about our business?”
“Yes, yes.” Benjavier untied his apron and tossed it to Locke; he then began to work on his jacket and breeches. Locke slipped off his velvet cap.
“I say, gray hair-you don’t look your age, in the face, I mean.”
“I’ve always been blessed with youthful lines,” said Locke. “It’s been of some benefit, in the duke’s service. I’ll need your shoes, as well-mine would look rather out of place beneath that finery.”
Working quickly, the two men removed and traded clothing until Locke stood in the center of the room, fully garbed as a Meraggio’s waiter, with the maroon apron tied at his waist. Benjavier lounged on one of the sleeping pallets in his undertunic and breechclout, tossing the bag of jingling coins from hand to hand.
“Well? How do I look?”
“You look right smart,” said Benjavier. “You’ll blend right in.”