“Let another unauthorized person, so much as a small child, in through that door this afternoon, and I’ll have your balls cut out and hot coals put in their place. Is that clear?”
“P-perfectly clear, M-master Meraggio, sir.”
Meraggio turned and swept out of the room, and this time it was Locke at his heels, hurrying to keep up.
6
GIANCANA MERAGGIO’S fortified private apartments were of a kind with the man’s clothing: richly furnished in the most subtle fashion. The man clearly preferred to let materials and craftsmanship serve as his primary ornaments.
The steel-reinforced door clicked shut behind them, and the Verrari lockbox rattled as its teeth slid home within the wood. Meraggio and Locke were alone. The elegant miniature water-clock on Meraggio’s lacquered desk was just filling the bowl that marked the first hour of the afternoon.
“Now,” said Locke, “Master Meraggio, you cannot be out on the floor again until our assassin is sewn up. It is not safe; we expected the attack to come between the first and fourth hour of the afternoon.”
“That will cause problems,” said Meraggio. “I have business to look after; my absence on the floor will be noticed.”
“Not necessarily,” said Locke. “Has it not occurred to you that we are of a very similar build? And that one man, in the shadows of one of the upper-level galleries, might look very much like another?”
“You…you propose to masquerade as me?”
“In the letters we intercepted,” said Locke, “we received one piece of information that is very much to our advantage. The assassin did not receive a detailed description of your appearance. Rather, he was instructed to put his bolt into the only man in the countinghouse wearing a rather large orchid at the breast of his coat. If I were to be dressed as you, in your customary place in the gallery, with an orchid pinned to my coat-well, that bolt would be coming at me, rather than you.”
“I find it hard to believe that you’re saintly enough to be willing to put yourself in my place, if this assassin is as deadly as you say.”
“Master Meraggio,” said Locke, “begging your pardon, but I plainly haven’t made myself clear. If I don’t do this on your behalf, my master will kill me anyway. Furthermore, I am perhaps more adept at ducking the embrace of the Lady of the Long Silence than you might imagine. Lastly, the reward I have been promised for bringing this affair to a satisfactory close…Well, if you were in my shoes, you’d be willing to face a bolt as well.”
“What would you have me do, in the meantime?”
“Take your ease in these apartments,” said Locke. “Keep the doors tightly shut. Amuse yourself for a few hours; I suspect we won’t have long to wait.”
“And what happens when the assassin lets fly his bolt?”
“I am ashamed to have to admit,” said Locke, “that my master has at least a half dozen other men out on the floor of your countinghouse today-please don’t be upset. Some of your clients are not clients; they’re the sharpest, roughest lads Capa Raza has, old hands at fast, quiet work. When our assassin takes his shot, they’ll move on him. Between them and your own guards, he’ll never know what hit him.”
“And if you aren’t as fast as you think you are? And that bolt hits home?”
“Then I’ll be dead, and you’ll still be alive, and my master will be satisfied,” said Locke. “We swear oaths in my line of work as well, Master Meraggio. I serve Raza even unto death. So what’s it going to be?”
7
LOCKE LAMORA stepped out of Meraggio’s apartments at half past one dressed in the most excellent coat, vest, and breeches he had ever worn. They were the dark blue of the sky just before Falselight, and he thought the color suited him remarkably well. The white silk tunic was as cool as autumn river-water against his skin; it was fresh from Meraggio’s closet, as were the hose, shoes, cravats, and gloves. His hair was slicked back with rose oil; a little bottle of the stuff rested in his pocket, along with a purse of gold tyrins he’d lifted from Meraggio’s wardrobe drawers. Meraggio’s orchid was pinned at his right breast, still crisply fragrant; it smelled pleasantly like raspberries.
Meraggio’s finnickers had been appraised of the masquerade, along with a select few of his guards. They nodded at Locke as he strolled out into the fourth-floor members’ gallery, sliding Meraggio’s optics over his eyes. That was a mistake; the world went blurry. Locke cursed his own absentmindedness as he slipped them back into his coat-his old Fehrwight optics had been clear fakes, but of course Meraggio’s actually functioned for Meraggio’s eyes. A point to remember.
Casually, as though it were all part of his plan, Locke stepped onto the black iron stairs and headed downward. From a distance, he certainly resembled Meraggio well enough to cause no comment; when he reached the floor of the public gallery, he strolled through rapidly enough to gather only a few odd looks in his wake. He plucked the orchid from his breast and shoved it into a pocket as he entered the kitchen.
At the entrance to the dry-storage room, he waved to the two guards and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Master Meraggio wants you two watching the back door. Give Laval a hand. Nobody comes in, just as he said. On pain of, ah, hot coals. You heard the old man. I need a word with Benjavier.”
The guards looked at one another and nodded; Locke’s presumed authority over them now seemed to be so cemented that he supposed he could have strolled back here in ladies’ smallclothes and gotten the same response. Meraggio had probably used a few special agents in the past to whip his operations into shape; no doubt Locke was now riding on the coattails of their reputations.
Benjavier looked up as Locke entered the storage room and slid the door shut behind him. Sheer bewilderment registered on his face; he was so surprised when Locke threw a coin purse at him that the little leather bag struck him in the eye. Benjavier cried out and fell back against the wall, both hands over his face.
“Shit,” said Locke. “Beg pardon; you were meant to catch that.”
“What do you want now?”
“I came to apologize. I don’t have time to explain; I’m sorry I dragged you into this, but I have my reasons, and I have needs that must be met.”
“Sorry you dragged me into this?” Benjavier’s voice broke; he sniffed once and spat at Locke. “What the fuck are you talking about? What’s going on? What does Master Meraggio think I did?”
“I don’t have time to sing you a tale. I put six crowns in that bag; some of it’s in tyrins, so you can break it down easier. Your life won’t be worth shit if you stay in Camorr; get out through the landward gates. Get my old clothes from the Welcoming Shade; here’s the key.”
This time Benjavier caught what was thrown at him.
“Now,” said Locke. “No more gods-damned questions. I’m going to grab you by the ear and haul you out into the alley; you make like you’re scared shitless. When we’re around the corner and out of sight, I’m going to let you go. If you have any love for life, you fucking run to the Welcoming Shade, get dressed, and get the hell out of the city. Make for Talisham or Ashmere; you’ve got more than a year’s pay there in that purse. You should be able to do something with it.”
“I don’t-”
“We go now,” said Locke, “or I leave you here to die. Understanding is a luxury; you don’t get to have it. Sorry.”
A moment later, Locke was hauling the waiter into the receiving room by the earlobe; this particular come-along was a painful hold well known to any guard or watchman in the city. Benjavier did a very acceptable job of wailing and sobbing and pleading for his life; the three guards at the service door looked on without sympathy as Locke hauled the waiter past them.