“Barsavi,” Locke coughed out. “Barsavi…will mean to kill me.”
“Do you doubt that I could continue punishing you here, at my leisure, until you were mad with pain?”
“No…no.”
“Then do not doubt that I can protect you from whatever nonsense the capa might wish to employ.”
“How do you…how do you mean…to direct me?”
I do not need the air, came the voice of the Bondsmage, echoing in Locke’s head with shocking force, to carry forth my instructions. When you require prompting in your meeting with Barsavi, I shall supply it. When you must make a demand or accept a demand, I shall let you know how to proceed. Is this clear?
“Yes. Perfectly clear. Th-thank you.”
“You should be grateful for what my client and I have done on your behalf. Many men wait years for a chance to ingratiate themselves with Capa Barsavi. Your chance has been served forth to you like a fine meal. Are we not generous?”
“Yes…certainly.”
“Just so. I suggest you now find some means to extricate yourself from the duty he asks of you. This will leave you free to concentrate on the duty we require. We wouldn’t want your attention divided at a critical moment.”
4
THE LAST Mistake was half-empty, a phenomenon Locke had never before witnessed. Conversation was muted; eyes were cold and hard; entire gangs were conspicuous by their absence. Men and women alike wore heavier clothing than the season required; more half-cloaks and coats and layered vests. It was easier to conceal weapons that way.
“So what the hell happened to you?”
Jean helped Locke sit down; he’d gotten them a small table in a side cranny of the tavern, with a clear view of the doors. Locke settled into his chair, a slight echo of the Falconer’s phantom pains still haunting his joints and his neck muscles.
“The Falconer,” Locke said in a low voice, “had several opinions he wished to express, and apparently I’m not as charming as I think I am.” He idly fingered his torn tunic and sighed. “Beer now. Bitch later.”
Jean slid over a clay mug of warm Camorri ale, and Locke drank half of it down in two gulps. “Well,” he said after wiping his mouth, “I suppose it was worth it just to say what I said to him. I don’t believe Bondsmagi are used to being insulted.”
“Did you accomplish anything?”
“No.” Locke drank the remaining half of his ale and turned the mug upside down before setting it on the tabletop. “Not a gods-damned thing. I did get the shit tortured out of myself, though, which was informational, from a certain point of view.”
“That fucker.” Jean’s hands balled into fists. “I could do so much to him, without killing him. I very much hope I get to try.”
“Save it for the Gray King,” muttered Locke. “My thoughts are that if we survive what’s coming on Duke’s Day night, he won’t be able to keep the Falconer on retainer forever. When the Bondsmage leaves…”
“We talk to the Gray King again. With knives.”
“Too right. We follow him if we have to. We’ve been needing something to do with all of our money. Here’s something. Whenever that bastard can’t pay his mage anymore, we’ll show him just how much we like being knocked around like handballs. Even if we have to follow him down the Iron Sea and around the Cape of Nessek and all the way to Balinel on the Sea of Brass.”
“Now there’s a plan. And what are you going to do tonight?”
“Tonight?” Locke grunted. “I’m going to take Calo’s advice. I’m going to stroll over to the Guilded Lilies and get my brains wenched out. They can put them back in in the morning when they’re through with me; I understand there’s an extra fee involved, but I’ll pay it.”
“I must be going mad,” said Jean. “It’s been four years, and all this time you’ve been-”
“I’m frustrated and I need a break. And she’s a thousand miles away and I guess I’m human after all, gods damn it. Don’t wait up.”
“I’ll walk with you,” said Jean. “It’s not wise to be out alone on a night like this. The city’s in a mood, now that word of Nazca’s got around.”
“Not wise?” Locke laughed. “I’m the safest man in Camorr, Jean. I know for a fact I’m the only one that absolutely nobody out there wants to kill yet. Not until they finish pulling my strings.”
5
“THIS ISN’T working,” he said, less than two hours later. “I’m sorry, it’s…not your fault.”
The room was warm and dark and exceedingly pleasant, ventilated by the soft swish of a wooden fan flapping back and forth in a concealed shaft. Waterwheels churned outside the ornate House of the Guilded Lilies at the northern tip of the Snare, driving belts and chains to operate many mechanisms of comfort.
Locke lay on a wide bed with soft feather mattresses covered in silk sheets and overhung with a silk canopy. He sprawled naked in the soft red light of a misted alchemical globe, little stronger than scarlet moonlight, and admired the soft curves of the woman who was running her hands along the insides of his thighs. She smelled like mulled apple wine and cinnamon musk, and her curves were indeed admirable. Yet he was nothing resembling aroused.
“Felice, please,” he said. “This was a bad idea.”
“You’re tense,” whispered Felice. “You’ve obviously got something on your mind, and that cut on your arm-it can’t be helping at all. Let me try a few things more. I’m always up for a…professional challenge.”
“I can’t imagine anything would help.”
“Hmmm.” Locke could hear the pout in her voice, though her face was little more than soft slashes of shadow in the red half-light. “There’s wines, you know. Alchemical ones, from Tal Verrar. Aphrodisiacs. Not cheap, but they do work.” She rubbed his stomach, toying with the slender line of hair that ran down its center. “They can work miracles.”
“I don’t need wine,” he said distantly, grabbing her hand and moving it away from his skin. “Gods, I don’t know what I need.”
“Allow me to make a suggestion, then.” She moved herself up on the bed until she was crouched beside his chest, on her knees. With one confident motion (for there was real muscle under those curves) she flipped him over onto his stomach and began kneading the muscles of his neck and back, alternating gentle caresses and firm pressure.
“Suggestion…ow…accepted…”
“Locke,” Felice said, losing the breathy, anything-to-please-you bedroom voice that was one of the cherished illusions of her trade, “you do know that the attendants in the waiting chambers tell us exactly what each client requests when they give us assignments?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, I know you specifically asked for a redhead.”
“Which…ow, lower please…which means?”
“There’s only two of us in the Lilies,” she said, “and we get that request every now and again. But the thing is, some men want any redhead in general, and some men want one redhead in particular.”
“Oh…”
“Those that want a redhead in general have their fun and go their way. But you…you want one redhead in particular. And I’m not her.”
“I’m sorry. I said it’s not your fault.”
“I know. That’s ever so gracious of you.”
“And I’m happy paying anyways.”
“And that’s also sweet.” She chuckled. “But you’d be taking it up with the room full of armed men if you didn’t, not just worrying about hurting my poor feelings.”
“You know,” Locke said, “I think I prefer you like this to all that ‘how may I please you master’ bullshit earlier.”