“Yes, some of the dons are…very firmly set in their customs. As yet I fail to see, however, where my assistance enters the picture.”
“We are of a similar size, sir, of a fortuitously similar size. And your taste, why, it is superlative, Master Magris; we could be long-lost brothers, so alike are we in our sense for cuts and colors. You are slightly taller than I am, but surely I can bear that for the few hours necessary. I would ask, sir, I would beg-aid me by lending me a suitable set of clothing. I must dine with dons this evening; help me to look the part, so that my employers might salvage their good name from this affair.”
“You desire…you desire the loan of a coat, and breeches, and hose and shoes, and all the fiddle-faddle and necessaries?”
“Indeed,” said Locke, “with a heartfelt promise to look after every single stitch as though it were the last in the world. What’s more, I propose to leave you an assurance of five white iron crowns; keep it until I have returned every thread of your clothing, and then keep it thereafter. Surely it is a month or two of pay, for so little work.”
“It is, it is…it is a very handsome sum. However,” said Magris, looking as though he was trying to stifle a grin, “this is…as I’m sure you know, rather odd.”
“I am only too aware, sir, only too aware. Can I not inspire you to have some pity for me? I am not too proud to beg, Master Magris-it is more than just my job at stake. It is the reputation of my employers.”
“No doubt,” said Magris. “No doubt. A pity that rats cannot speak Therin; I wager they’d offer forth a very fine testimony.”
“Six white iron crowns,” said Locke. “I can stretch my purse that far. I implore you, sir…”
“Squeak-squeak,” said Magris. “Squeak-squeak, they would say. And what fat little rats they would be after all that; what round little miscreants. They would give their testimony and then beg to be put back on a ship for Talisham, to continue their feasting. Your Strollo and Sons could have loyal employees for life; though rather small ones, of course.”
“Master Magris, this is quite-”
“You’re not really from Talisham, are you?”
“Master Magris, please.”
“You’re one of Meraggio’s little tests, aren’t you? Just like poor Willa got snapped up in last month.” Magris could no longer contain his mirth; he was obviously very pleased with himself indeed. “You may inform the good Master Meraggio that my dignity doesn’t flee at the sight of a little white iron; I would never dishonor his establishment by participating in such a prank. You will, of course, give him my very best regards?”
Locke had known frustration on many occasions before, so it was easy enough to stifle the urge to leap over Magris’ desk and strangle him. Sighing inwardly, he let his gaze wander around the room for a split second-and there, staring out across the floor from one of the second-level galleries, stood Meraggio himself.
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?”