“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.”
“Good. You, for your part, look right wealthy. Just wait here with the door locked; I’ll be back soon enough. I’ll knock exactly five times, savvy?”
“Sounds fine.”
Locke closed the door behind him, hurried down the stairs, across the courtyard, and back out into the street. He took the long way around to return to Meraggio’s, so he could enter via the front and avoid the guard at the service entrance.
“You’re not supposed to come and go this way,” said the directory guard when Locke burst into the foyer, red-cheeked and sweating.
“I know, sorry.” Locke waved his blank roll of parchment at the man. “I was sent out to fetch this for one of the lawscribes; one of the private gallery members, I should say.”
“Oh, sorry. Don’t let us keep you; go right through.”
Locke entered into the crowd on the floor of Meraggio’s for the third time, gratified by how few lingering looks he received as he hurried on his way. He wove deftly between well-dressed men and women and ducked out of the path of waiters bearing covered silver trays-he was careful to give these men a friendly, familiar nod as they passed. In moments, he found what he was looking for-two guards lounging against a back wall, their heads bent together in conversation.
“Look lively, gentlemen,” said Locke as he stepped up before them; either one of them had to outweigh him by at least five stone. “Either of you lads know a man named Benjavier? He’s one of my fellow waiters.”
“I know him by sight,” said one of the guards.
“He’s in a heap of shit,” said Locke. “He’s over at the Welcoming Shade, and he’s just fucked up one of Meraggio’s tests. I’m to fetch him back; I’m supposed to grab you two for help.”
“One of Meraggio’s tests?”
“You know,” said Locke. “Like he did to Willa.”
“Oh, her. That clerk in the public section. Benjavier, you say? What’s he done?”
“Sold the old man out, and Meraggio’s not pleased. We really should do this sooner rather than later.”
“Uh…sure, sure.”
“Out the side, through the service entrance.”
Locke positioned himself very carefully to make it seem as though he was confidently walking along beside the guards when in fact he was following their lead through the kitchens, the service corridors, and finally the receiving room. He slipped into the lead, and the two guards were on his heels as he stepped out into the alley, waving casually at the lounging guard. The man showed no signs of recognizing him; Locke had seen dozens of waiters already with his own eyes. No doubt a stranger could pass as one for quite some time, and he didn’t even need quite some time.
A few minutes later, he rapped sharply on the door of chamber nine at the Welcoming Shade, five times. Benjavier opened the door a crack, only to have it shoved open all the way by a stiff arm from Locke, who called up some of the manner he’d used when he’d lectured Don Salvara as a “Midnighter.”
“It was a loyalty test, Benjavier,” said Locke as he stalked into the room, his eyes cold. “A loyalty test. And you fucked it up. Take him and hold him, lads.”
The two guards moved to restrain the half-naked waiter, who stared at them in shock. “But…but I didn’t…but you said-”
“Your job is to serve Meraggio’s customers and sustain Master Meraggio’s trust. My job is to find and deal with men that don’t sustain his trust. You sold me your gods-damned uniform.” Locke swept white iron crowns and the coin purse up from the bed; he dropped the loose coins into the leather bag as he spoke. “I could have been a thief. I could have been an assassin. And you would have let me walk right up to Master Meraggio, with the perfect disguise.”
“But you…oh, gods, you can’t be serious, this can’t be happening!”
“Do these men look less than serious? I’m sorry, Benjavier. It’s nothing personal, but you made a very poor decision.” Locke held the door open. “Right, out with him. Back to Meraggio’s, quick as you can.”
Benjavier kicked out, snarling and crying, “No, no, you can’t, I’ve been loyal all my-” Locke grabbed him by the chin and stared into his eyes.
“If you fight back,” said Locke, “if you kick or scream or continue to raise a gods-damned fuss, this matter will go beyond Meraggio’s, do you understand? We will bring in the watch. We will have you hauled to the Palace of Patience in irons. Master Meraggio has many friends at the Palace of Patience. Your case might fall between the cracks for a few months. You might get to sit in a spider cage and ponder your wrongdoing until the rains of winter start to fall. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” sobbed Benjavier. “Oh, gods, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“It’s not me you need to apologize to. Now, like I said, let’s get him back quickly. Master Meraggio’s going to want a word with him.”