The knife-tip pressed deeper into Locke’s skin, and he groaned.
“Like everything,” said Boulidazi. “Why don’t we start with everything?”
III
FATAL HONESTY
“I never knew any more beautiful than you:
I have hunted you under my thoughts,
I have broken down under the wind
And into the roses looking for you.
I shall never find any
greater than you.”
—Carl Sandburg
from “The Great Hunt”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: INFINITE VARIATION
1
“SOMEONE’S GONNA RECOGNIZE us,” said Locke.
“We look like hell,” said Jean, practicing understatement at the master level. “Just two more travelers covered in dust and shit.”
“Volantyne must have returned by now. Sabetha’s got to have people watching the gates.” Locke tapped the side of his head. “You and I would.”
“That’s a generous appraisal of our foresight.”
It had been a hard four days back to Karthain. They’d looted the wagon and shoved it into a ravine on the second day, needing every scrap of speed they could coax out of their unyoked team. Lashain’s constables were no threat, but the previous occupant of the wagon could always hire mercenaries. There was no law on the long, ancient road between city-states; a column of dust rising rapidly in the sky behind them would probably have meant someone was going to die.
Now the city, finally in sight, had taunted them for half a day with the prospect of relative safety. They’d come up the coast road from the east, through hills and terraced farming villages, their bodies thoroughly punished by the seedy emergency saddles they’d filched from the wagon.
“Maybe you’re right, though,” said Jean. “If we’ve got no chance of hiding ourselves, we’ve got to rely on speed. We get one move, maybe, before she can respond.”
“Let’s go straight for her,” said Locke. His scowl shook little puffs of dust out of the creases of his road-grimed face.
“To do what?”
“Finish a conversation.”
“You in a hurry to get back to sea? I can handle a couple of her people at a time. She’s got more than a couple.”
“Taken care of,” said Locke. “I know a fellow who’ll be eager to help us past the guards.”
“You do?”
“Didn’t you notice that Vordratha favors tight breeches?”
“What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“Every little detail matters,” said Locke. “Just wait. It’ll be a fun surprise.”
“Well, shit,” said Jean. “It’s not like I’ve done anything especially smart in months. Why start now?”
2
THEY SLIPPED into traffic and the usual milling semi-confusion of customs inspectors, guards, teamsters, travelers, and horse manure. The Court of Dust, despite the general cleanliness of Karthain, could have been peeled up beneath its paving stones and set down in place of its counterpart in nearly any Therin city without arousing much notice.
Locke scanned the crowds as he and Jean were poked and prodded by bored constables. Sabetha’s spotters would most likely be working in teams, one person on watch while the other was always plausibly absorbed in some trivial business. After counting five possible pairs of watchers, Locke shook his head. What was the point?
Locke felt something else unusual going on, though. A buzz of activity around the Court, beyond mundane business. He’d spent too many hours picking pockets in crowds like this not to sense that something was awry.
Jean was alert, too. “What’s the excitement?” he asked of a passing constable.
“It’s the Marrows. You ain’t heard?” The woman gestured toward a crowd forming around a battered statue of a Therin Throne noblewoman. “Crier’s just about to start up again.”
Locke saw that a young woman, a finger’s width over four feet tall, had climbed the statue pedestal. She wore the blue coat of Karthain, and standing below her was a man in the regalia worn by herald Vidalos, tipstaff and all.
“KIND ATTENTION, citizens and friends of Karthain,” bellowed the woman. Locke was impressed; there had to be more leather lining her lungs than his saddle. “Hear this report of the FACTS as provided and authorized by the KONSEIL! Mendacity will NOT be tolerated! Rumormongers will be subject to INCARCERATION on the PENANCE BARGES!
“Vencezla Valgasha, king of the Seven Marrows, is DEAD! He is KNOWN to have died in the city of Vintila, SIX DAYS AGO. He died WITHOUT ISSUE and without lawful heir! A war of secession is now underway!
“The Canton of EMBERLAIN, easternmost of the Seven Marrows, has EXILED its ruling graf and declared itself to be a SOVEREIGN REPUBLIC! The Konseil of Karthain DECLINES to formally recognize Emberlain at this time, and strongly advises citizens of Karthain to AVOID all travel in the north until the situation stabilizes!”
“Holy hells,” said Locke. “Sabetha was right! The Marrows finally busted up. Gods, what a mess that’s going to be.”
“We won’t be able to pull the Austershalin brandy scam again,” said Jean. “Not for a good long while.”
“There’ll be other opportunities,” said Locke wistfully. “If it’s war, desperate people are going to be moving a lot of valuable things. But come on, we’ve got to move ourselves.”
They spurred their tired mounts down a broad avenue to the west, over a shaking and sighing glass bridge, through the Court of the Divines with its incense haze, and onto the Evening Terrace. It seemed surreal to be back on clean streets, among lush gardens and bubbling fountains, as though Karthain were more of a recurring dream than a real place.
Outside the Sign of the Black Iris, they aroused immediate interest. At least two watchers, unmistakably real, flashed hand signs to dark shapes on roofs. A fleet-footed child darted into the alley beside Sabetha’s headquarters. Locke led their bedraggled horses to a curbside spot more commonly used for carriages, and when he hopped down a cloud of road dust floated off his boots. He wobbled and nearly pitched over before seizing control of himself. His legs felt like prickly jelly. His horse, less than endeared to him, flicked its ears and snapped its teeth.
“These animals are the personal property of Verena Gallante,” Locke said to the anxious-looking footman. “She wants them well looked after.”
“But sir, if you please—”
“I don’t. Get them stabled.” Locke shoved past the man and reached for the door to the foyer, but Jean pushed his hand aside and went first.
Inside were the two alley-hounds Locke had seen last time.
“Oh, hell,” said the closest one. Jean was already inside his guard. A variety of fast, noisy, and painful things happened, none of them to Locke or Jean. As one guard hit the floor, Jean pitched his comrade facefirst through the lobby doors like a battering ram. Then the Gentlemen Bastards followed.
Here was Vordratha, impeccably dressed and with a fresh black iris pinned to his jacket, backed by four guards with truncheons in hand. Better-dressed people scattered for the doors and staircases behind them.
“Gentlemen,” said the majordomo, peering at the guard who’d just landed at his feet, “this is a members-only establishment with firm rules against rendering the help unconscious.”
“Your game now, Lazari,” said Jean.
“Thanks.” Locke put his hands up to show they were empty. “Please take us to Mistress Gallante immediately.”
“Now how can I do that, gentlemen, when you’ll be headed out the alley door presently with bruises on your skulls?”
“We’d really like to see her.” Before the guards could crowd in, Locke moved up to Vordratha, reached down to the man’s breeches, grabbed his balls through the silk, and gave them a considerable twist. “ Orwe’d like to see your physiker’s face when he gets a look at the bruises from this.”