“No.” Locke did favor him with a satisfied grin. “The count, by the way, is seventy-two eligible adults. I’ve got the solicitors lined up to discuss terms with them. Nice and simple. We’ll take them to the relevant offices in groups, hand over a little sweetener money with the fees, and get them registered. They’ll be seventy-two lawful voters by nightfall, and then we’ll decide which districts to settle them in.”
“How many fresh faces did the Black Iris snatch up?”
“Half what we got.” More teeth appeared within Locke’s grin. “I’ve left a reception committee at the Court of Dust to keep the party rolling, and I sent out a little expedition to survey the road. The opposition will still get some, of course, but I think we can safely say that the majority of Vadran expatriate votes will be for the Deep Roots.”
“Splendid,” said Jean. “Now what’s the business that’s been wearing that quill down?”
“Oh, it’s, you know.” Locke gestured at the arc of crumpled parchment sheets on the floor. “It’s a letter. My letter. To, uh, her. My response. It has a few, uh, sentiments and delicacies yet to be straightened out. I suppose by ‘few’ I mean ‘all of them.’ Say, can I ask you to undertake an embassy to the Sign of the Black Iris when it’s finished?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jean, “because I really was hoping to get into another punch-up with Sabetha’s boys and girls as soon as possible, thanks.”
“They won’t hurt you,” said Locke. “Nor make you hurt them. It’s me Vordratha’s got it in for.”
“Of course I’ll carry a token of your obsession into hostile territory for you,” said Jean. “But there’s one condition. Put yourself in your bed and use it for its intended purpose, right now.”
“But—”
“You’ve got bags under your eyes like crescent pastries,” said Jean, feeling that he was being very kind. “You look like Nikoros, for the Crooked Warden’s sake. Like you ought to be crouched in a gutter somewhere catching small animals and eating them raw. You need rest.”
“But the letter—”
“I’ve got a sleeping draught right here, ready to administer.” Jean curled the fingers of his right hand into a fist and shook it at Locke. “Besides, how could a nap to clear your head do anything but improve this epistolary endeavor?”
“Hey,” said Locke, scratching his stubble absently with his quill. “That sounds suspiciously like wisdom, damn your eyes. Why must you always flounce about being wiser than me?”
“Doesn’t require much conscious effort.” Jean pointed toward Locke’s room with mock paternal sternness, but Locke was already on his way, stumbling and yawning. He was snoring in moments.
Jean surveyed the wreckage of Locke’s attempts at letter-writing, wondering at the contents of the crumpled sheets. He settled his left hand in a coat pocket and ran his thumb round the lock of hair concealed therein. After a moment of contemplation, he gathered the balled-up parchments, piled them in the suit’s small fireplace, and set them alight with an alchemical twist-match from an ornate box on the mantel. Locke snored on.
Jean slipped out and quietly locked the door behind him.
Josten’s was in a fine bustle. Well-dressed new faces were everywhere in the common room, and the babble was as much Vadran as Therin. Diligence Josten, jaunty as a general of unblooded troops, was lecturing a half-dozen staff. He clapped his hands and shooed them to their tasks as Jean approached.
“Master Callas,” said Josten, “my procurer of strange clientele! You look like a man in search of breakfast.”
“I have only two wishes,” said Jean. “The first is for strong coffee, and the second is for stronger coffee.”
“Behold my jask.” Josten pointed to an ornate, long-handled copper pot simmering on a glowing alchemical stone behind the bar counter. “My father’s jask, actually. Secret of the Okanti hearth. You poor bastards were still steeping your coffee in wash-tubs when we came along to rescue you.”
The coffee Josten decanted from the jaskwas capped with cinnamon-colored foam. Jean felt less than civilized gulping it, but his wits needed the prodding, and the blend of fig and chicory flavors hit his throat in a satisfying scalding rush. The room was already looking brighter when he reached the dregs of the small cup.
“Lights the fires, doesn’t it?” said Josten, smoothly refilling Jean’s cup. “I’ve been pouring it into Nikoros for days, poor bastard. He’s, ah, lost a personal buttress, that one.”
“I know,” said Jean. “Can’t be helped.”
Josten politely refused to let Jean go about his business on a breakfast of nothing but coffee. A few minutes later, Jean climbed the stairs to the Deep Roots private section carrying a bowl heaped with freshwater anchovies, olives, seared tomatoes, hard brown cheese, and curls of bread fried with oil and onions.
Nikoros was sprawled in a padded chair, surrounded by an arc of papers and empty cups resembling the mess that had grown around Locke. His stubble looked sufficient to scrape barnacles from ship hulls, and his lids lifted over bloodshot eyes as Jean approached.
“In my dreams I sign chits and file papers,” Nikoros muttered. “Then I awake to sign real chits and file real papers. I imagine my grave marker will be carved as a writing desk. ‘Here lies Nikoros Via Lupa, wifeless and heirless, but gods how he could alphabetize!’ ”
“We’ve overworked you,” said Jean. “And you still coming down off that shit you were shoving up your nose! Hard old days. We’ve been thoughtless, Master Lazari and I. Here, take some breakfast.”
Nikoros was hesitant to do so at first, but his interest grew rapidly, and soon he and Jean were racing one another to finish the contents of the bowl.
“You’re the sinews of this whole affair,” said Jean. “It’s not the Dexas and the Epitaluses that hold things together. Not even Lazari and me. It’s been you, it is you, and it will be you, long after we’re gone.”
“Long after this disaster is past us,” said Nikoros, “and gods grant that we still have any Konseil seats at all five years from now.”
“Here, now,” said Jean. “We’re in the thick of it, no lie. You can’t see the direction of the battle because you’re in the mud and the mess with all the other poor bastards, but it has a direction. You must accept my assurances that I can see a little farther than you can.”
“The Black Iris,” said Nikoros, looking away from Jean, “this time, they’ve … they’ve got … well, they have advantages. At least that’s how it seems to me.”
“They have some,” said Jean with nod. “We have others. And we’ve come off rather well in this new game of displaced northerners, haven’t we? Six dozen fresh voters to seed wherever we need them. The Black Iris can work whatever cocksuckery they like upon us, but in the end it all comes down to names on ballots.”
“You’re being poorly served by me,” said Nikoros, almost too softly to hear.
“Nonsense.” Jean raised his voice and gave Nikoros a careful, friendly squeeze on the arm. “If you weren’t meeting our expectations, don’t you think we’d have packed you off somewhere out of the way?”
“Well, thank you, Master Callas.” Nikoros smiled, but it was a wan formality.
“Gods, it must be my week to be confessor to the heartsick and weary,” sighed Jean. “You could do with a few more hours of sleep, I think. The sort not spent jammed into a chair. Off to your chambers, and don’t let me see you again until—”
A woman with short curly black hair pounded up the stairs. She wore a traveling coat and mantle, as well as a courier’s pouch and a sheath knife.
“Sirs,” she said, “I’m sorry to come rushing back like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“This is Ven Allaine,” said Nikoros, rising. “Ven for ‘Venturesome.’ She’s one of our troubleshooters. Ven, I’m sure you know who Master Callas is.”
Jean and Allaine exchanged the quickest possible courtesies; then she continued:
“Master Via Lupa sent us out an hour before sunrise, five of us on horseback, north from the Court of Dust. We were supposed to spot Vadran swells on the road. Introduce ourselves, make our offers, get them in the bag for the Deep Roots before they even hit the city.” She pulled her leather gloves off and slapped them against her leg. “We planned to be out until midafternoon, but just after sunup we were overridden by bluecoats, lots of them, not sparing their horses.