“I, well, let me think.” Nikoros rubbed his eyes and muttered to himself. “There’s a foreclosed chandlery that doesn’t have a new tenant, about three blocks from the Sign of the Black Iris. What should I do with it?”
“Just get me the place and I’ll do the work,” said Locke. “I’m going to repeat my stunt at the Enemy Tavern, smoke it up with harmless alchemy, only this time it’s going to last hours and it’s going to hit ’em at the worst possible time. I’ll decide when that is, but I need my fire-oil and powders stored nearby. This chandlery sounds perfect.”
“As you wish, of course.”
“And Nikoros,” said Locke, “this is the deepest, darkest sort of secret. Don’t write any notes or take any minutes on it. Keep this between you and me and the gods. Absolutely nobody else. Understood?”
“Perfectly, Master Lazari.”
“Good. Off on your other business, now, and send Dexa over to me as you go.”
“Master Lazari,” she said, waving her cigar at him. “You look busy. Can’t say I disapprove. What did you want to see me about?”
“What we’re going to discuss must remain absolutely confidential,” whispered Locke, leaning in so close he was immersed in tendrils of her smoke. “You know the Isas Mellia better than anyone. I need you to find me a shack, or a cellar, a bolt-hole of just about any sort, where I can store a certain quantity of …”
9
AN HOUR before midnight the rain flashed down like silver harpstrings against the darkness. A lean man and a burly man stood beneath a snuffed lantern at the edge of the Mara Karthani. They watched the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and shivered under their oilcloaks.
“There she is,” said Locke.
A heavy dark shape, sensibly dressed like themselves, emerged from the tradesfolk entrance and walked away from them, north, in the direction of the city streets.
“And if this is a trap?” said Jean.
“I took a precaution.” Locke knelt to lift a light wooden crate onto his shoulders. Jean picked up another. “There should be a carriage running one green alchemical lamp about a block north of the manse. Two of our drivers and two of our guards watching for trouble. If we come running, they’ll snatch us up and get us home.”
“Good thought,” said Jean. “Assuming we can run. I hope this is the last risky stupidity we dive into before this mess is over. I’m not sure we can get much less cautious than this.”
“May the Crooked Warden bless us for keeping Him entertained,” said Locke. “Let’s go. What kind of house-breakers would we be if we didn’t keep our appointment?”
10
TWO MORE nights and the weather moderated. The sky took back its rain, and the soft brisk wind off the Amathel felt like the kiss of cool silk. Milky moonlight spilled down on the Vel Vespala as Jean Tannen approached the Sign of the Black Iris, calmly and openly.
The foyer guards, not in the market for fresh concussions, actually held the inner doors open for him. Then came Vordratha.
“One of us must be dreaming,” he said, halting Jean three paces into the lobby. “And I’m quite certain I’m awake, so I suggest you sleepwalk your silly ass back to someplace they don’t mind your smell.”
“I’m here as an ambassador,” said Jean. “Touching on a personal matter of Mistress Gallante’s. Of course I don’t have an appointment, but she’ll want to see me anyway.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Vordratha, “you’re free to kneel and kiss one of my boots, in which case I might possibly consider relaying your petition.”
“Friend Vordratha,” said Jean with a smile, “in your capacity as Verena’s majordomo and all-around mirthless damp prick, you deserve congratulations. In your capacity as any sort of meaningful opposition to my fists, you’re half a second of easy work.”
“You’re a crude bastard, Callas.”
“And you’re still favoring lamentably tight breeches.” Jean feigned a yawn. “I’ll take the same two hostages my colleague did. I invite you to ponder the difference in our sizes and proportional strength of grip.”
Vordratha showed Jean to the now-familiar private dining hall, warned him that the wait might be lengthy, and slammed the door behind him.
Time passed, and Jean paced quietly, alert for trouble. He estimated it was a quarter of an hour before the door opened again and Sabetha came in.
She was dressed mostly in black, black tunic and breeches under a heavy mantled black coat with silver buttons and chasings. Her hair was loose and wind-whipped, her white scarf hanging in folds around her neck, her boots covered in fresh mud.
Not for the first time, Jean felt a strange sense of displacement as his memories of Sabetha tangled with the woman before his eyes. It was like looking at a reverse ghost, a reality somehow less tangible than the recollections five years gone. He’d lived those five years so gradually, but to his eyes she’d received them all at once, and in studying the new lines time had sketched for her he felt the faint tug of his own passing years, like a weight in his heart. How much older did he look to her?
He took a deep breath, banishing the broody thought. While Jean was often bemused by the philosophical notions that made free with his heart and head, long hours of tutelage in arms had also given him the trick of shoving such notions aside, cubbyholing them for contemplation once he’d survived his immediate responsibilities.
Sabetha pressed herself back against the door, closing it, and folded her arms.
“If this continues,” she said, “Vordratha might become the first man in the history of the world to have himself made into a eunuch for reasons of self-defense.”
“In fairness,” said Jean, “I can’t imagine he’s ever found much use for the blighted things.”
“He’s a devoted father of seven.”
“You’re joking!”
“I was as surprised as you. Seems he’s equally dedicated to his children and his career as a professional asshole. Please don’t actually hurt him again.”
“My oath to the Crooked Warden,” said Jean. He pulled an envelope from within his coat. “Now, to why I came. This— Well, I don’t want to speak for him. But you ought to know it’s taken him a few nights to finish this. Much lost sleep and many false starts.”
“As it was in the beginning, I suppose.” She took the envelope with a hand that shook just enough for Jean to notice, then slipped it into her coat. “And … is that it, then?”
Had the question sounded tired, Jean would have taken it for a dismissal, but Sabetha sounded wistful, almost hurt. He cleared his throat.
“Diplomacy and curiosity don’t always mix,” he said.
“We’re not strangers, Jean.”
Jean slipped off his optics and made a show of polishing them against a coat sleeve while he considered his words.
“All I can see,” he said at last, “is two people I care for being divided and ruled by the words of a stranger. This bullshit of Patience’s! I’m sorry. I didn’t come to lecture you. But surely you can—”
“You delivered his letter,” said Sabetha. “Now you’re inquiring into his business. Is Jean even here right now? Jean I could speak to, but Locke’s … legate to my court, that man’s business is dispensed with and the door is open.”
“Again, I’m sorry.” Jean realized that their physical situation had the look and feel of a standoff; so long as they both remained on their feet informality and relaxation would be difficult to kindle. He eased himself into a chair. “You know that I worry about him. I worry about the pair of you. And I regret that I haven’t, ah, exactly paid you a social call since our return. When you first invited us here, I was a little cold.”
“You were preoccupied.”
“That’s kind of you to suggest.”
“And then I dropped twenty hirelings on your head and packed you off to sea.” Sabetha sat down and crossed her legs. “It couldn’t have helped. I hope you don’t think I was pleased you broke your nose.”
“You provided us with a comfortable ship,” said Jean. “Leaving it in the middle of the night was our decision. I was annoyed at the time, but I know it was just business.”