“Of course I want to see her again!” said Locke. “I alwaysmeant to find her. I meant to do it in Camorr; I meant to do it after we’d made a big score in Tal Verrar. I just— You know how it’s all gone. She’s not going to be impressed.”
“Maybe she wantsto see you,” said Jean. “Maybe she leapt at the chance when the Bondsmagi approached her. Maybe she’d already tried to hunt us down.”
“Gods, what if she did? I wonder what she made of the mess we left behind in Camorr. I just can’t believe … working against her. Those bastards!”
“Hey, we’re just supposed to fix an election,” said Jean. “Nobody’s going to hurt her, least of all us.”
“I hope,” said Locke, brightening. “I hope … damn, I have no idea what to hope.” He spent a few minutes nibbling at his food in a nervous daze, while Jean sipped his warm red plonk.
“I do know this,” Locke said at last. “On the business side of things, we’re already in the shit.”
“Up to our elbows,” said Jean.
“Given a choice, I would have grudged her a ten-minute head start, let alone a few days.”
“Makes me think back to when Chains used to play you two off one another,” said Jean. “All those arguments … all those stalemates. Then more arguments.”
“Don’t think I don’t remember.” Locke tapped a piece of biscuit distractedly against the table. “Well, hell. It’s been five years. Maybe she’s learned to lose gracefully. Maybe she’s out of practice.”
“Maybe trained monkeys will climb out of my ass and pour me a glass of Austershalin brandy,” said Jean.
2
DAWN OVER the Amathel, the next morning. A hazy golden-orange ribbon rose from the eastern horizon, and the calm dark waters mirrored the cobalt sky. A dozen fishing boats were moving past the Sky-Reacherin a swarm, their triangular white wakes giving the small craft the appearance of arrowheads passing in dreamlike slow motion. Karthain itself was coming up to larboard, not half a mile away.
From the quarterdeck, Jean could see the clean white terraces of the city, bulwarked with thick rows of olive and cypress and witchwood trees, misted with a silver morning fog that gave him an unexpected pang for Camorr. A blocky stone lighthouse dominated the city’s waterfront, though at the moment its great golden lanterns were banked down so that their glow was no more than a warm aura crowning the tower.
Locke leaned against the taffrail, staring at the approaching city, eating cold beef and hard white cheese he’d piled awkwardly into his right hand. Locke had paced the great cabin most of the night, unable or unwilling to sleep, settling into his hammock only to rest his unsteady legs.
“How do you feel?” Patience, wrapped in a long coat and shawl, chose not to appear out of thin air, but approached them on foot.
“Ill-used,” said Locke.
“At least you’re alive to feel that way.”
“No need to drop hints. You’ll get your command performance out of us, never worry about that.”
“I wasn’t worried,” she said sweetly. “Here comes our dock detail.”
“Dock detail?” Jean glanced past Patience and saw a long, low double-banked boat rowed by twenty people approaching behind the last of the fishing boats.
“To bring the Sky-Reacherin,” said Patience, “and mind her lines and sails and other tedious articles.”
“Not in the mood to wiggle your fingers and square everything away?” said Locke.
“One of the few things that we agree upon, exceptionalists and conservatives alike, is that our arts don’t exist for the sake of swabbing decks.”
The dock detail came aboard at the ship’s waist, a very ordinary-looking pack of sailors. Patience beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow her as two of the newcomers took the wheel.
“I do assume you’re carrying your hatchets, Jean? And all of the documents I gave you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you shouldn’t mind going ashore immediately.”
She led them to the Sky-Reacher’slarboard waist, where Jean could see four sailors still waiting in the boat. It was an easy trip down the boarding net, just seven or eight feet. Even Locke made it without mishap, and then Patience, who evidently required a hoist only when gravity wasn’t on her side.
“Some of your people are waiting on the pier,” she said as she settled onto a rowing bench. “They’re all sensible of the urgency of the situation.”
“Our people?” said Locke.
“As of now, they’re entirely yourpeople. The arrangement of their affairs is in your hands.”
“And they’ll just do as we say? To what extent?”
“To a reasonableextent, Locke. Nobody will fling themselves into the lake at your whim, but you two are now the de facto heads of the Deep Roots party’s election apparatus. Functionaries will take your orders. Candidates will kiss your boots.”
The sailors pushed them away from the Sky-Reacherand pulled for the lantern-lit waterfront.
“This is the Ponta Corbessa,” said Patience, gesturing ahead. “The city wharf. I take it neither of you knows much about this place?”
“Our former plan was to avoid Karthain, uh, forever,” said Jean.
“Your new associates will acquaint you with everything. Give it a few days and you’ll be very comfortable, I’m sure.”
“Hrm,” said Locke.
“Speaking of comfort, there is one last thing I should mention.”
“And that is?” said Locke.
“You will of course be free to communicate with Sabetha in whatever fashion she allows, but collusion will not be acceptable. You are opponents. You will oppose and be opposed, without quarter. We’re paying you to see a contest. Disappoint us in that regard and I can assure you, not getting paid will be the least of your worries.”
“Give the threats a rest,” said Locke. “You’ll get your gods-damned contest.”
The longboat drew up against a stone quay. Jean clambered out of the boat and heaved Locke up after him, then grudgingly offered his arm to Patience. She took it with a nod.
They were in the shadow of the lighthouse now, on a stretch of cobbled waterfront backed by warehouses and shuttered shops. A sparse forest of masts rose behind the buildings—probably some sort of lagoon, Jean thought, where ships could rest in safety. The area was strangely deserted, save for a small group of people standing beside a carriage.
“Patience, said Jean, “what should we— Ah, hell!”
Patience had vanished. The sailors in the longboat pushed off without a word and headed back toward the Sky-Reacher.
“Bitch knows how to make an exit,” said Locke. He popped the last of his meat and cheese into his mouth and wiped his hands on his tunic.
“Excuse me!” A heavyset young man in a gray brocade coat broke from the group at the carriage. “You must be Masters Callas and Lazari!”
“We must,” said Jean, flashing a friendly smile. “Pray give us a moment.”
“Oh,” said the man, who possessed the true Karthani accent, which was something like the speech of a Lashani after a few strong drinks. “Of course.”
“Now,” said Jean quietly, turning to Locke, “who are we?”
“A pair of rats about to stick their noses into a big fucking trap.”
“Characters, you git. Lazari and Callas. We should settle the particulars before we start talking to people.”
“Ah, right.” Locke scratched his chin. “We’ve got no time to practice Karthani accents, so to hell with hiding that we’re from out of town.”
“Less work suits me,” said Jean.
“Good. Then we need to decide who’s the iron fist and who’s the velvet glove.”
“Sounds like something you should be hiring a couple of strumpets to help you with.”
“I’d hit you if I thought it would do any good, Jean. You know what I mean.”
“Right. Let’s be obvious. Me brute, you weasel.”
“Agreed. You brute, me charming mastermind. But there’s no sense in setting things too taut before we even know who we’re dealing with. Be a brute that plays nice until provoked.”