“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean. “We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”
“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people in the world I’d want to disappoint.”
7
“NIKOROS, WHO the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere Nikoros had called the Palanta District.
“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except the actual day of an election.”
“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful. So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”
“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed, protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll have more precise figures as the election goes on.”
“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or am I wrong?”
“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your name, too.”
“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen smaller ones.”
“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”
Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros had a longstanding relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses, and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”
“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves as the Committee.”
“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.
“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening. Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”
“How many?”
“Not above a hundred and fifty.”
“Gods below,” said Locke. “I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later, though. Where did you want to hold this mess?”
“At your lodgings. Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations. I’m eager for you to see it. It’s the best place in the city, our temple for Deep Roots affairs.”
A temple it could have been, given its size. They pulled up before Josten’s just as the sun was reaching its mild zenith in a sky that was gradually graying over with clouds. Porters scrambled from the building’s shaded front entrance and took packages under Nikoros’ direction. Jean hopped out of the carriage before Locke did, and studied the structure.
It was a sprawling, gabled, three-story affair with at least nine visible chimneys and several dozen windows. A dozen carriages could have lined up before it with room to spare.
“Hell of an inn,” said Locke as his shoes hit the cobbles.
“Not just an inn,” said Nikoros. “A fine dining establishment, a complete bar, a coffeehouse. Paradise on earth for merchants and traders with party sympathies. A quarter of the city’s commerce gets hashed out here.”
The interior lived up to Nikoros’ enthusiasm. At least five dozen men and women drank and conversed at long tables amidst solid, darkly varnished wooden pillars. An entire clothier’s shop worth of hats and coats hung from nearly every surface, and waiters in black jackets and breeches bustled about with the haste of siege engineers preparing an attack. To Jean’s eye the place looked like Meraggio’s turned inside-out, with the dining and drinking made a centerpiece of business affairs rather than a concealed luxury.
“Up there,” said Nikoros, gesturing toward raised galleries with polished brass rails, “you’ll find the reserved sections. One for the biggest syndicates, the ones I write for. Another for the scribes and solicitors; they pay the house a ransom to stay close to the action. And there’s a gallery for Deep Roots business.”
Jean sensed a number of eyes upon him, and although Nikoros drew waves and nods from onlookers, it was obvious that the two Gentlemen Bastards had become objects of curiosity merely by walking in with him. Jean sighed inwardly, thinking that a back-door entrance might have been wiser, but the die was cast. If Sabetha hadn’t already known they were loose on the streets of Karthain, it was inconceivable that at least one person here wasn’t in her employ, watching for their arrival.
Behind the well-furnished bar on the far side of the room was a tall black man, thin as a hat rack, wearing a more expensive version of the waiter’s uniform under a billowing white cravat and leather apron. The instant he caught sight of Nikoros, he set down the ledger he was reading and crossed the room, dodging waiters.
“Welcome, sirs, welcome, to Josten’s Comprehensive, the Hall Inclusive!” The man bowed at the waist before Locke and Jean. “Diligence Josten, gentlemen, master of the house. You’re expected. How can I make your life easier?”
“I’d do public murder for a cup of coffee,” said Jean.
“You’ve come to the only house in Karthain with coffee worth murdering for. We have seven distinct blends, from the aromatic Syresti dry to the thick—”
“I’ll take the kind I don’t have to think about.”
“The very best kind of all.” Josten snapped his fingers, and a nearby waiter hurried off. “Now, your rooms. They’re in the west wing, second floor, a pair of joined suites, and I’ll have your things—”
“Yes, yes,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I require a moment.” He grabbed Jean and Nikoros by their lapels and dragged them into a private huddle.
“This innkeeper,” whispered Locke, “how far can we trust him, Nikoros?”
“He’s been Deep Roots since this place was three bricks and some postholes in the mud. Gods above, Lazari, he’s as likely to turn as I am.”
“What makes you think we trust you?”
“I … I—”
“Take a breath, I’m kidding.” Locke patted Nikoros on the back and smiled. “If you’re wrong, of course, we’re buggered as all hell. Josten! My dear fellow. Yes, have our junk sent to our rooms, I’m sure they’re perfect, with just the right number of walls and ceilings. I’ll count them later. You know why we’re here?”
“Why, to help us kick the Black Iris in the teeth for a change. And to enjoy your coffee.”
A waiter appeared at Jean’s side, offering a steaming mug on a brass tray. Jean took it and swallowed half of it in one gulp, shuddering with pleasure as the heat cascaded down his battle-hardened gullet.
“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s the stuff. Sweet liquid death. With just a hint of ginger.”
“Okanti beans,” said Josten. “My family once grew them on the home islands, before we came north.”
“Feeling human again?” said Locke.
“This brew could make a dead eunuch piss lightning,” said Jean. He tossed back the second half of the cup. “You want to go up and rest?”
“Gods, no,” said Locke. “Time is precious, security’s nonexistent, and our collective ass is hanging in the wind just begging a certain someone to put an arrow right between the cheeks. Josten, I’ve got to make cruel use of you, I’m afraid.”
“Name any requirement. I’ll meet it eye to eye.”
“Good man, but you’ll learn soon enough not to say that sort to thing to me until I’ve finished speaking. And then you’ll probably learn not to say nice things at all. Your waiters, porters, and the like, have you hired any new ones in the last week?”
“Five or six.”