“Too prissy? Too eastern?”
“You do realize you’ve pushed that damn thing around at least a dozen times now?”
“Just doesn’t seem right.”
“You do realize that you didn’t even ownany of these outfits until yesterday? Why are you fretting about the deeper meaning of clothes that are newer than some of the crap digesting in that meager gut of yours?”
“Because,” said Locke, “I can’t help myself, and I know I can’t help myself, and it doesn’t help, you get it?”
“I do get it,” said Jean softly. “All too well. But I can’t be of service by patting you on the back for being nervous. You’ve got to stick your chin out and call yourself ready sometime.”
“Nervous,” said Locke. “I wish I was nervous! Nervous is when armed people try to kill me. This is something else. Gods, it’s been five years. She could … I just … I don’t even …” He closed his eyes and leaned against the mirror’s frame.
“You might as well practice finishing your sentences,” said Jean. “I hear that women find it irresistible.”
“Five years,” said Locke. He looked up, and the haunted expression in the mirror seemed like a self-accusation. “I’m going to have to tell her about Calo and Galdo.”
“She may already know.”
“I doubt it,” said Locke. “She was playing with us this morning. I just don’t think … that she would have done so. I wouldn’t have, in her place.”
“Five years apart, and you imagine that the two of you match moods so closely? Did you even do that when you were together?”
“Well—”
“You and I are lucky to be aliveto even see her,” said Jean. “Remember that. As for what happened while she was gone, it was as much her decision to leave as it was ours to stay.”
“I know,” said Locke. “In my head. The message hasn’t reached my gut just yet. There seems to be a tiny man in there attacking me with feathers. Now … jewelry. I should—”
“Gods above,” said Jean, rising from his chair. “Do you think she’s going to fling herself out a window if your shoes have too many buckles?”
“Her fashion sense might have grown more extreme since we last met.”
“Quit making such a yammering twit out of yourself. Find your way to the door.”
Step by step out of the room, into the main hall, past the bar and the tables full of Nikoros’ people with their lists and plans and dull assignments. Gods, he was really on his way! His knees seemed to be made of wet cotton; his pulse was like the sound of the ocean in his ears.
New solicitors watched from the Deep Roots gallery; new bruisers studied him from the front doors; new chains gleamed around the necks of all the waiters. So many cordons of security drawn tight against every possibility, and here he and Jean were planning a social call to the heart of Sabetha’s power.
Out loud he would have been careful to say, ‘the opposition’ or ‘his counterpart,’ but in the privacy of his own thoughts there was no hiding from her.
Nikoros met them and saw them to the door. “You were right about the guards and solicitors,” he whispered. “I do feel better!”
“Uh … good, good,” said Locke, ashamed at his own distraction.
“Now that we have some security,” said Jean, immediately taking the weight of confidence and authority that Locke had let slip, “it’s time we started reaching out and handing our friends some difficulties of their own. Think on it for us, would you? Weaknesses we can exploit, fast and easy ones.”
“My pleasure,” said Nikoros. “You know, two days in, this has already been more interesting than anything that happened last time. I’ll wait up for you, shall I? I’d love to find out what sort of woman our, ah, opposition is.”
“So would we,” said Jean.
7
THE CARRIAGE ride through the wet curtains of evening fog was no help for Locke’s nerves, but as the minutes passed he mastered himself well enough, he thought, to be able to handle simple sentences and walking.
The Vel Vespala, the Evening Terrace, was one of Karthain’s more fashionable quarters, its plazas dotted with taverns, chance houses, coffee bars, and bordellos. All of these places were so many blurry amber and aquamarine lights in the mist as Locke and Jean’s carriage pulled up before the Sign of the Black Iris, the place Nikoros and his friends referred to as the Enemy Tavern.
“Well then,” said Locke. “So here we—”
“I’m not taking a quarter of an hour to get out of the carriage,” said Jean. “It’s out the door on your feet or out the window on your head. Think fast.”
Locke managed the former.
The Sign of the Black Iris was a comfortably appointed place, not as large as Josten’s Comprehensive but perhaps slightly more luxurious, the wood paneling a touch richer, the marble of the exterior facings a trifle shinier. No doubt the rivalry between the two inns kept the pockets of many Karthani craftsfolk admirably lined.
Locke’s nervous distraction abated as his old street instincts kicked to life. The porter at the door was nothing special, but the two men at the rear of the darkened foyer were interesting. They were not at ease in their fine clothes, and what a coincidence that two lean fellows with such scars and crooked noses should be passing the time together! Muscle for sure. Sabetha, too, had set alley hounds to guard her lair.
“Ahh, sirs.” Another sort of creature entirely entered the foyer to greet them. This man was silver-haired, thin as a scabbard, with a drooping black flower pinned to the right lapel of his coat. “Firstson Vordratha. I’m Mistress Gallante’s confidential secretary. You gentlemen do move at a relaxed pace. She’s been expecting the two of you for some timenow, yes, some time indeed.”
“I would point out,” said Jean, gesturing to a mechanical clock on the foyer wall, “that it’s not yet five minutes to seven.”
“Of course. I made no reflection upon the accuracy of the clock, mmmm?” The lines at the edges of Vordratha’s mouth moved up a fraction of an inch. So he was that sort of fellow, supercilious and needling, unable to resist amusing himself with lame little digs. Locke’s concentration came into even sharper focus as the urge rose to slam Vordratha’s head against the door. “Come now, she wishes to see you directly. In private.”
Locke and Jean followed him up to a hallway on the second floor. They brushed past a surprising number of men and women for a direct route to a private audience … ah, but of course, they were all studying Locke and Jean while feigning indifference. Stealing a glimpse of faces and builds and manners in case the two of them ever attempted another visit without an invitation. It was flattering, really.
At the end of the hall, Vordratha held a door open. The space beyond was dim, lit by the golden glow of small lamps on a number of tables. A private dining space, with high windows looking out into the evening fog.
A woman stood alone at the far end of the room, her long hair unbound, a cascade of dark copper falling to the middle of her back. She turned slowly, and before Locke knew what was happening he and Jean were through the door, the door fell closed with a click, and Sabetha was coming toward them down the shadowed passage between the rows of lamplight.
8
SHE WORE a velvet jacket the color of blood, a shade darker than her hair. Her outfit had the dash of a riding habit, narrowing to emphasize her slender waist, and beneath the long dark skirt she wore seasoned leather boots. A scarf, white as dove’s feathers, was wrapped tightly around her neck. Other than a single lapel iris matching that of Vordratha, she had no ornaments but contrast—the harmony of skin, scarf, hair, and coat. She’d made an artist’s palette of herself, emphasizing a beauty that had bloomed in the five years they’d been apart.
Locke stepped out in front of Jean and removed his leather gloves with shaking hands. Five years of dreaming and planning for this moment deserted him in an instant, leaving him with nothing but a half-wit’s hypnotized stare and the air in his throat.
“H-hello,” he said.