“A special formulation, just for you,” she whispered. She continued to cling to him, digging her hands into his shoulders, and for one more moment Locke was at peace with the entire world.
The numbness began at the edge of his tongue, and in a few seconds it spread, tingling, around his mouth and up to the tip of his nose.
“No,” he whispered, hit as hard by shock as he was by whatever he’d just swallowed. He tried to pull away, but she was too strong for him; his limbs were already taking on a curious foggy dissociation. “No, no … Jnnnn … Jnnnn!”
“Shhhhhh,” Sabetha whispered, no longer shuddering, no longer breathless with shared anticipation. “A special formulation. Throat and voice go first. Just relax. Jean can’t hear you.”
“Whhhh … whhhhy?”
“Forgive me,” she said. She cradled him as his legs turned to jelly. She knelt slowly, bringing him down with her, laying him across her knees. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d really do it or not. If it’s any consolation, your story about Tal Verrar was the convincer. You’re not as good as I am, Locke, but you’re too damn good to let you run around fighting fairly. I have to beat you, for both our sakes.”
“Nnngh—”
“Don’t talk. Just listen; you don’t have much time left. There’s a second reason. I can see now how ill you’ve been, and how you’ll have to push yourself to keep up with me. I can’t let you do it, Locke. I can’t watch you do it. You’ll killyourself trying to best me, and you can’t ask me to permit that. Not when I could stop it. I once cared for you a great deal. I care for you now. Remember that.”
She kissed him gently on the forehead, and he barely felt it.
“Remember that, and forgive me.”
9
“NNNNGH,” SAID Locke, coming up from layers of blackness that seemed draped over him like burial shrouds. “Nnngh—Sab … no, please!”
He gasped, with the disbelieving gratitude of someone finally fighting back to wakefulness after an interminable nightmare of suffocation. He smelled his own sweat, and the familiar odors of wet wood and fresh lake air.
His eyes slid grudgingly open. He was lying on his back in yet another ship’s great cabin, this one more luxuriously appointed than any he’d ever seen, even Zamira Drakasha’s. Soft orange alchemical globes cast the fixtures and finery in an inviting light. Gulls cried somewhere nearby, and the world creaked gently around him.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” muttered Locke, reveling in the full recovery of his powers of speech. He sat up, and instantly became aware of the fierce gnawing hunger in his belly. “Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid—”
“You can’t blame yourself,” said Jean.
Locke turned to see him sitting against the opposite wall on a hanging bed furnished with embroidered sheets. Jean had fresh bruises on his bare forearms and around his eyes.
“Gods,” said Locke. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Remember how she joked about twenty armed men in the next room?” said Jean with a resigned sigh. He set down the book he’d been reading. “There were twenty armed men in the next room.”
“Fuck me sideways with hot peppers and a pinch of salt,” said Locke. “How long have I been out?”
“Half a day.”
“Where are we?”
“On the Amathel, headed west. Bound for the sea.”
“Are you kidding?”
Jean pointed at something behind Locke, and Locke turned. The rear windows of the cabin, which were open to let in a view of a gray morning over blue water, were girded with a network of thick iron bars on their outer surface. The gaps in the bars were too small for even Locke to contemplate wiggling through.
“She’s put us on quite a luxurious prison ship,” said Jean. “We’re the only passengers. And we’re chartered for a nice, slow voyage out to sea and around the continent.”
“Are you fucking kidding?”
“If all goes as she planned, we’ll get back to Karthain a week or two after all the votes have been counted.”
INTERSECT (II)
TINDER
I have to tell you, we’re not terribly impressed with your boys so far.
We thought they did very well, up to their meeting with your exemplar.
It’s that meeting with our exemplar that inspires a certain lack of foreboding on our part.
They’ll be back soon enough.
They’re headed out to sea in irons.
You know who else thought lightly of them, once? The Falconer.
Very amusing.
Interesting things are going to be happening around Lamora, my friend. Just keep your attention focused very closely on him at all times.
INTERLUDE
THE MONCRAINE COMPANY
1
“HE’S BEEN ARRESTED for punching a nobleman?” said Locke.
“Hauled off in irons,” said Jenora.
“Of all the gods-damned … how bad is that here? They’re not going to hang him, are they?”
“Dungeon for a year and a day,” said Alondo. “Then he loses the offending hand.”
“I suppose Moncraine’s lucky he didn’t kick the fellow,” said Jean.
“Certainly, he’s lucky,” said Sylvanus, looking up from his bottle. “He’s in the one place in the city where his creditors can’t skin his balls and salt them! They should let us keep the hand when they chop it off … embalm it with tar … make a damn fine prop, especially when I play a thaumata … thaumur … magic person.”
“How do we get him back?” said Sabetha.
“Back?” said a woman who appeared out of the shadows behind Alondo and Jenora. Approaching middle age, she was well muscled and stout, with mahogany skin and hair gray as wood ash. “Why would anyone want Jasmer Moncraine back, having so easily gotten rid of him? And why are there strangers in my inn-yard?”
“I imagine they’re called customers, Auntie,” said Jenora. “You do remember when they used to come voluntarily?”
“Yes, I’m an attentive student of ancient history,” said the older woman. “Alizana Gloriano, proprietor and semiprofessional martyr, at your service. Are you really looking for Jasmer Moncraine?”
“He’s our employer,” said Sabetha. “Or at least he’s meant to be.”
“My gods above,” said Mistress Gloriano, putting her arms around the shoulders of Alondo and Jenora. “The Camorri. They’re real!”
“We’re as shocked as you, Auntie,” said Jenora.
“It’s pleasant to be thought of as such freakish wonders,” said Locke, “but we need to reach Moncraine.”
“Well then,” said Mistress Gloriano, “all you need to do is wait for his conviction, the day after tomorrow. Then wait another year and a day, and then stand outside the Weeping Tower. He’ll be the one coming out with his right hand missing.”
“What about a solicitor?”
“We don’t exactly retain one,” said Alondo.
“Tell us what we cando, then,” said Locke. “Can we see him?”
“Oh yes, dear boy,” said Sylvanus. “Enquire after the nearest gentleman or lady of high birth and smash ’em across the teeth. You could end up sharing Jasmer’s cell.”
“Damn it,” said Locke. “No offense, but the four of you sound like you’d just as soon slit Moncraine’s throat as give him the time of day .… Isthere a Moncraine Company at all? Are you putting on a play this summer? Our situation requires that we be employed, so for Perelandro’s sake be clear.”
“We’re still a company,” said Jenora, “though we’ve had some defections. Alondo, Sylvanus, and Jasmer are the remaining full players. One or two more might come back if Jasmer could show his face in public.”