Locke and Sabetha alone had come on this errand, after washing the smell of the road from their more accessible parts and swapping their filthy caravan clothes for less offensive outfits. Salvard’s office was perched on the edge of the increasing desolation that led to Solace Hill, a way station between the couth and uncouth districts of the city.
The comfortless wooden furniture and empty walls inside seemed, to Locke’s eye, to indicate a certain desire to avoid giving rowdy clientele any objects for vandalism. A thin man with slicked-back hair sat behind a little podium, and near the stairs on the far side of the room lounged an uncommonly large woman. Her quilted black tunic had obvious armor panels behind the facing.
“Evening,” said the thin man. “Appointment?”
“Do we really need one?” said Sabetha. “We’re on urgent business.”
“Two coppins consultation fee,” said the thin man, “plus one for expedited consideration.”
“We’re just in from Camorr,” said Locke. “We haven’t changed our money yet.”
“Camorri barons accepted,” said the thin man. “One for one basis, plus one for changing fee.”
Locke shook four copper coins out of his purse. The clerk inked a quill and began scrawling on a card.
“Names?”
“Verena Gallante,” said Sabetha, “and Lucaza de Barra.”
“Camorri subjects?”
“Yes.”
The clerk set down his quill, slid open a hatch in the wall behind him, placed the card within this compartment, and turned a hand crank. A miniature dumbwaiter went up, and a minute later the muffled jingling of a bell could be heard from within the shaft.
“Weapons not allowed upstairs,” said the clerk, rapping his knuckles on the surface of his podium. “Cheerfully guarded here. Arms out for search.”
The big woman gave them both a thorough pat-down. A garrote or a fruit-paring blade might have slipped through, but Etienne Delancarre Domingo Salvard clearly had strong feelings about allowing anything more conveniently deadly into his presence.
“They’re clean,” said the woman, with a half-smile. “Of weapons, that is.”
“Proceed,” said the clerk, pointing to the stairs. “Pleasant consultation.”
Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office, ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.
“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse. His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk, framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage, perhaps?”
“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”
“Supply the details.”
“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.
“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”
“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.
“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”
“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.
“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”
“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”
“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”
“Our friend is … next to penniless.”
“Yet obviously he has allies,” said Salvard warmly, extending his arms toward Locke and Sabetha, “who can be relied upon to take up his interests. My fee schedules are quite elastic. Anything else?”
“He’s the owner and manager of a theatrical troupe.”
Salvard lost his smile. He took a long pull on his left-hand pipe, set it down, then smoked its counterpart. He alternated pipes several times, staring at Locke and Sabetha. Finally, he said, “So, we’re talking about Jasmer Moncraine, then?”
“You know him?” said Locke.
“I should have guessed his identity sooner from the particulars, save for the fact that you genuinely seemed to want him back. That put me off the true scent. What’s your interest in his cause?”
“We’re actors, engaged by him for the summer,” said Sabetha. “We’ve only just arrived in the city.”
“My condolences. I have one piece of relevant advice.”
“Anything,” said Sabetha.
“Many men in low trades adapt to the loss of a hand and wear hooks. In Jasmer’s case, his vanity will never allow it. If you’re still in Espara next summer as his stump heals, get him a simple leather cap for it, and—”
“We need him back now,” said Sabetha. “We need him out of custody”.”
“Well, you won’t get him, not through the workings of anyone in my profession. Now, now, my dear, it pains me to see that look on your face as much as it pains me to refuse work, so let me explain. My happy fortune is your hard luck. You must have heard of Amilio Basanti.”
“Actually, no,” said Locke.
“You truly are fresh off the wagon, aren’t you? Basanti is the impresario of the city’s other major company of actors, the stable and successful one. In a fortnight, Demoiselle Amilyn Basanti, his youngest sister, will become Mistress Amilyn Salvard.”
“Oh,” said Sabetha.
“If I were to become an advocate for the very rival my future brother-by-bonding loathes so famously, well, surely you can see that the effect upon my marital relations could only be … chilling.”
“Can you recommend someone who wouldn’t be at cross-purposes?” said Locke.
“There are five other solicitors-at-law in Espara,” said Salvard, “and none of them will touch the case. You must understand, if I weren’t taking a bride I’d argue it for pleasure. I enjoyannoying magistrates, and I handle even the lowest and most difficult clients. No offense. My peers, however, prefer to win their cases, and this one cannot be won.”
“But those excuses you just came up with—”
“Could mitigatethe situation, perhaps. Surely you understand that those of elevated blood don’t keep laws on the books that would require them to take abuse from their inferiors. I wouldn’t cite law; I’d beg for mercy! I’d spin yarns about destitute friends and children. But since I’m not going to do those things, Moncraine’s trial will last about as long as this conversation.”
“Do we have any other options?” said Locke.
“Apply to Basanti’s troupe,” said Salvard gently. “At the Columbine’s Petal, up in Grayside. That’s where they drink. I could mention you to Amilyn. They’d find work for you, even if it’s just carrying spears. Don’t tie yourselves to Moncraine.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Sabetha, “but if we’d wanted to be part of the scenery we could have stayed at home. In Moncraine’s company we can have our pick of roles. In a settled troupe we’ll be at the end of a long line.”
Salvard again smoked his pipes in alternating fashion, then rubbed his eyes. “I suppose I can’t fault ambition, even if it’s bound to end in tears. But there’s no way Moncraine’s slipping the hook, children. Not unless one of two miracles occurs.”
“Miracles,” said Locke. “We’re in the market for those. What are they?”
“First, Countess Antonia could issue a pardon. She can do anything she pleases. But she won’t save him. Moncraine’s far from her good graces. Anyway, she’s more interested in the advice of her wine steward than her privy council these days.”
“What else?” said Locke.
“The noble that Moncraine attacked could grant a personal pardon by declining to make a complaint before a magistrate. The case would be dismissed. However, I’m sure you can imagine how keen bluebloods are to show weakness in front of their peers.”