“Yeah,” said Locke. “Hells. Can we even talkto Moncraine?”
“There I can offer some cheer,” said Salvard. “Anyone with a blood or trade connection to a prisoner can have one audience before a trial. Claim it whenever you like, just don’t try to give him anything. You’ll share his sentence if you’re caught.”
“An audience,” said Locke. “Good. Uh … where?”
“At the heart of Espara, atop the Legion Steps, look for the black stone tower with the moat and the hundred terribly serious guards. Can’t miss it, even in the rain.”
3
A THOUSAND dead soldiers loomed out of the mist beneath the gathering night as Locke and Sabetha climbed the heights of the Legion Steps.
The marble marchers, cracked and weathered from their vigil of six hundred years, wore the armor of Therin Throne legionnaires. Locke recognized the costume from paintings and manuscripts he’d seen in Camorr. He even recalled a bit of their story—that some emperor or another, dissatisfied with Espara’s lack of prominent Elderglass monuments, had commissioned a work of human art to grace the center of the city.
Each statue was said to be a likeness of an actual soldier from a then-living legion, and it was part of their melancholy fascination that they were not posed in martial triumph, but with heads down and shields slung, as they might have been seen trudging along the roads that had once knit the fallen empire together. Now they marched in place, rank on rank forever, in columns evenly spread across the two-hundred-yard arc of the stairs.
“We’ve got to find his accuser and arrange to have him forgiven,” said Locke.
“It’s the only chance we seem to have left,” said Sabetha.
“Gods, I wish we had more money,” said Locke. “Going visiting in society on scraps of a pittance won’t be easy.”
“Tempted to go back on your plan to avoid thieving?”
“Yes,” said Locke. “I won’t do it, though.”
“Just so long as you’re tempted,” she said, smiling.
“Honesty doesn’t suit any of us,” said Locke.
“I know. Isn’t it strange? I keep asking myself how people can stand to livelike this.”
What Salvard had called a “moat” around the tower of dark stone was actually more of a gaping jagged-sided pit, at least thirty feet deep, into which drainage channels were directing streams of gray water. The only way across was a covered, elevated bridge with a well-lit guardhouse for a mouth. As Locke and Sabetha approached, a quartet of guards fanned out across the entrance.
Locke picked up immediately on the importance of what these guards weren’t carrying. They had no batons, no polearms. Those were weapons that could be used gently if the wielder wished. These guards carried only swords, which had a more straightforward employment.
“Stand fast,” said a weathered woman, just shy of middle age, her neck and face thick with scars. All the guards had the look of hard service. The Weeping Tower was no joke, Locke realized. Trying to bribe or suborn one of these old hounds would be suicide. “Name your business.”
“Good evening,” said Sabetha, instantly adopting a poise that was assertive but not imperious. Locke had seen her use it before. “We’re here to speak with Jasmer Moncraine.”
“Moncraine’s not going to be entertaining for a long time,” said the guard. “What does a Camorri have to say to him?”
“We’re members of the Moncraine Company, and we need to make business arrangements now that he’s indisposed. Our solicitor advised us that we’re entitled to one audience before his trial.”
Gods, as far as Locke was concerned, watching Sabetha handle people was as good as watching any other girl in the world take off her clothes. The way she chose her words—“ entitled,” not something meeker like “ allowed.” And the specific mention of oneaudience—a signal to the guard that the rules had been researched, would be obeyed. Sabetha had asserted all their wants while giving the firmest support to the notion that she and Locke were completely enfolded in the power of the law and these guards that served it.
It turned out the woman was quite pleased to let them in. Not, of course, without an embarrassing full-body search, or their marks on parchment, or an inventory of their purses, or a forty-minute wait. But that was all for the best, Locke thought. Only prisoners were ever granted easy passage into a prison.
4
FOR THE second time that day Locke and Sabetha found themselves in a chamber cut in half by a physical barrier, but now it was bars of black iron. The audience room of the Weeping Tower had smooth stone walls and a rough stone floor, with no windows, no decorations, no furniture. The guards locked the door behind them and remained at attention in front of it.
They were made to wait another few minutes before the door on the opposite side of the room slid open. Two more guards brought in a man, manacled at hands and feet, and clipped a chain to a bolt in the floor. They attached this to the prisoner’s leg irons, giving him a range of movement that ended about two feet from the iron bars. The prisoner’s guards withdrew to a position mirroring that of the ones on Locke and Sabetha’s side of the room.
The man in chains was tall, with skin like polished boot leather and hair scraped down to a gray shadow. He was heavyset but not ponderous. The weight of his years and appetites seemed to have spread evenly, settled in all his joints and crevices, and there was still a hint of dangerous vitality to him. His eyes were wide and bright against the darkness of his face, and he fixed them hard on Locke and Sabetha as though blinking were somehow beneath his interest.
“An opportunity to walk down two flights of stairs and be chained up again,” he said. “Hooray. Who the hell are you?”
“Your new actors,” said Locke. “Your very surprisednew actors.”
“Ahhhhhhh.” Moncraine’s seamed jowls moved as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “Weren’t there supposed to be five of you?”
“Weren’t you supposed to be at liberty?” said Sabetha. “The other three are trying to hold your troupe together at Gloriano’s.”
“Too bad you didn’t come sooner,” said Moncraine. “I’m afraid there’s nothing to look forward to but packing for your return. Tell your master I appreciate the gesture.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Locke. “We were sent here to go on stage. We were sent here to learn from you!”
“You want a lesson, boy? If you find yourself being born, climb back in as quick as you can, because life’s a bottomless feast of shit.”
“We can get you out of here,” said Sabetha.
“If you cooperate,” said Locke.
“Oh, you can spring me, can you?” Moncraine knelt and ran one manacled hand across the floor. “You have an army of about a thousand men hidden outside the city? Let me know when they’re storming the tower, so I can be sure to have my breeches on.”
“You know our master,” said Locke, lowering his voice. “You can surely guess the nature of his students.”
“I knewyour master,” said Moncraine. “Years ago. And I thought he was sending me actors. Is that what you are? Is that where the gods have reached down and touched your little Camorri souls, eh? Given you the gift of silver tongues?”
“We can act,” said Sabetha.
“Can you? But are you lions?There’s no room for any but lionsin my company!” He turned his head to the guards at his door. “Lions, aren’t we boys?
“Only if you don’t lower your fucking voice,” said one of them.
“You see? Lions! Can you roar, children?”
“On stage and off,” said Sabetha coolly.
“Hmmm. That’s fascinating, because from where I’m sitting, you look about what, sixteen? Seventeen? You’ve certainly never been wet for anything but dreams in the night, have you? Well, you might pass onstage, love … let your hair down and fly your tits like flags—you could certainly keep the groundlings awake. But you,” he said, turning to Locke. “Who are you fooling? Small-boned sparrow of a lad. Got fig seeds in your sack where men should have the full fruit, eh? Do you even shave? What the hell do you mean by coming in here and trying to shove good cheer up my ass?”