Red Seas Under Red Skies

1

THE GAME WAS CAROUSEL HAZARD, the stakes were roughly half of all the wealth they commanded in the entire world, and the plain truth was that Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen were getting beaten like a pair of dusty carpets.

"Last offering for the fifth hand," said the velvet-coated attendant from his podium on the other side of the circular table. "Do the gentlemen choose to receive new cards?"

"No, no—the gentlemen choose to confer," said Locke, leaning to his left to place his mouth close to Jean's ear. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "What's your hand look like?"

"A parched desert," Jean murmured, casually moving his right hand up to cover his mouth. "How's yours?"

"A wasteland of bitter frustration."

"Shit."

"Have we been neglecting our prayers this week? Did one of us fart in a temple or something?"

"I thought the expectation of losing was all part of the plan."

"It is. I just expected we'd be able to put up a better fight than this."

The attendant coughed demurely into his left hand, the card-table equivalent of slapping Locke and Jean across the backs of their heads. Locke leaned away from Jean, tapped his cards lightly against the lacquered surface of the table, and grinned the best knew-what-he-was-doing sort of grin he could conjure from his facial arsenal. He sighed inwardly, glancing at the sizable pile of wooden markers that was about to make the short journey from the center of the table to his opponents' stacks.

"We are of course prepared," he said, "to meet our fate with heroic stoicism, worthy of mention by historians and poets."

The dealer nodded. "Ladies and gentlemen both decline last offering. House calls for final hands."

There was a flurry of shuffling and discarding as the four players formed their final hands and set them, facedown, on the table before them.

"Very well," said the attendant. "Turn and reveal."

The sixty or seventy of Tal Verrar's wealthiest idlers who had crowded the room behind them to watch every turn of Locke and Jean's unfolding humiliation now leaned forward as one, eager to see how embarrassed they would be this time.

2

TAL VERRAR, the Rose of the Gods, at the westernmost edge of what the Therin people call the civilized world.

If you could stand in thin air a thousand yards above Tal Verrar's tallest towers, or float in lazy circles there like the nations of gulls that infest the city's crevices and rooftops, you could see how its vast dark islands have given this place its ancient nickname. They seem to whirl outward from the city's heart, a series of crescents steadily increasing in size, like the stylized petals of a rose in an artist's mosaic.

They are not natural, in the sense that the mainland looming a few miles to the northeast is natural. The mainland cracks before wind and weather, showing its age. The islands of Tal Verrar are unweathered, possibly unweatherable—they are the black glass of the Eldren, unimaginable quantities of it, endlessly tiered and shot through with passages, glazed with layers of stone and dirt from which a city of men and women springs.

This Rose of the Gods is surrounded by an artificial reef, a broken circle three miles in diameter, shadows under shadowed waves. Against this hidden wall the restless Sea of Brass is gentled for the passage of vessels flying the banners of a hundred kingdoms and dominions. Their masts and yards rise in a forest, white with furled sails, far beneath your feet.

If you could turn your eye to the city's western island, you would see that its interior surfaces are sheer black walls, plunging hundreds of feet to the softly lapping harbor waves, where a network of wooden docks clings to the base of the cliffs. The seaward side of the island, however, is tiered along its entire length. Six wide, flat ledges sit one atop the other with smooth fifty-foot escarpments backing all but the highest.

The southernmost district of this island is called the Golden Steps—its six levels are thick with alehouses, dicing dens, private clubs, brothels, and fighting pits. The Golden Steps are heralded as the gambling capital of the Therin city-states, a place where men and women may lose money on anything from the mildest vices to the wickedest felonies. The authorities of Tal Verrar, in a magnanimous gesture of hospitality, have decreed that no foreigner upon the Golden Steps may be impressed into slavery. As a result, there are few places west of Camorr where it is safer for strangers to drink their brains out and fall asleep in the gutters and gardens.

There is rigid stratification on the Golden Steps; with each successively higher tier, the quality of the establishments rises, as do the size, number, and vehemence of the guards at the doors. Crowning the Golden Steps are a dozen baroque mansions of old stone and witchwood, embedded in the wet green luxury of manicured gardens and miniature forests.

These are the "chance houses of quality" — exclusive clubs where men and women of funds may gamble in the style to which their letters of credit entitle them. These houses have been informal centers of power for centuries, where nobles, bureaucrats, merchants, ships' captains, legates, and spies gather to wager fortunes, both personal and political.

Every possible amenity is contained within these houses. Notable visitors board carriage-boxes at exclusive docks at the base of the inner harbor cliffs, and are hauled up by gleaming brass water engines, thereby avoiding the narrow, twisting, crowd-choked ramps leading up the five lower Steps on their seaward face. There is even a public dueling green—a broad expanse of well-kept grass lying dead-center on the top tier, so that cooler heads need not be given any chance to prevail when someone has their blood up.

The houses of quality are sacrosanct. Custom older and firmer than law forbids soldiers or constables to set foot within them, save for response to the most heinous crimes. They are the envy of a continent: no foreign club, however luxurious or exclusive, can quite recapture the particular atmosphere of a genuine Verrari chance house. And they are, one and all, put to shame by the Sinspire.

Nearly one hundred and fifty feet tall, the Sinspire juts skyward at the southern end of the topmost tier of the Steps, which is itself more than two hundred and fifty feet above the harbor. The Sinspire is an Elderglass tower, glimmering with a pearly black sheen. A wide balcony decked with alchemical lanterns circles each of its nine levels. At night, the Sinspire is a constellation of lights in scarlet and twilight-sky blue, the heraldic colors of Tal Verrar.

The Sinspire is the most exclusive, most notorious, and most heavily guarded chance house in the world, open from sunset to sunrise for those powerful, wealthy, or beautiful enough to make it past the whims of the doorkeepers. Each ascending floor outdoes the one beneath it for luxury, exclusivity, and the risk ceiling of the games allowed. Access to each higher floor must be earned with good credit, amusing behavior, and impeccable play. Some aspirants spend years of their lives and thousands of solari trying to catch the attention of the Sinspire's master, whose ruthless hold on his unique position has made him the most powerful arbiter of social favor in the city's history.

The code of conduct at the Sinspire is unwritten, but as rigid as that of a religious cult. Most simply, most incontrovertibly, it is death to be caught cheating here. Were the archon of Tal Verrar himself to be detected with a card up his sleeve, he would find no appeal this side of the gods themselves from the consequences. Every few months, the tower's attendants discover some would-be exception to the rule, and yet another person dies quietly of an alchemical overdose in their carriage, or tragically "slips" from the balcony nine stories above the hard, flat stones of the Sinspire's courtyard.

It has taken Locke Lamora and Jean Tannen two years and a completely new set of false identities to carefully cheat their way up to the fifth floor.

They are, in fact, cheating at this very moment, trying hard to keep up with opponents who have no need to do likewise.

3

"LADIES SHOW a run of Spires and a run of Sabers, crowned with the Sigil of the Sun," said the attendant. "Gentlemen show a run of Chalices and a mixed hand, crowned with the five of Chalices. Fifth hand is to the ladies."

Locke bit the inside of his cheek as a wave of applause rippled through the warm air of the room. The ladies had taken four of the five hands so far, and the crowd had barely deigned to notice Locke and Jean's sole victory.

"Well, damn," said Jean, in credible mock surprise.

Locke turned to the opponent on his right. Maracosa Durenna was a slender, dark-complexioned woman in her late thirties, with thick hair the color of oil smoke and several visible scars on her neck and forearms. In her right hand she held a thin black cigar wrapped with gold thread, and on her face she wore a tight smile of detached contentment. The game was clearly not demanding her utmost exertion.

The attendant flicked Locke and Jean's little pile of lost wooden counters toward the ladies' side of the table with a long-handled crop. He then used the same crop to sweep all the cards back into his hands; it was strictly forbidden for players to touch the cards after the attendant had called for the reveal.

"Well, Madam Durenna," said Locke, "my congratulations on the increasingly robust state of your finances. Your purse would seem to be the only thing growing faster than my impending hangover." Locke knuckle-walked one of his markers over the fingers of his right hand. The little wooden disk was worth five solari, roughly eight months' pay for a common laborer.

"My condolences on a particularly unfortunate run of cards, Master Kosta." Madam Durenna took a long drag from her cigar, then slowly exhaled a stream of smoke so that it hung in the air between Locke and Jean, just far enough away to avoid direct insult. Locke had come to recognize that she used the cigar smoke as her strat péti, her "little game" — an ostensibly civilized mannerism actually cultivated to distract or annoy opponents at a gaming table, and goad them into mistakes. Jean had planned to use his own cigars for the same purpose, but Durenna's aim was better.

"No run of cards could be considered truly unfortunate in the presence of such a lovely pair of opponents," said Locke.

"I could almost admire a man who can stay so charmingly dishonest while being bled of all his silver," said Durenna's partner, who was seated on Durenna's right, between her and the dealer.

Izmila Corvaleur was nearly of a size with Jean, wide and florid, prodigiously rounded in every place a woman could be round. She was undeniably attractive, but the intelligence that shone out of her eyes was sharp and contemptuous. In her Locke recognized a contained pugnacity akin to that of a street brawler—a honed appetite for hard contests. Corvaleur nibbled constantly from a silver-gilded box of cherries coated in powdered chocolate, sucking her fingers loudly after each one. Her own strat péti, of course.

She was purpose-built for Carousel Hazard, thought Locke. A mind for the cards and a frame capable of withstanding the game's unique punishment for losing a hand.

"Default," said the attendant. Within his podium, he tripped the mechanism that set the carousel spinning. This device, in the center of the table, was a set of circular brass frames that held row upon row of tiny glass vials, each one capped in silver. It whirled under the soft lantern light of the gaming parlor, until it became continuous streaks of silver within brass, and then—a clinking sound of mechanisms beneath the table, the rattle of many tiny vessels of thick glass colliding with one another, and the carousel spat out two of its vials. They rolled toward Locke and Jean and clattered against the slightly upraised outer rim of the table.

Carousel Hazard was a game for two teams of two; an expensive game, for the clockwork carousel mechanism came very dear. At the end of each hand, the losing team was randomly dispensed two vials from the carousel's great store of little bottles; these held liquor, mixed with sweet oils and fruit juice to disguise the potency of any given drink. The cards were only one aspect of the game. Players also had to maintain concentration under the increasing effects of the devilish little vials. The only way a game could end was for a player to become too drunk to keep playing.

Theoretically, the game could not be cheated. The Sinspire maintained the mechanism and prepared the vials; the little silver caps were fastened tight over wax seals. Players were not permitted to touch the carousel, or another player's vials, on pain of immediate default. Even the chocolates and cigars being consumed by the players had to be provided by the house. Locke and Jean could even have refused to allow Madam Corvaleur the luxury of her sweets, but that would have been a bad idea for several reasons.

"Well," said Jean as he cracked the seal on his tiny libation, "here's to charming losers, I suppose."

"If only we knew where to find some," said Locke, and in unison they tossed back their drinks. Locke's left a warm, plum-flavored trail down his throat—it was one of the potent ones. He sighed and set the empty vial down before him. Four vials to one, and the way his concentration seemed to be unraveling at the edges meant that he was beginning to feel it.

As the attendant sorted and shuffled the cards for the next hand, Madam Durenna took another long, satisfied draw on her cigar and flicked the ashes into a solid-gold pot set on a pedestal behind her right hand. She exhaled two lazy streams of smoke through her nose and stared at the carousel from behind a gray veil. Durenna was a natural ambush predator, Locke thought, always most comfortable behind some camouflage. His information said that she was only recently arrived in the life of a city-bound merchant speculator. Her previous profession had been the command of bounty-privateers, hunting and sinking the slaver ships of Jerem on the high seas. She hadn't acquired those scars drinking tea in anyone's parlor.

It would be very, very unfortunate if a woman like her were to realize that Locke and Jean were counting on what Locke liked to call "discreetly unorthodox methods" to win the game—hell, it would be preferable to simply lose the old-fashioned way, or to be caught cheating by the Sinspire attendants. They, at least, would probably be quick and efficient executioners. They had a very busy establishment to run.

"Hold the cards," said Madam Corvaleur to the attendant, interrupting Locke's musings. "Mara, the gentlemen have indeed had several hands of unfortunate luck. Might we not allow them a recess?"

Locke concealed his instant excitement; the pair of Carousel Hazard partners who held the lead could offer their opponents a short break from the game, but the courtesy was rarely extended, for the obvious reason that it allowed the losers precious time to shake the effects of their liquor. Was Corvaleur trying to cover for some distress of her own?

"The gentlemen have seen a great deal of strenuous effort on our behalf, counting all those markers and pushing them over to us again and again." Durenna drew smoke, expelled it. "You would honour us, gentlemen, if you would consent to a short pause to refresh and recover yourselves."

Ah. Locke smiled and folded his hands on the table before him. So that was the game — play to the crowd and show off how little regard the ladies truly had for their opponents, how inevitable they considered their own victory. This was etiquette fencing, and Durenna had performed the equivalent of a lunge for the throat. Outright refusal would be terrible form; Locke and Jean's parry would have to be delicate.

"How could anything be more refreshing," said Jean, "than to continue our game against such an excellent partnership?" "You're too kind, Master de Ferra," said Madam Durenna. "But would you have it said that we are heartless? You" ve refused us neither of our comforts." She used her cigar to gesture at Madam Corvaleur's sweets. "Would you refuse us our desire to give a comfort in exchange?"

"We would refuse you nothing, Madam, and yet we would beg leave to answer your greater desire, for which you" ve troubled yourselves to come here tonight — the desire to play."

"There are many hands yet before us," added Locke, "and it would wound Jerome and myself to inconvenience the ladies in any way" He made eye contact with the dealer as he spoke.

"You have thus far presented no inconvenience," said Madam Corvaleur sweetly.

Locke was uncomfortably aware that the attention of the crowd was indeed hanging on this exchange. He and Jean had challenged the two women widely regarded as the best Carousel Hazard players in Tal Verrar, and a substantial audience had packed all the other tables on the fifth floor of the Sinspire. Those tables should have been hosting games of their own, but by some unspoken understanding between the house and its patrons, other action in the parlour had ceased for the duration of the slaughter.

"Very well," said Durenna. "We've no objection to continuing, for our sakes. Perhaps your luck may even turn."

Locke's relief that she had abandoned her conversational ploy was faint; she did, after all, have every expectation of continuing to thrash money out of him and Jean, like a cook might beat weevils from a bag of flour.

"Sixth hand," said the attendant. "Initial wager will be ten solari." As each player pushed forward two wooden coins, the attendant tossed three cards down in front of them.

Madam Corvaleur finished another chocolate-dusted cherry and sucked the sweet residue from her fingers. Before touching his cards, Jean slid the fingers of his left hand briefly under the lapel of his coat and moved them, as though scratching an itch. After a few seconds, Locke did the same. Locke caught Madam Durenna watching them, and saw her roll her eyes. Signals between players were perfectly acceptable, but a bit more subtlety was preferred.

Durenna, Locke and Jean peeked at their cards almost simultaneously; Corvaleur was a moment behind them, with her fingers still wet. She laughed quietly. Genuine good fortune or strut peti? Durenna looked eminently satisfied, but Locke had no doubt she maintained that precise expression even in her sleep. Jean's face revealed nothing, and Locke for his part tried on a thin smirk, although his three opening cards were pure rubbish.

Across the room, a curving set of brass-railed stairs, with a large attendant guarding their foot, led up toward the sixth floor, briefly expanding into a sort of gallery on the way. A flicker of movement from this gallery caught Locke's attention: half-concealed in shadow was a slight, well-dressed figure. The warm golden light of the room's lanterns was reflected in a pair of optics, and Locke felt a shivery thrill of excitement along his spine.

Could it be? Locke tried to keep one eye on the shadowy figure while pretending to fixate on his cards. The glare on those optics didn't waver or shift — the man was staring at their table, all right.

At last, he and Jean had attracted (or stumbled into, and by the gods thed'r take that bit of luck) the attention of the man who kept his offices on the ninth floor — Master of the Sinspire, clandestine ruler of all Tal Verrar's thieves, a man with an iron grip on the worlds of larceny and luxury both. In Camorr they would have called him capa, but here he affected no title save his own name. Requin.

Locke cleared his throat, turned his eyes back to the table and prepared to lose another hand with grace. Out on the dark water, the soft echo of ships" bells could be heard, ringing the tenth hour of the evening.

4

"Eighteenth hand," said the dealer. "Initial wager will be ten solari." Locke had to push aside the eleven little vials before him, with a visibly shaking hand, to slide his buy-in forward. Madam Durenna, steady as a dry-docked ship, was working on her fourth cigar of the night. Madam Corvaleur seemed to be wavering in her seat; was she perhaps more red-cheeked than usual? Locke tried not to stare too intently as she placed her initial wager; perhaps the waver came solely from his own impending inebriation. It was nearing midnight, and the smoke-laced air of the stuffy room scratched at Locke's eyes and throat like wool.

The dealer, emotionless and alert as ever — he seemed to have more clockwork in him than the carousel did — flicked three cards to the tabletop before Locke. Locke ran his fingers under his coat lapel, then peeked at his cards and said, "Ahhhh-ha," with a tone of interested pleasure. They were an astonishing constellation of crap; his worst hand yet. Locke blinked and squinted, wondering if the alcohol was somehow masking a set of decent cards, but alas — when he concentrated again, they were still worthless.

The ladies had been forced to drink last, but unless Jean concealed a major miracle on the tabletop to Locke's left, it was a good bet that another little vial would soon be rolling merrily across the table toward Locke's wobbling hand.

Eighteen hands, thought Locke, to lose nine hundred and eighty solari thus far. His mind, well lubricated by the Sinspire's liquor, wandered off on its own calculations. A year's worth of fine new clothes for a man of high station. A small ship. A very large house. The complete lifetime earnings of an honest artisan, like a stonemason. Had he ever pretended to be a stonemason? "First options," said the dealer, snapping him back to the game.

"Card," said Jean. The attendant slid one to him; Jean peeked at it, nodded and slid another wooden chit toward the centre of the table. "Bid up."

"Hold fast," said Madam Durenna. She moved two wooden chits forward from her substantial pile. "Partner reveal." She showed two cards from her hand to Madam Corvaleur, who was unable to contain a smile.

"Card," said Locke. The attendant passed him one, and he turned up an edge just far enough to see what it was. The two of Chalices, worth precisely one wet shit from a sick dog in this situation. He forced himself to smile. "Bid up," he said, sliding two markers forward. "I'm feeling blessed."

All eyes turned expectantly to Madam Corvaleur, who plucked a chocolate-dusted cherry from her dwindling supply, popped it into her mouth and then rapidly sucked her fingers clean. "Oh-ho," she said, staring down at her cards and dramming one set of sticky fingers gently on the table. "Oh… ho… oh… Mara, this is… the oddest…"

And then she slumped forward, settling her head onto her large pile of wooden markers on the tabletop. Her cards fluttered down, face-up, and she slapped at them, without coordination, trying to cover them up. "Izmila," said Madam Durenna, a note of urgency in her voice. "Izmila!" She reached over and shook her partner by her heavy shoulders.

"Zmila," Madam Corvaleur agreed in a sleepy, blubbering voice. Her mouth lolled open and she drooled remnants of chocolate and cherry onto her five-solari chits. "Mmmrnmmilllaaaaaaaaa. Verrry… odd… oddest…"

"Play sits with Madam Corvaleur." The dealer couldn't keep his surprise out of his voice. "Madam Corvaleur must state a preference." "Izmila! Concentrate!" Madam Durenna spoke in an urgent whisper.

"There are… cards…" mumbled Corvaleur. "Look out, Mara… soooo… many… cards. On table." She followed that up with, "Blemble… na… fla… gah." And then she was out cold.

"Final default," said the dealer after a few seconds. With his crop, he swept all of Madam Durenna's markers away from her, counting rapidly. Locke and Jean would take everything on the table. The looming threat of a thousand-solari loss had just become a gain of equal magnitude, and Locke sighed with relief.

The dealer considered the spectacle of Madam Corvaleur using her wooden markers as a pillow, and he coughed into his hand.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the house will, ah, provide new chits of the appropriate value in place of… those still in use."

"Of course," said Jean, gently patting the little mountain of Durenna's markers suddenly piled up before him. In the crowd behind them, Locke could hear noises of bewilderment, consternation and surprise. A light ripple of applause was eventually coaxed into existence by some of the more generous observers, but it died quickly. They were faintly embarrassed, rather than exhilarated, to see a notable like Madam Corvaleur inebriated by a mere six drinks.

"Hmmmph," said Madam Durenna, stubbing out her cigar in the gold pot and rising to her feet. She made a show of straightening her jacket — black brocaded velvet decorated with platinum buttons and cloth-of-silver, worth a good fraction of everything she'd bet that night. "Master Kosta, Master de Ferra… it appears we must admit to being outmatched."

"But certainly not outplayed," said Locke, summoning up a snake-charming smile along with the pulverized remnants of his wits. "You very nearly had us… um, sewn up." "And the whole world is wobbling around me," said Jean, whose hands were as steady as a jeweller's, and had been throughout die entire game.

"Gentlemen, I have appreciated your stimulating company," said Madam Durenna in a tone of voice that indicated she hadn't. "Another game later this week, perhaps? Surely you must allow us a chance at revenge, for honour's sake."

"Nothing would please us more," said Jean, to which Locke nodded enthusiastically, making the contents of his skull ache. At that, Madam Durenna coldly held out her hand and consented for the two of them to kiss the air above it. When they had done so, as though making obeisance to a particularly irritable snake, four of Requin's attendants appeared to help move the snoring Madam Corvaleur somewhere more decorous.

"Gods, it must be tedious, watching us try to drink one another under the table night after night," said Jean. He nipped the dealer a five-solari chit; it was customary to leave a small gratuity for the attendant. "I don't believe so, sir. How would you like your change?" "What change?" Jean smiled. "Keep the whole thing."

The attendant betrayed human emotions for the second time that night; relatively well-off as he was, one little wooden chit was half again his annual salary. He stifled a gasp when Locke threw him another dozen.

"Fortune is a lady who likes to be passed around," said Locke. "Buy a house, maybe. I'm having a little trouble counting at the moment."

"Sweet gods — many thanks, gendemen!" The attendant took a quick glance around and then spoke under his breath. "Those two ladies don't lose very often, you know. In fact, this is the first time I can remember."

"Victory has its price," said Locke. "I suspect my head will be paying it when I wake up tomorrow."

Madam Corvaleur was hauled carefully down the stairs, with Madam Durenna following to keep a close eye on the men carrying her card-partner. The crowd dispersed; those observers who remained at their tables called for attendants, food, new decks of cards for games of their own.

Locke and Jean gathered their markers (fresh ones, sans slobber, were swiftly provided by the attendant to replace Madam Corvaleur's) in the customary velvet-lined wooden boxes and made their way to the stairs. "Congratulations, gentlemen," said the attendant guarding the way up to the sixth floor. The tinkle of glass on glass and the murmur of conversation could be heard filtering down from above.

"Thank you," said Locke. Tm afraid that something in Madam Corv-aleur gave way just a hand or two before I might have done the same."

He and Jean slowly made their way down the stairs that curved all the way around the inside of the Sinspire's exterior wall. They were dressed as men of credit and consequence in the current height of Verrari summer fashion. Locke (whose hair had been alchemically shifted to a sunny shade of blond) wore a caramel-brown coat with a cinched waist and flaring knee-length tails; his huge triple-layered cuffs were panelled in orange and black and decorated with gold buttons. He wore no waistcoat, just a sweat-soaked tunic of the finest silk under a loose black neck-cloth. Jean was dressed similarly, though his coat was the greyish-blue of a sea under clouds, and his belly was cinched up with a wide black sash, the same colour as the short, curly hairs of his beard.

Down past floors of notables they went… past queens of Verrari commerce with their decorative young companions of both sexes on their arms like pets. Past men and women with purchased Lashani titles, staring across cards and wine decanters at lesser dons and donas from Camorr; past Vadran shipmasters in tight black coats, with sea-tans like masks over their sharp, pale features. Locke recognized at least two members of the Priori, the collection of merchant councils that theoretically ruled Tal Verrar. Deep pockets appeared to be the primary qualification for membership.

Dice fell and glasses clinked; celebrants laughed and coughed and cursed and sighed. Currents of smoke moved languidly in the warm air, carrying scents of perfume and wine, sweat and roast meats, and here and there the resiny hint of alchemical drugs.

Locke had seen genuine palaces and mansions before; the Sinspire, opulent as it was, was not so very much more handsome than the homes many of these people would be returning to when they finally ran out of night to play in. The real magic of the Sinspire was woven from its capricious exclusivity; deny something to enough people and sooner or later it will grow a mystique as thick as fog.

Nearly hidden at the rear of the first floor was a heavy wooden booth manned by several unusually large attendants. Luckily, there was no line. Locke set his box down on the counter-top beneath the booth's only window, a bit too forcefully. "All to my account."

"My pleasure, Master Kosta," said the chief attendant as he took the box. Leocanto Kosta, merchant-speculator of Talisham, was well known in this kingdom of wine fumes and wagers. The attendant swiftly changed Locke's pile of wooden chits into a few marks on a ledger. In beating Durenna and Corvaleur, even minus his tip to the dealer, Locke's cut of the winnings came to nearly five hundred solari.

"I understand that congratulations are in order to both of you, Master de Ferra," said the attendant as Locke stepped back to let Jean approach the counter with his own box. Jerome de Ferra, also of Talisham, was Leocanto's boon companion. They were a pair of fictional peas in a pod.

Suddenly, Locke felt a hand fall onto his left shoulder. He turned warily and found himself facing a woman with curly dark hair, richly dressed in the same colours as the Sinspire attendants. One side of her face was sublimely beautiful; the other side was a leathery brown half-mask, wrinkled as though it had been badly burned. When she smiled, the damaged side of her lips failed to move. It looked to Locke as though a living woman was somehow struggling to emerge from within a rough clay sculpture. Selendri, Requin's major-domo.

The hand that she had placed on his shoulder (her left, on the burned side) wasn't real. It was a solid brass simulacrum, and it gleamed dully in the lantern light as she withdrew it.

"The house congratulates you," she said in her eerie, lisping voice, "for good manners as well as considerable fortitude, and wishes you and Master de Ferra to know that you would both be welcome on the sixth floor, should you choose to exercise the privilege."

Locke's smile was quite genuine. "Many thanks, on behalf of myself and my partner," he said with tipsy glibness. "The kind regard of the house is, of course, extremely flattering."

She nodded non-committally, then slipped away into the crowd as quickly as she'd come. Eyebrows went up appreciatively here and there — few of Requin's guests, to Locke's knowledge, were appraised of their increasing social status by Selendri herself.

"We're a commodity in demand, my dear Jerome," he said as they made their way through the crowd toward the front doors. "For the time being," said Jean.

"Master de Ferra." The head doorman beamed as they approached. "And Master Kosta. May I call for a carriage?"

"No need, thanks," said Locke. "I'll fall over sideways if I don't flush my head with some night air. We'll walk." "Very good then, sir."

With military precision, four attendants held the doors open for Locke and Jean to pass. The two thieves stepped carefully down a wide set of stone steps covered with a red velvet carpet. That carpet, as the whole city knew, was thrown out and replaced each night. As a result, in Tal Verrar alone could one find armies of beggars routinely sleeping on piles of red velvet scraps.

The view was breathtaking; to their right, the whole crescent sweep of the island was visible beyond the silhouettes of other chance-houses. There was relative darkness in the north, in contrast to the aura-like glow of the Golden Steps. Beyond the city, to the south, west and north, the Sea of Brass gleamed phosphorescent silver, lit by three moons in a cloudless sky. Here and there the sails of distant ships reached up from the quicksilver tableau, ghostly pale.

Locke could gaze downward to his left and see across the staggered rooftops of the island's five lower tiers, a vertigo-inducing view despite the solidity of the stones beneath his feet. All around him was the murmur of human pleasure and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages on cobbles; there were at least a dozen moving or waiting along the straight avenue atop the sixth tier. Above, the Sinspire reared up into the opalescent darkness, its alchemical lanterns bright, like a candle meant to draw the attentions of the gods.

"And now, my dear professional pessimist," said Locke as they stepped away from the Sinspire and acquired relative privacy, "my worry-merchant, my tireless font of doubt and derision… what do you have to say to that?

"Oh, very little, to be sure, Master Kosta. It's so hard to think, overawed as I am with the sublime genius of your plan." "That bears some vague resemblance to sarcasm."

"Gods forfend," said Jean. "You wound me! Your inexpressible criminal virtues have triumphed again, as inevitably as the tides come and go. I cast myself at your feet and beg for absolution. Yours is the genius that nourishes the heart of the world." "And now you're—"

"If only there was a leper handy," interrupted Jean, "so you could lay your hands on him and magically heal him—" "Oh, you're just farting out of your mouth because you're jealous."

"It's possible," said Jean. "Actually, we are substantially enriched, not caught, not dead, more famous and welcome on the next floor up. I must admit that I was wrong to call it a silly scheme."

"Really? Huh." Locke reached under his coat lapel as he spoke. "Because I have to admit, it was a silly scheme. Damned irresponsible. One drink more and I would have been finished. I'm actually pretty bloody surprised we pulled it off."

He fumbled beneath his lapel for a second or two, then withdrew a little pad of wool about as wide and long as his thumb. A puff of dust was shaken from the wool when Locke slipped it into one of his outer pockets, and he wiped his hands vigorously on his sleeves as they walked along. " "Nearly lost" is just another way to say "finally won"," said Jean.

"Nonetheless, the liquor almost did me in. Next time I'm that optimistic about my own capacity, correct me with a hatchet to the skull." "I'll be glad to correct you with two."

It was Madam Izmila Corvaleur who'd made the scheme possible. Madam Corvaleur, who'd first crossed paths with "Leocanto Kosta" at a gaming table a few weeks earlier, who had the reliable habit of eating with her fingers to annoy her opponents while she played cards.

Carousel Hazard really couldn V be cheated by any traditional means. None of Requin's attendants would stack a deck, not once in a hundred years, not even in exchange for a dukedom. Nor could any player alter the carousel, select one vial in favour of another or serve a vial to anyone else. With all the usual means of introducing a foreign substance to another player guarded against, the only remaining possibility was for a player to do herself in by slowly, willingly taking in something subtle and unorthodox. Something delivered by a means beyond the ken of even a healthy paranoia.

Like a narcotic powder, dusted on the playing cards in minute quantities by Locke and Jean, then gradually passed around the table to a woman continually licking her fingers as she played.

Beta paranella was a colourless, tasteless alchemical powder also known as "the night friend". It was popular with rich people of a nervous disposition, who took it to ease themselves into deep, restful slumber. When mixed with alcohol, beta paranella was rapidly effective in tiny quantities; the two substances were as complementary as fire and dry parchment. It would have been widely used for criminal purposes if not for the fact that it sold for twenty times its own weight in white iron.

"Gods, that woman had the constitution of a war-galley," said Locke. "She must have started ingesting some of the powder by the third or fourth hand… probably could" ve killed a pair of wild boars in heat with less."

"At least we got what we wanted," said Jean, removing his own powder reservoir from his coat. He considered it for a moment, shrugged and slipped it into a pocket.

"We did indeed… and I saw him!" said Locke. "Requin. He was on the stairs, watching us for most of the hands in the middle game. We must have aroused a personal interest." The exciting ramifications of this helped clear some of the haze from Locke's thoughts. "Why else send Selendri herself to pat our backs?"

"Well, assume you're correct. So what now? Do you want to push on with it, like you mentioned, or do you want to take it slow? Maybe gamble around on the fifth and sixth floors for a few more weeks?"

"A few more weeks? To hell with that. We've been kicking around this gods-damned city for two years now; if we've finally cracked Requin's shell, I say we bloody well go for it." "You're going to suggest tomorrow night, aren't you?"

"His curiosity's piqued. Let's strike while the blade is fresh from the forge." "I suspect that drink has made you impulsive." "Drink makes me see funny; the gods made me impulsive." "You there," came a voice from the street in front of them. "Hold it!" Locke tensed. "I beg your pardon?"

A young, harried-looking Verrari man with long black hair was holding his hands out, palms facing toward Locke and Jean. A small, well-dressed crowd had gathered beside him, at the edge of a trim lawn that Locke recognized as the duelling green.

"Hold it, sirs, I beg of you," said the young man. "I'm afraid it's an affair, and there may be a bolt flying past. Alight I beg of you to wait but a moment?"

"Oh. Oh." Locke and Jean relaxed simultaneously. If someone was duelling with crossbows, it was common courtesy as well as good sense to wait beside the duelling ground until the shots were taken. That way, neither participant would be distracted by movement in the background, or accidentally bury a bolt in a passer-by.

The duelling green was about forty yards long and half as wide, lit by a soft white lantern hanging in a black iron frame at each of its four corners. Two duellists stood in the centre of the green with their seconds, each man casting four pale-grey shadows in a crisscross pattern. Locke had little personal inclination to watch, but he reminded himself that he was supposed to be Leocanto Kosta, a man of worldly indifference to strangers punching holes in one another. He and Jean squeezed into the crowd of spectators as unobtrusively as possible; a similar crowd had formed on the other side of the green.

One of the duellists was a very young man, dressed in fine, loose gentleman's clothing of a fashionable cut; he wore optics, and his hair hung to his shoulders in well-tended ringlets.

His red-jacketed opponent was a great deal older, a bit hunched over and weathered. He looked active and determined enough to pose a threat, however. Each man held a lightweight crossbow-what Camorri thieves would call an alley-piece.

"Gentlemen," said the younger duellist's second. "Please. Can there be no accommodation?"

"If the Lashani gentleman will withdraw his imprecation," added the younger duellist, his voice high and nervous, "I would be eminently satisfied, with the merest recognition—"

"No, there cannot] said the man standing beside the older duellist. "His Lordship is not in the habit of tendering apologies for mere statements of obvious fact."

"…with the merest recognition? continued the young duellist, desperately, "that the incident was an unfortunate misunderstanding, and that it need not—"

"Were he to condescend to speak to you again," said the older duellist's second, "his Lordship would no doubt also note that you wail like a bitch, and would enquire as to whether you're equally capable of biting like one."

The younger duellist stood speechless for a few seconds, then gestured rudely toward the older men with his free hand.

"I am forced," said his second, "I am, ah, forced… to allow that there may be no accommodation. Let the gentlemen stand… back to back." The two opponents walked toward one another — the older man marched with vigour while the younger still stepped hesitantly — and turned their backs to one another.

"You shall have ten paces," said the younger man's second, with bitter resignation. "Wait then, and on my signal you may turn and loose."

Slowly he counted out the steps; slowly the two opponents walked away from one another. The younger man was shaking very badly indeed. Locke felt a ball of unaccustomed tension growing in his own stomach. Since when had he become such a damned soft-hearted fellow? Just because he preferred not to watch didn't mean he should be afraid to do so… yet the feeling in his stomach paid no heed to the thoughts in his head.

"…nine …ten. Stand fast," said the young duellist's second. "Stand fast… Turn and loose!"

The younger man whirled first, his face a mask of terror; he threw out his right hand and let fly. A sharp twang sounded across the green. His opponent didn't even jerk back as the bolt hissed through the air beside his head, missing by at least the width of a hand.

The red-jacketed old man completed his own turn more slowly, his eyes bright and his mouth set into a scowl. His younger opponent stared at him for several seconds, as though trying to will his bolt to come flying back like a trained bird. He shuddered, lowered his crossbow and then threw it down to the grass. With his hands on his hips, he stood waiting, breathing in deep and noisy gulps.

His opponent regarded him briefly, then snorted. "Be fucked," he said, and he raised his crossbow in both hands. His shot was perfect; there was a wet crack and the younger duellist toppled with a feathered bolt dead in the centre of his chest. He fell onto his back, clawing at his coat and tunic, spitting up dark blood. Half a dozen spectators rushed toward him, while one young woman in a silver evening gown fell to her knees and screamed.

"We'll get back just in time for dinner," said the older duellist to nobody in particular. He tossed his own crossbow carelessly to the ground behind him and stomped off toward one of the nearby chance-houses, with his second at his side.

"Sweet fucking Perelandro," said Locke, forgetting Leocanto Kosta for a moment and thinking out loud. "What a way to manage things."

"You don't approve, sir?" A lovely young woman in a black silk dress regarded Locke with disconcertingly penetrating eyes. She couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen.

"I understand that some differences of opinion need to be settled with steel," said Jean, butting in, appearing to recognize that Locke was still a bit too tipsy for his own good. "But standing before a crossbow bolt seems foolish. Blades strike me as a more honest test of skill."

"Rapiers are tedious; all that back and forth, and rarely a killing strike right away," said the young woman. "Bolts are fast, clean and merciful. You can hack at someone all night with a rapier and fail to kill them." "I am quite compelled to agree with you," muttered Locke.

The woman raised an eyebrow but said nothing; a moment later she was gone, vanished into the dispersing crowd.

The contented murmur of the night — the laughter and chatter of the small clusters of men and women making time beneath the stars — had died briefly while the duel took place, but now it rose up once again. The woman in the silver dress beat her fists against the grass, sobbing, while the crowd around the fallen duellist seemed to sag in unison. The bolt's work was clearly done. "Fast, clean and merciful," said Locke softly. "Idiots."

Jean sighed. "Neither of us has any right to offer that sort of observation, since "gods-damned idiots" is likely to be inscribed on our grave-markers." "I" ve had reasons for doing what I" ve done, and so have you." "I'm sure those duellists felt the same way."

"Let's get the hell out of here," said Locke. "Let's walk off the fumes in my head and get back to the inn. Gods, I feel old and sour. I see things like this and I wonder if I was that bloody stupid when I was that boy's age." "You were worse," said Jean. "Until quite recently. Probably still are."

5

Locke's melancholy slowly evaporated, along with more of his alcoholic haze, as they made their way down and across the Golden Steps, north by north-east to the Great Gallery. The Eldren craftsmen (Craftswomen? Craftsthings}) responsible for Tal Verrar had covered the entire district with an open-sided Elderglass roof that sloped downward from its peak atop the sixth tier and plunged into the sea at the western island's base, leaving at least thirty feet of space beneath it at all points in between. Strange twisted glass columns rose up at irregular intervals, looking like leafless climbing vines carved from ice. The glass ceiling of the Gallery was easily a thousand yards from end to end lengthwise.

Beyond the Great Gallery, on the lower layers of the island, was the Portable Quarter — open-faced tiers on which the miserably destitute were allowed to set up squatters" huts and whatever shelters they could construct from cast-off materials. The trouble was that any forceful wind from the north, especially during the rainy winter, would completely rearrange the place.

Perversely, the district above and immediately south-east of the Portable Quarter, the Savrola, was a pricey expatriate's enclave, full of foreigners with money to waste. All the best inns were there, including the one Locke and Jean were currently using for their well-heeled alternate identities. The Savrola was sealed off from the Portable Quarter by high stone walls and heavily patrolled by Verrari constables and private mercenaries.

By day, the Great Gallery was the marketplace of Tal Verrar. A thousand merchants set up their stalls beneath it every morning, and there was room for five thousand more, should the city ever grow so vast. Visitors rooming in the Savrola who didn't travel by boat were forced, by cunning coincidence, to walk across the full breadth of the market to travel to or from the Golden Steps.

An east wind was up, blowing out from the mainland, across the glass islands and into the Gallery. Locke and Jean's footsteps echoed in the darkness of the vast hollow space; soft lamps on some of the glass pillars made irregular islands of light. Scraps of rubbish blew past their feet, and wisps of wood-smoke from unseen fires. Some merchants kept family members sleeping in particularly desirable locations all night… and of course there were always vagrants from the Portable Quarter, seeking privacy in the shadows of the empty Gallery. Patrols stomped through the Gallery tiers several times each night, but tliere were none in sight at the moment.

"What a strange wasteland this place becomes after dark," said Jean. "I can't decide if I mislike it or if it enchants me."

"You" d probably be less inclined to enchantment if you didn't have a pair of hatchets stuffed up the back of your coat." "Mmm."

They walked on for another few minutes. Locke rubbed his stomach and muttered to himself. "Jean — are you hungry, by chance?" "I usually am. Need some more ballast for that liquor?"

"I think it might be a good idea. Damn that carousel. Another losing hand and I might have proposed marriage to that gods-damned smoking dragoness. Or just fallen out of my chair." "Well, let's raid the Night Market."

On the topmost tier of the Great Gallery, toward the north-eastern end of the covered district, Locke could see the flickering light of barrel-fires and lanterns, and the shadowy shapes of several people. Commerce never truly ground to a halt in Tal Verrar; with thousands of people coming and going from the Golden Steps, there was enough coin floating around for a few dozen nocturnal stall-keepers to stake out a spot just after sunset every evening. The Night Market could be a great convenience, and it was invariably more eccentric than its daytime counterpart.

As Locke and Jean strolled toward the bazaar with the night breeze blowing against them, they had a fine view of the inner harbour with its dark forest of ships" masts. Beyond that, the rest of the city's islands lay sensibly sleeping, dotted here and there with specks of light rather than the profligate glow of the Golden Steps. At the heart of the city, the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds (Alchemists, Artificers and Merchants) curled around the base of the high, rocky Castellana like slumbering beasts. And atop the Castellana, like a looming stone hill planted in a field of mansions, was the dim outline of the Mon Magisteria, the fortress of the Archon.

Tal Verrar was supposedly ruled by the Priori, but in reality a significant degree of power rested in the man who resided in that palace, the city's master of arms. The office of the Archon had been created following Tal Varrar's early disgraces in the Thousand-Day War against Camorr, to take command of the army and navy out of the hands of the bickering merchant councils. But the trouble with creating military dictators, Locke reflected, was getting rid of them after the immediate crisis was past. The first Archon had "declined" retirement, and his successor was, if anything, even more interested in interfering with civic affairs. Outside guarded bastions of frivolity like the Golden Steps and expatriate havens like the Savrola, the disagreements between Archon and Priori kept the city on edge.

"Gentlemen!" came a voice from their left, breaking into Locke's chain of thought. "Honoured sirs. A walk across the Great Gallery cannot possibly be complete without refreshment." Locke and Jean had reached the fringes of the Night Market; there were no other customers in sight, and the faces of at least a dozen merchants stared keenly out at them from within their little circles of fire— or lamplight.

The first Verrari to throw his pitch against the gates of their good judgment was a one-armed man getting on in years, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He waved a wooden ladle at them, indicating four small casks set atop a portable counter not unlike a flat-topped wheelbarrow. "What's your fare?" Locke asked.

"Delicacies from the table of Iono himself, the sweetest taste the sea has to offer. Sharks" eyes in brine, all fresh-plucked. Crisp the shells, soft the humours, sweet the juices."

"Sharks" eyes? Gods, no." Locke grimaced. "Have you more common flesh? Liver? Gills? A gill-pie would be welcome."

"Gills? Sir, gills have none of the virtues of the eyes; it is the eyes that tone the muscles, prevent cholera and firm up a man's mechanisms for certain, ah, marital duties."

"I have no need of any mechanism-firming in that respect," said Locke. "And I'm afraid my stomach is too unsettled for the splendour of sharks" eyes just at the moment."

"A pity, sir. For your sake, I wish I had some bit of gill to offer you, but it's the eyes that I get, and little else. Yet I do have several types — scythe sharks, wolf sharks, blue widower—" "We must pass, friend," said Jean, as he and Locke walked on.

"Fruit, worthy masters?" The next merchant along was a slender young woman comfortably ensconced in a cream-coloured frock coat several sizes too large for her; she also wore a four-cornered hat with a small alchemical globe dangling from it on a chain, hanging down just above her left shoulder. She stood watch over a number of woven baskets. "Alchemical fruit, fresh hybrids. Have you ever seen the Sofia Orange of Camorr? It makes its own liquor, very sweet and powerful."

"We are… acquainted," said Locke. "And more liquor is not what I had in mind. Anything to recommend for an unsettled stomach?"

"Pears, sir. The world would have no unsettled stomachs if only we were all wise enough to eat several every day."

She took up one basket, about half-full, and held it up before him. Locke sifted through the pears, which felt firm and fresh enough, and drew out three. "Five centira," said the fruit-seller. "A full volani?" Locke feigned outrage. "Not if the Archon's favourite f whore held them between her legs and wiggled for me. One centira is too much for the lot."

"One centira wouldn't buy you the stems. At least I won't lose money for four."

"It would be an act of supreme pity," said Locke, "for me to give you two. Fortunately for you I'm brimming with largesse; the bounty is yours."

"Two would be an insult to the men and women who grew those in the hot-glass gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. But surely we can meet at three?"

"Three," said Locke with a smile. T have never been robbed in Tal Verrar before, but I'm just hungry enough to allow you the honour." He passed two of the pears to Jean without looking, while fumbling in one of his coat pockets for copper. When he tossed three coins to the fruit-seller, she nodded. › "A good evening to you, Master Lamora." Locke froze and fixed his eyes on her. "I beg your pardon?" "A good evening to you is all I said, worthy master." "You didn't…" "Didn't what?"

"Ah, nothing." Locke sighed nervously. T had a bit too much to drink, is all. A fair evening to you, as well."

He and Jean strolled away, and Locke took a tentative bite of his pear. It was in a fine state, neither too firm and dry nor too ripe and sticky. "Jean," he said between bites, "did you hear what she said to me, just now?"

"I'm afraid I heard nothing but the death-cry of this unfortunate pear. Listen closely: "Noooo, don't eat me, please, nooo…" Jean had already reduced his first pear to its core; as Locke watched, he popped this into his mouth, crunched it loudly and swallowed it all but for the stem, which he flicked away. "Thirteen Gods," said Locke, "must you do that?" T like the cores," said Jean sulkily. "All the little crunchy bits." "Goats eat the gods-damned crunchy bits." "You're not my mother."

"Well, true. Your mother would be ugly. Oh, don't give me that look. Go on, eat your other core; it's got a nice juicy pear wrapped around it." "What did the woman say?" "She said… oh, gods, she said nothing. I'm tipsy, is all."

"Alchemical lanterns, sirs?" A bearded man held his arm out toward them; at least half a dozen little lanterns in ornamental gilt frames hung from it. "A pair of well-dressed gentlemen should not be without light; only scrubs scuttle about in darkness with no way to see! You'll find no better lanterns in all the Gallery, not by night or day."

Jean waved the man off while he and Locke finished their pears. Locke carelessly tossed his core over his shoulder, while Jean popped his into his mouth, taking pains to ensure that Locke was watching when he did.

"Mmmmmm," he muttered with a half-full mouth, "ambrosial. But you'll never know, you and all your fellow culinary cowards." "Gentlemen. Scorpions?"

That brought Locke and Jean up short. The speaker was a cloaked, bald-headed man with the coffee-coloured skin of an Okanti islander; the man was several thousand miles from home. His well-kept white teeth stood out as he smiled and bowed slightly over his wares. He stood over a dozen small wooden cages; dark shapes could be seen moving about in several of them.

"Scorpions? Real scorpions? Live ones?" Locke bent down to get a better look at the cages, but kept his distance. "What on earth for?"

"Why, you must be fresh visitors here." The man's Therin had a slight accent. "Many on the Sea of Brass are only too familiar with the grey rock scorpion. Can you be Karthani? Camorri?" "Talishani," said Jean. "These are grey rock scorpions, from here?"

"From the mainland," said the merchant. "And their use is primarily, ahh, recreational." "Recreational? Are they pets?"

"Oh no, not really. The sting, you see — the sting of the grey rock scorpion is a complex thing. First there is pain, sharp and hot, as you might expect. But after a few minutes, there is a pleasant numbness, a dreamy sort of fever. It is not unlike some of the powders smoked by Jeremites. After a few stings, a body grows more used to it. The pain lessens and the dreams deepen." "Astonishing!"

"Commonplace," said the merchant. "Quite a few men and women in Tal Verrar keep one close at hand, even if they don't speak of it in public. The effect is as pleasing as liquor, yet ultimately far less costly" "Hmmm." Locke scratched his chin. "Never had to stab myself with f a bottle of wine, though. And this isn't just some ruse, some amusement for visitors who wouldn't know any better?"

The merchant's smile broadened. He extended his right arm and pulled back the sleeve of his cloak; the dark skin of his slender forearm was dotted with little circular scars. "I would never offer a product for which I was not prepared to vouch myself."

"Admirable," said Locke. "And fascinating, but… perhaps there are some customs of Tal Verrar best left unexplored."

"To your own tastes be true." Still smiling, the man pulled his cloak-sleeve back down and folded his hands before him. "After all, a scorpion hawk was never to your liking, Master Lamora."

Locke felt a sudden cold pressure in his chest. He flicked a glance at Jean and found the larger man instantly tense as well. Struggling to maintain his outward calm, Locke cleared his throat. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm sorry." The merchant blinked at him guilelessly. "I merely wished you a pleasant night, gentlemen."

"Right." Locke eyed him for a moment or two longer, then stepped back, turned on his heel and began to walk across the Night Market once more. Jean was at his side immediately. "You heard that," whispered Locke.

"Very clearly," said Jean. "I wonder who our friendly scorpion-merchant works for?"

"It's not just him," muttered Locke. "The fruit-seller called me "Lamora" as well. You didn't hear that one, but I damn well did." "Shit. Want to double back and grab one of them?" "Going somewhere, Master Lamora?"

Locke almost whirled on the middle-aged female merchant who stepped toward them from their right; he managed to keep the six-inch stiletto concealed up his right sleeve from flying reflexively into his hand. Jean slid one arm beneath the back of his coat.

"You appear to be mistaken, madam," said Locke. "My name is Leo-canto Kosta."

The woman made no further move toward them; she merely smiled and chuckled. "Lamora … Locke Lamora."

"Jean Tannen," said the scorpion-merchant, who had stepped out from behind his little cage-covered table. Other merchants were moving slowly behind them, staring fixedly at Locke and Jean. "There seems to be a, ah, misunderstanding afoot," said Jean. He slid his right hand back out from under his coat; Locke knew from long experience that the head of one of his hatchets would be cupped in his palm, with the handle concealed up his sleeve. "No misunderstanding," said the scorpion-merchant.

"Thorn of Camorr…" said a little girl who stepped out to block their progress toward the Savrola side of the Great Gallery. "Thorn of Camorr…" said the middle-aged woman. "Gentlemen Bastards," said the scorpion-merchant. "Far from home."

Locke glanced around, his heart hammering in his chest. Deciding that the time for discretion was past, he let a stiletto fall into his itching fingers. All the merchants in the Night Market appeared to have taken an interest in them; they were surrounded, and the merchants were slowly tightening the circle. They cast long, dark shadows upon the stones at Locke and Jean's feet. Was Locke imagining things, or were some of the lights dimming? Already the Night Gallery looked darker — damn, some of the lanterns were indeed going out right before his eyes.

"That is far enough." Jean let his hatchet fall visibly into his right hand; he and Locke pressed their backs together.

"No closer," shouted Locke. "Cut the weird shit or there's going to be blood!" "There has already been blood…" said the little girl.

"Locke Lamora…" muttered a soft chorus of the people surrounding them.

"There has already been blood, Locke Lamora," said the middle-aged woman.

The last alchemical lanterns within the periphery of the Night Market dimmed; the last few fires banked down, and now Locke and Jean faced the circle of merchants solely by the wan fight coming from the inner harbour, and from the eerie flicker of distant lamps beneath the vast, deserted Gallery, much too far away for comfort.

The little girl took one last step toward them, her eyes grey and unblinking. "Master Lamora, Master Tannen," she said in her clear, soft voice, "the Falconer of Karthain sends his regards."

6

Locke stared at the little girl, jaw half-open. She glided forward like an apparition, until just two paces separated them. Locke felt a pang of foolishness at holding a stiletto on a girl not yet three feet high, but then she smiled coldly in the near-darkness, and the malice behind that smile steadied his hand on the hilt of the blade. The little girl reached up to touch her chin. "Though he cannot speak," she said.

"Though he cannot speak for himself…" chorused the circle of merchants, now motionless in the darkness.

"Though he is mad," said the girl, slowly spreading her hands toward Locke and Jean, palms out. "Mad with pain, mad beyond measure…" whispered the circle. "His friends remain," said the girl. "His friends remember."

Locke felt Jean move against his back, and then both of his hatchets were out, blackened-steel heads naked to the night. "These people are puppets. There are Bondsmagi somewhere around us," he hissed.

"Show yourselves, you fucking cowards!" said Locke, speaking to the girl. "We show our power," she replied.

"What more do you need…" whispered the chorus in their ragged circle, their eyes empty as reflecting pools.

"What more do you need to see, Master Lamora?" The little girl gave a sinister parody of a curtsey.

"Whatever you want," said Locke, "leave these people out of it. Just fucking talk to us. We don't want to hurt these people." "Of course, Master Lamora…" "Of course…" whispered the circle.

"Of course, that's the point," said the girl. "So you must hear what we have to say." "State your gods-damned business, then." "You must answer," said the girl. "Answer for the Falconer," said the chorus. "You must answer. Both of you."

"Of all the…fuckyouV said Locke, his voice rising to a shout. "We did answer for the Falconer. Our answer was ten lost fingers and a lost tongue, for three dead friends. You got him back alive and it was more than he deserved!" "Not for you to judge," hissed the girl. "… judge the Magi of Karthain…" whispered the circle.

"Not for you to judge, nor for you to presume to grasp our laws," said the girl.

"All the world knows it's death to slay a Bondsmage," said Jean. "That, and little else. We let him live and took pains to return him to you. Our business is ended. If you wanted a more complicated treatment than that, you should have sent a fucking letter." "This is not business," said the girl. "But personal," said the circle.

"Personal," repeated the girl. "A brother has been blooded; we cannot let this stand unanswered."

"You sons of bitches," said Locke. "You really think you're fucking gods, don't you? I didn't mug the Falconer in an alley and take his purse. He helped murder my friends! I'm not sorry he's mad and I'm not sorry for the rest of you! Kill us and get on with your business, or piss off and let these people go free."

"No," said the scorpion-merchant. A whispered chorus of" no" echoed around the circle.

"Cowards. Pissants!" Jean pointed one of his hatchets at the little girl as he spoke. "You can't scare us with this penny-theatre bullshit!"

"If you force us to," said Locke, "we'll fight you with the weapons in our hands, all the way to Karthain. You bleed like the rest of us. Seems to me all you can do is kill us." "No," said the girl, giggling. "We can do worse," said the fruit-seller. "We can let you live," said the scorpion-merchant. "Live, uncertain," said the girl.

"Uncertain…" chorused the merchants as they began to step backwards, widening their circle. "Watched," said the girl. "Followed," said the circle.

"Now wait," said the girl. "Run your little games, and chase your little fortunes…"

"And wait," whispered the chorus. "Wait for our answer. Wait for our time."

"You are always in our reach," said the little girl, "and you are always in our sight."

"Always," whispered the circle, slowly dispersing back to their stalls, back to the positions thed'r held just a few minutes earlier.

"You will meet misfortune," said the little girl as she slipped away. "For the Falconer of Karthain." Locke and Jean said nothing as the merchants around them resumed their places in the Night Market, as the lanterns and barrel-fires gradually rose once more to flush the area with warm light. Then the affair was ended; the merchants resumed their former attitudes of keen interest or watchful boredom, and the babble of conversation rose up around them again. Locke and Jean quickly slipped their weapons out of sight before anyone noticed them. "Gods," said Jean, shuddering visibly.

"I suddenly feel," Locke said quietly, "that I didn't drink nearly enough from that bloody carousel." There was mist at the edges of his vision; he put a hand to his cheeks and was surprised to find himself crying. "Bastards," he muttered. "Infants. Wretched cowardly show-offs." "Yes," said Jean.

Locke and Jean began to walk forward once again, glancing warily around. The little girl who had done most of the speaking for the Bondsmagi was now sitting beside an elderly man, sorting through little baskets of dried figs under his supervision. She smiled shyly as they passed.

"I hate them," whispered Locke. "I hate this. Do you think they" ve really got something planned for us, or was that just a put-on?"

"I suppose it works either way," said Jean with a sigh. "Gods. Strat peti. Do we flinch, or do we keep betting? Worst case, we've got a few thousand solari on account at the "Spire. We could cash out, take a ship, be gone before noon tomorrow." "Where to?" "Anywhere else." "There's no running from these arseholes, not if they're serious." "Yes, but—"

"Fuck Karthain." Locke clenched his fists. "You know, I think I understand. I think I understand how the Grey King could feel the way he did. I" ve never even been there, but if I could smash Karthain, burn the fucking place, make the sea swallow it… I'd do it. Gods help me, I'd do it."

Jean suddenly came to a complete stop. "There's… another problem, Locke. Gods forgive me." "What?"

"Even if you stay… I shouldn't. I'm the one who should be gone, as far from you as possible." "What the fuck nonsense is this?" "They know my name!" Jean grabbed Locke by his shoulders, and Locke winced; that stone-hard grip didn't agree with the old wound beneath his left clavicle. Jean immediately realized his mistake and loosened his fingers, but his voice remained urgent. "My real name, and they can use it. They can make me a puppet, like these poor people. I'm a threat to you every moment I'm around you." "I don't bloody well care that they know your name! Are you mad?" "No, but you're still drunk, and you're not thinking straight." "I certainly am! Do you want to leave?" "No! Gods, no, of course not! But I'm—" "Shutting up right this second if you know what's good for you." "You need to understand that you're in danger!"

"Of course I'm in danger. I'm mortal. Jean, gods love you, I will not fucking send you away, and I will not let you send yourself away! We lost Calo, Galdo and Bug. If I send you away, I lose the last friend I have in the world. Who wins then, Jean? Who's protected then?"

Jean's shoulders slumped, and Locke suddenly felt the beginning of the transition from fading inebriation to pounding headache. He groaned.

"Jean, I will never stop feeling awful for what I put you through in Vel Virazzo. And I will never forget how long you stayed with me when you should have tied weights around my ankles and thrown me in the bay. Gods help me, I will never be better off without you. I don't care how many Bondsmagi know your damned name." "I wish I could be sure you knew best about this."

"This is our life," said Locke. "This is our game, that we've put two years into. That's our fortune, waiting for us to steal it at the Sinspire. That's all our hopes for the future. So fuck Karthain. They want to kill us, we can't stop them. So what else can we do? I won't jump at shadows on account of those bastards. On with it! Both of us together."

Most of the Night Market merchants had taken note of the intensity of Locke and Jean's private conversation and had avoided making further pitches. But one of the last merchants on the northern fringe of the Night Market was either less sensitive or more desperate for a sale, and called out to them.

"Carved amusements, gentlemen? Something for a woman or a child in your lives? Something artful from the City of Artifice?" The man had dozens of exotic little toys on an upturned crate. His long, ragged brown coat was lined on the inside with quilted patches in a multitude of garish colours — orange, purple, cloth-of-silver, mustard yellow. He dangled the painted wood figure of a spear-carrying soldier by four cords from his left hand, and with little gestures of his fingers he made the figure thrust at an imaginary enemy. "A marionette? A little puppet, for memory of Tal Verrar?"

Jean stared at him for a few seconds before responding. "For memory of Tal Verrar," he said, quietly, "I would want anything, beg pardon, before I would want a puppet."

Locke and Jean said nothing else to one another. With an ache around his heart to match the one growing in his head, Locke followed the bigger man out of the Great Gallery and into the Savrola, eager to be back behind high walls and locked doors, for what little it might prove to be worth.

1

Locke Lamora had arrived in Vel Virazzo nearly two years earlier, wanting to die, and Jean Tannen had been inclined to let him have his wish.

Vel Virazzo is a deep-water port about a hundred miles south-east of Tal Verrar, carved out of the high rocky cliffs that dominate the mainland coast on the Sea of Brass. A city of eight or nine thousand souls, it has long been a sullen tributary of the Verrari, ruled by a governor appointed directly by the Archon.

A line of narrow Elderglass spires rises two hundred feet out of the water just offshore, one more Eldren artefact of inscrutable function on a coast thick with abandoned wonders. The glass pylons have fifteen-foot platforms atop them and are now used as lighthouses, manned by petty convicts. Boats bring and leave them to climb up the knotted rope ladders that hang down the pylons. That accomplished, they winch up their provisions and settle in for a few weeks of exile, tending red alchemical lamps the size of small huts. Not all of them come back down right in the head, or live to come back down at all.

Two years before that fateful game of Carousel Hazard, a heavy galleon swept in toward Vel Virazzo under the red glow of those offshore lights. The hands atop the galleon's yardarms waved, half in pity and half in jest, at the lonely figures atop the pylons. The sun had been swallowed by thick clouds on the western horizon and a soft, dying light rippled across the water beneath the first stars of evening.

A warm, wet breeze was blowing from shore to sea, and little threads of mist appeared to be leaking out of the grey rocks to either side of the old port town. The galleon's yellowed canvas topsails were close-reefed as she prepared to lay-to about half a mile offshore. A little harbourmaster's skiff scudded out to meet the galleon, green and white lanterns bobbing in its bow to the rhythm of the eight heaving oarsmen. "What vessel?" The harbourmaster stood up beside her bow lanterns! s and shouted through a speaking trumpet from thirty yards away.

"Golden Gain; Tal Verrar," came the return shout from the galleon's waist. "Do you wish to put in?" "No! Passengers only, coming off by boat."

The lower stern cabin of the Golden Gain smelled strongly of sweat and illness. Jean Tannen was newly returned from the upper deck and had lost some of his tolerance for the odour, which lent further edge to his bad mood. He flung a patched blue tunic at Locke and folded his arms.

"For fuck's sake," he said, "we're here. We're getting off this bloody ship and back onto good, solid stone. Put the bloody tunic on; they're lowering a boat."

Locke shook the tunic out with his right hand and frowned. He was sitting on the edge of a bunk, dressed only in his breeches, and was thinner and dirtier than Jean had ever seen him. His ribs stood out beneath his pale skin like the hull timbers of an unfinished ship. His hair was dark with grease, long and unkempt on every side, and a fine thistle of beard fringed his face.

His upper left arm was crisscrossed with the glistening red lines of barely sealed wounds; there was a scabbed puncture on his left forearm, and beneath that a dirty cloth brace was wound around his wrist. His left hand was a mess of fading bruises. A discoloured bandage partially covered an ugly-looking injury on his left shoulder, a scant few inches above his heart. Their three weeks at sea had done much to reduce the swelling of Locke's cheeks, lips and broken nose, but he still looked as though he'd tried to kiss a kicking mule. Repeatedly. "Can I get a hand, then?"

"No, you can do it for yourself. You should" ve been exercising this past week, getting ready. I can't always be here to hover about like your fairy fucking nursemaid."

"Well, let me shove a gods-damn rapier through your shoulder and wiggle it for you, and then let's see how keen you are to exercise."

"I took my cuts, you sobbing piss-wallow, and I did exercise "em."Jean lifted his own tunic: above the substantially reduced curve of his once-prodigious belly was the fresh, livid scar of a long slash across his ribs. "I don't care how much it hurts; you have to move around or they heal tight like a caulk-seal and then you're really in the shit." "So you keep telling me." Locke threw the tunic down on the deck beside his bare feet. "But unless that garment animates itself, or you do the honours, it seems I must go to the boat like this."

"Sun's setting. Summer or not, it'll be cool out there. But if you want to be an idiot, I suppose you do go like that." "You're a son of a bitch, Jean."

"If you were healthy, I'd re-break your nose for that, you self-pitying little—"

"Gentlemen?" A crew-woman's muffled voice came through the door, followed by a loud knock. "Captain's compliments, and the boat is ready."

"Thank you," yelled Jean. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Why did I bother saving your life, again? I could" ve brought the Grey King's corpse with me instead. Would" ve been better fucking company."

"Please," said Locke forcefully, gesturing with his good arm. "We can meet in the middle. I'll pull with my good arm and you handle the bad side. Get me off this ship and I'll get to exercising."

"Can't come soon enough," said Jean, and after another moment's hesitation he bent down for the tunic.

2

Jean's tolerance rose for a few days with their release from the wet, smelly, heaving world of the galleon; even for paying customers, longdistance sea transit still had more in common with a prison sentence than a vacation.

With their handful of silver volani (converted from Camorri solons at an extortionate rate by the first mate of the Golden Gain, who'd argued that it was still preferable to the numismatic mugging thed'r receive from the town's moneychangers), he and Locke secured a third-floor room at the Silver Lantern, a sagging old inn on the waterfront.

Jean immediately set about procuring a source of income. If Camorr's underworld had been a deep lake, Vel Virazzo's was a stagnant pond. He had little trouble sussing out the major dockside gangs and the relationships between them. There was little organization in Vel Virazzo, and no boss-of-bosses to screw things up. A few nights of drinking in all the right dives and he knew exactly who to approach.

They called themselves the Brass Coves, and they skulked about in an abandoned tannery down on the city's eastern docks, where the sea lapped against the pilings of rotting piers that had seen no legitimate use in twenty years. By night, they were an active crew of sneak-thieves, muggers and coat-charmers. By day, they slept, diced and drank away most of their profits. Jean kicked in their door (though it hung loosely in its frame, and wasn't locked) at the second hour of the afternoon on a bright, sunny day.

There were an even dozen of them in the old tannery, young men between the ages of fifteen and twenty-odd. Standard membership for a local-trouble sort of gang. Those that weren't awake were slapped back to consciousness by their associates as Jean strolled into the centre of the tannery floor.

"Good afternoon!" He gave a slight bow, from the neck, then spread his arms wide. "Who" s the biggest, meanest motherfucker here? Who's the best bruiser in the Brass Coves?"

After a few seconds of silence and surprised stares, a relatively stocky young man with a crooked nose and a shaved head leapt down onto the dusty floor from an open staircase. The boy walked up to Jean and smirked. "You're lookin" at him."

Jean nodded, smiled, then whipped both of his arms around so that his cupped hands cracked against both of the boy's ears. He staggered, and Jean took a firm hold of his head, lacing his fingers tightly behind the rear arch of his skull. He pulled the tough's head sharply downward and fed him a knee — once, twice, three times. As the boy's face met Jean's kneecap for the last time, Jean let go, and the tough sprawled backwards on the tannery floor, senseless as a side of cold, salted meat.

"Wrong," said Jean, not even breathing heavily. "I'm the meanest motherfucker here. Vm the biggest bruiser in the Brass Coves."

"You ain't in the Brass Coves, arsehole," shouted another boy, who nonetheless had a look of awed disquiet on his face. "Let's kill this piece of shit!"

A third boy, wearing a tattered four-cornered cap and a set of handmade necklaces threaded with small bones, darted toward Jean with a stiletto drawn back in his right hand. When the thrust came, Jean stepped back, caught the boy by the wrist and yanked him forward into a backfist from his other hand. While the boy spat blood and tried to blink tears of pain from his eyes, Jean kicked him in the groin, then swept his legs out from under him. The boy's stiletto appeared in Jean's left hand as if by magic, and he twirled it slowly.

"Surely you boys can do simple sums," he said. "One plus one equals don't fuck with me."

The boy who'd charged at him with the knife sobbed, then threw up.

"Let's talk taxes." Jean walked around the periphery of the tannery floor, kicking over a few empty wine bottles; there were dozens of them scattered around. "Looks like you boys pull in enough coin to eat and drink; that's good. I'll have forty per cent of it, cold metal. I don't want goods. You'll pay your taxes every other day, starting today. Cough up your purses and turn out your pockets." "Fuck that!"

Jean stalked toward the boy who'd spoken; the youth was standing against the far wall of the tannery with his arms crossed. "Don't like it? Hit me, then." "Uh…"

"You don't think that's fair? You mug people for a living, right? Make a fist, son." "Uh…"

Jean grabbed him, spun him around, took hold of him by his neck and by the top of his breeches and rammed him head-first into the thick wood of the tannery's outer wall several times. The boy hit the ground with a thud when Jean let go; he was unable to fight back when Jean patted down his tunic and came up with a small leather purse.

"Added penalty," said Jean, "for damaging the wall of my tannery with your head." He emptied the purse into his own, then tossed it back down beside the boy. "Now, all of you get down here and line up. Line up! Four-tenths isn't much. Be honest: you can guess what I'll do if I find out that you're not."

"Who the hell are you?" The first boy to approach Jean with coins in his hand offered up the question along with the money. "You can call me—"

As Jean began to speak, the boy conjured a dagger in his other hand, dropped the coins and lunged. The bigger man shoved the boy's extended arm to the outside, bent nearly in half, and slammed his right shoulder into the boy's stomach. He then lifted the boy effortlessly on his shoulder and dropped him over his back, so that the boy struck the floor of the tannery nearly face-first. He ended up writhing in pain beside the last Cove who'd pulled a blade on Jean. "Callas. Tavrin Callas, actually." Jean smiled. "That was a good thought, coming at me while I was talking. That at least I can respect." Jean shuffled backwards several paces to block the door. "But it seems to me that the subtle philosophical concept I'm attempting to descant upon may be going over your heads. Do I really have to kick all your arses before you take the hint?"

There was a chorus of mutterings and a healthy number of boys shook their heads, however reluctantly.

"Good." The extortion went smoothly after that; Jean wound up with a satisfying collection of coins, surely enough to keep him and Locke ensconced at their inn for another week. "I'm off, then. Rest easy and work well tonight. I'll be back tomorrow, at the second hour of the afternoon. We can start talking about how things are going to be now that I'm the new boss of the Brass Coves."

3

Naturally, they all armed themselves, and at the second hour of the afternoon the next day they were waiting in ambush for Jean.

To their surprise, he strolled into the old tannery with a Vel Virazzo constable at his side. The woman was tall and muscular, dressed in a plum-purple coat reinforced with a lining of fine iron chain; she had brass epaulettes on her shoulders and long brown hair pulled back in a tight swordswoman's tail with brass rings. Four more constables took up position just outside the door; they wore similar coats, but also carried long, lacquered sticks and heavy wooden shields slung over their backs.

"Hello, lads," said Jean. All around the room, daggers, stilettos, broken bottles and sticks were disappearing from sight. "I'm sure some of you recognize Prefect Levasto and her men."

"Boys," said the prefect offhandedly, hooking her thumbs into her leather sword-belt. Alone of all the constables, she carried a cutlass in a plain black sheath.

"Prefect Levasto," said Jean, "is a wise woman, and she leads wise men. They happen to enjoy money, which I am now providing as a consideration for the hardship and tedium of their duties. If anything should chance to happen to me, why, they would lose a new source of the very thing they enjoy." "It would be heartbreaking," said the prefect. "And it would have consequences," said Jean.

The prefect set one of her boots on an empty wine bottle and applied steady pressure until it shattered beneath her heel. "Heartbreaking," she repeated with a sigh.

"I'm sure you're all bright lads," said Jean. "I'm sure you" ve all enjoyed the prefect's visit."

"Shouldn't like to have to repeat it," said Levasto with a grin. She turned slowly and ambled back out through the doorway. The sound of her squad marching away soon receded into the distance.

The Brass Coves looked down at Jean, glumly. The four boys closest to the door, with their hands behind their backs, were the ones wearing livid black and green bruises from before. "Why the fuck are you doing this to us?" grumbled one of them.

"I'm not your enemy, boys. Believe it or not, I think you'll really come to appreciate what I can do for you. Now shut up and listen. First," said Jean, raising his voice so everyone could hear, "I'd like to say that it's rather sad, how long you" ve been around without getting the city watch on the take. They were so eager for it when I made the offer. Like sad, neglected little puppies."

Jean was wearing a long black vest over a stained white tunic. He reached up beneath his back, under the vest, with his right hand.

"But," he continued, "at least the fact that your first thought was to kill me shows some spirit. Let's see those toys again. Come on, show "em off."

Sheepishly, the boys drew out their weapons once again, and Jean inspected them with a sweep of his head. "Mmmm. Gimp steel, broken bottles, little sticks, a hammer… boys, the trouble with this set-up is that you think those are threats. They" re not. They" re insults."

He started moving while the last few words were still coming out of his mouth; his left hand slid up beneath his vest beside his right. Both of his arms came out and up in a blur, and then he grunted as he let fly with both of his hatchets, overhand.

There was a pair of half-full wineskins hanging on pegs on the far wall; each one exploded in a gout of cheap Verrari red that spattered several boys nearby. Jean's hatchets had impaled the wineskins dead-centre, and stuck in the wood behind them without quivering.

" "That was a threat," he said, cracking his knuckles. "And that's why you now work for me. Anyone else really want to dispute that at this point?" The boys standing closest to the wineskins edged backwards as Jean stepped over and wrenched his hatchets out of the wall. "Didn't think so. But don't take it amiss," Jean continued. "It works in your favour, too. A boss needs to protect what's his if he's going to stay the boss. If anyone other than me tries to shove you around, let me know. I'll pay them a visit. That's my job."

The next day, the Brass Coves grudgingly lined up to pay their taxes. The last boy in line, as he dropped his copper coins into Jean's hands, muttered: "You said you" d help if someone else gave us the business. Some of the Coves got kicked around this morning by the Black Sleeves, from over on the north side." Jean nodded sagely and slipped his takings into his coat pocket.

The next night, after making inquiries, he sauntered into a north-side dive called the Sign of the Brimming Cup. The only thing the tavern was brimming with was thugs, a good seven or eight of them, all with dirty black cloths tied around the arms of their jackets and tunics. They were the only customers, and they looked up with suspicion as he closed the door behind him and carefully slid home the wooden bolt.

"Good evening!" He smiled and cracked his knuckles. "I'm curious. Who's the biggest, meanest motherfucker in the Black Sleeves?"

The day after that, he collected his taxes from the Brass Coves with the bruised knuckles of his right hand wrapped in a poultice. For the first time, most of the boys paid enthusiastically. A few even started to call him "Tav".

4

But Locke did not exercise his wounds, as he'd promised.

Locke's thin supply of coins was parcelled out for wine; his poison of choice was a particularly cheap local slop. More purple than red, with a bouquet like turpentine, its scent soon saturated the room he shared with Jean at the Silver Lantern. Locke took it constandy "for the pain"; Jean remarked one evening that his pain must be increasing as the days went on, for the empty skins and bottles were multiplying proportionally. They quarrelled — or more accurately rekindled their ongoing quarrel — and Jean stomped off into the night, for neither the first nor the last time.

Those first few days in Vel Virazzo, Locke would totter down the steps to the common room some nights, where he would play a few desultory hands of cards with some of the locals. He conned them mirthlessly with whatever fast-fingers tricks he could manage with just one good hand. Soon enough they began to shun his games and his bad attitude, and he retreated back to the third floor, to drink alone in silence. Food and cleanliness remained afterthoughts. Jean tried to get a dog-leech in to examine Locke's wounds, but Locke drove the man out with a string of invective that made Jean (whose speech could be colourful enough to strike fire from damp tinder) blush.

"Of your friend I can find no trace," said the man. "He seems to have been eaten by one of the thin, hairless apes from the Okanti isles; all it does is screech at me. What became of the last leech to take a look at him?"

"We left him in Talisham," said Jean. "I'm afraid my friend's attitude moved him to bring an early end to his own sea voyage."

"Well, I might have done the same. I waive my fee, in profound sympathy. Keep your silver — you shall need it for wine. Or poison."

More and more, Jean found himself spending time with the Brass Coves for no better reason than to avoid Locke. A week passed, then another. "Tavrin Callas" was becoming a known and solidly respected figure in Vel Virazzo's crooked fraternity. Jean's arguments with Locke became more circular, more frustrating, more pointless. Jean instinctively recognized the downward arc of terminal self-pity, but had never dreamed that he'd have to drag Locke, of all people, out of it. He avoided the problem by training the Coves.

At first, he passed on just a few hints — how to use simple hand signals around strangers, how to set distractions before picking pockets, how to tell real gems from paste and avoid stealing the latter. Inevitably, he began to receive respectful entreaties to "show them a thing or two" of the tricks he'd used to pound four Coves into the ground. First in line with these requests were the four who'd been pounded.

A week after that, the alchemy was fully under way. Half a dozen boys were rolling around in the dust of the tannery floor while Jean coached them on all the essentials of infighting — leverage, initiative, situational awareness. He began to demonstrate the tricks, both merciful and cruel, that had kept him alive over half a lifetime spent making his points with his fists and hatchets.

Under Jean's influence, the boys began to take more of an interest in the state of their old tannery. He explicitly encouraged them to start viewing it as a headquarters, which demanded certain comforts. Alchemical lanterns appeared, hanging from the rafters. Fresh oilpaper was nailed up over the broken windows, and new planks and straw were raised up to the roof to plug holes. The boys stole cushions, cheap tapestries and portable shelves.

"Find me a hearthstone," said Jean. "Steal me a big one, and I'll teach you poor little bastards how to cook, too. You can't beat Camorr for chefs; even the thieves are chefs back there. I" ve had years of training."

He stared around at the increasingly well-maintained tannery, at the increasingly eager band of young thieves living in it, and he spoke wistfully to himself: "We all did."

He" d tried to interest Locke in the project of the Brass Coves, but had been rebuffed. That night he tried again, explaining about their ever-increasing nightly take, their headquarters, the tips and training he was giving them. Locke stared at him for a long time, sitting on the bed with a chipped glass half-full of purple wine in his hands.

"Well," he said at last. "Well, I can see you" ve found your replacements, haven't you?" Jean was too startled to say anything.

Locke drained his glass and continued, his voice flat and humourless, "That was certainly quick. Quicker than I expected. A new gang, a new burrow. Not a glass one, but you can probably fix that if you look around long enough. So here you are, playing Father Chains, lighting a fire under that kettle of happy horse-shit all over again."

Jean exploded across the room and slapped the empty glass out of Locke's hand; it shattered against the wall and showered half the room with glittering fragments, but Locke didn't even blink. Instead, he leaned back against his sweat-stained pillows and sighed. "Got any twins yet? How about a new Sabetha? A new meV

"To hell with you!" Jean clenched his fists until he could feel the warm, slick blood seeping out beneath his nails. "To hell with you, Locke! I didn't save your gods-damned life so you could sulk in this gods-damned hovel and pretend you're the man who invented grief. You're not that gods-damned special!" "Why did you save me then, Saint Jean?" "Of all the stupid fucking questions—"

"WHY?" Locke heaved himself up off the bed and shook his fists at Jean; the effect would have been comical, but all the murder in the world was in his eyes. "I told you to leave me! Am I supposed to be grateful for this? This bloody room?" "I didn't make this room your whole world, Locke. You did."

"This is what I was rescued for? Three weeks sick at sea, and now Vel Virazzo, arsehole of Tal Verrar? It's the joke of the gods, and I'm the punch line. Dying with the Grey King would have been better. I told you to fucking leave me there!"

And then, "And I miss them," he said, his voice nearly a whisper. "Gods, I miss them. It's my fault they're dead. I can't… I can't stand it—"

"Don't you dare," growled Jean. He shoved Locke in the chest, forcefully. Locke fell backwards across his bed and hit the wall hard enough to rattle the window shutters. "Don't you dare use them as an excuse for what you're doing to yourself! Don't you fucking dare."

Without another word, Jean spun on his heels, walked out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

5

Locke sank down against the bed, put his face in his hands and listened to the creak of Jean's footsteps recede from the hall outside.

To his surprise, that creak returned a few minutes later, growing steadily louder. Jean threw the door open, face grim, and marched directly over to Locke with a tall wooden bucket of water in his hands. Without warning, he threw this all over Locke, who gasped in surprise and fell backwards against the wall again. He shook his head like a dog and pushed his sopping hair out of his eyes. "Jean, are you out of your fucking—"

"You needed a bath," Jean interrupted. "You were covered in self-pity"

He threw the bucket down and moved around the room, plucking up any bottle or wineskin that still contained liquid. He was finished before Locke realized what he was doing; he then swiped Locke's coin-purse from the room's little table and tossed a thin leather package down in its place. "Hey, Jean, Jean, you can't… that's mine!" "Used to be "ours"," said Jean coldly. "I liked that better."

When Locke tried to jump up from the bed again, Jean pushed him back down effortlessly. He then stormed out once more and pulled the door shut behind him. There was a curious clicking noise, and then nothing — not even a creak of floorboards. Jean was waiting right outside the door.

Snarling, Locke moved across the room and tried to pull the door open, but it held fast in its frame. He frowned in puzzlement and rattled it a few more times. The bolt was on his side, and it wasn't shot.

"It's a curious fact," Jean said through the door, "that the rooms of the Silver Lantern can be locked from the outside with a special key only the innkeeper has. In case he wants to keep an unruly guest at bay while he calls for the watch, you see." "Jean, open this fucking door!" "No. You open it." "I can't! You told me yourself you" ve got the special key!"

"The Locke Lamora I used to know would spit on you," said Jean. "Priest of the Crooked Warden. Garrista of the Gentlemen Bastards. Student of Father Chains. Brother to Calo, Galdo and Bug! Tell me, what would Sabetha think of you?" "You… you bastard! Open this door!" "Look at yourself, Locke. You're a fucking disgrace. Open it yourself." "You. Have. The. Godsdamnedmotberfuckingkey."

"You know how to charm a lock, right? I left you some picks on the table. You want your wine back, you work the bloody door yourself." "You son of a bitch!"

"My mother was a saint," said Jean. "The sweetest jewel Camorr ever produced. The city didn't deserve her. I can wait out here all night, you know. It'll be easy. I" ve got all your wine and all your money." "Gaaaaaaaaaaah!"

Locke snatched the little leather wallet off the table; he wiggled the fingers of his good right hand and regarded his left hand more dubiously; the broken wrist was mending, but it ached constantly.

He bent over the lock mechanism by the door, scowled and went to work. He was surprised at how quickly the muscles of his back began to protest his uncomfortable posture. He stopped long enough to pull the room's chair over so he could sit on it while he worked.

As his picks rattled around inside the lock and he bit his tongue in concentration, he heard the heavy creak of movement outside the door and a series of loud thumps. "Jean?"

"Still here, Locke," came Jean's voice, now cheerful. "Gods, you're taking your sweet time. Oh, I'm sorry — have you even started yet?" "When I get this door open, you're dead, Jean!"

"When you get that door open? I look forward to many long years of life, then."

Locke redoubled his concentration, falling back into the rhythm he'd learned over so many painstaking hours as a boy — moving the picks slightly, feeling for sensations. That damn creaking and thumping had started up on the other side of the door again! What was Jean playing at now? Locke closed his eyes and tried to block the sound out of his mind… tried to let his world narrow down to the message of the picks against his fingers…

The mechanism clicked open. Locke stumbled up from his chair, jubilant and furious, and yanked the door open.

Jean had vanished, and the narrow corridor outside the room was packed wall to wall with wooden crates and barrels — an impassable barrier about three feet from Locke's face. "Jean, what the hell is this?"

"I'm sorry, Locke." Jean was obviously standing directly behind his makeshift wall. "I borrowed a few things from the keeper's larder and got a few of the boys you cheated at cards last week to help me carry it all up here."

Locke gave the wall a good shove, but it didn't budge; Jean was probably putting his full weight against it. There was a faint chorus of laughter from somewhere on the other side, probably down in the common room. Locke ground his teeth together and beat the flat of his good hand against a barrel.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Jean? You're making a gods-damned scene!"

"Not really. Last week I told the keeper you were a Camorri don travelling incognito, trying to recover from a bout of madness. Just now I set an awful lot of silver on his bar. You do remember silver, don't you? How we used to steal it from people, back when you were pleasant company?"

"This has ceased to amuse me, Jean! Give me back my gods-damned wine!"

"Gods-damned it is. And I'm afraid that if you want it, you're going to have to climb out through your window."

Locke took a step back and stared at the makeshift wall, dumbfounded. "Jean, you can't be serious." "I" ve never been more serious."

"Go to hell. Go to hell! I can't climb out of a bloody window. My wrist—"

"You fought the Grey King with one arm nearly cut off. You climbed out of a window five hundred feet up in Raven's Reach. And here you are, three storeys off the ground, helpless as a kitten in a grease barrel. Crybaby. Pissant." "You are deliberately trying to provoke me!" "No shit," said Jean. "Sharp as a cudgel, you are."

Locke stomped back into the room, fuming. He stared at the shuttered window, bit his tongue and stormed back to Jean's wall.

"Please let me out," he said, as evenly as he could manage. "Your point is driven home."

"I'd drive it home with a blackened-steel pike if I had one," said Jean. "Why are you talking to me when you should be climbing out of the window?" "Gods damn you!"

Back to the room; Locke paced furiously. He swung his arms about tentatively; the cuts on his left arm ached and the deep wound on his shoulder still twinged cruelly. His battered left wrist felt as though it might almost serve. Pain or no pain… he curled his left-hand fingers into a fist, stared down at them and then looked up at the window with narrowed eyes.

"Fuck it," he said. "I'll show you a thing or three, you son of a bloody silk merchant…"

Locke tore his bedding apart, knotting sheet-ends to blankets, inviting twinges from his injuries. The pain only served to drive him on faster. He tightened his last knot, threw open the shutters and tossed his makeshift rope out through the window. He tied the end in his hands to his bed frame. It wasn't a terribly sturdy piece of furniture, but then he didn't weigh all that much. Out through the window he went.

Vel Virazzo was an old, low city; Locke's impressions as he swung there, three storeys above the faintly misted street, came in flashes. Flat-topped, sagging buildings of stone and plaster… reefed sails on black masts in the harbour… white moonlight gleaming on dark water… red lights burning atop glass pylons, receding in a line out toward the horizon. Locke shut his eyes, clung to his sheets and bit his tongue to avoid throwing up. It seemed easiest simply to slide downward; he did so in fits and starts, letting his palms grow warm against the sheets and blankets before stopping. Down ten feet… Twenty… He balanced precariously on the top sill of the inn's common-room window and gasped in a few deep breaths before continuing. Warm as the night was, he was getting chilly from the soaking he'd received.

The last strip of the last sheet ended about six feet off the ground; Locke slid down as far as he could, then let himself drop. His heels slapped against the cobblestones, and he found Jean Tannen already waiting for him, with a cheap grey cloak in his hands. Before Locke could move, Jean flung the cloak around his shoulders.

"You son of a bitch," cried Locke, pulling the cloak around himself with both hands. "You snake-souled, dirty-minded son of a bitch! I hope a shark tries to suck your cock!"

"Why, Master Lamora, look at you," said Jean. "Charming a lock, climbing out of a window. Almost as though you used to be a thief."

T was pulling off hanging offences when you were still teeth-on-tits in your mother's arms!"

"And I" ve been pulling off hanging offences while you" ve been sulking in your room, drinking away your skills."

"I'm the best thief in Vel Virazzo," growled Locke, "drunk or sober, awake or asleep, and you damn well know it."

T might have believed that once," said Jean. "But that was a man I knew in Camorr, and he hasn't been with me for some time."

"Gods damn your ugly face," yelled Locke as he stepped up to Jean and punched him in the stomach. More surprised than hurt, Jean gave him a solid shove. Locke flew backwards, cloak whirling as he tried to keep his balance — until he collided with a man who'd been coming down the street.

"Mind your fucking step!" The stranger, a middle-aged man in a long orange coat and the prim clothes of a clerk or a lawscribe, wrestled for a few seconds with Locke, who clutched at him for support.

"A thousand pardons," said Locke, "A thousand pardons, sir. My friend and I were merely having a discussion; the fault is all mine."

"I dare say it is," said the stranger, at last succeeding in prying Locke from his coat lapels and thrusting him away. "You have breath like a wine-cask! Bloody Camorri."

Locke watched until the man was a good twenty or thirty yards down the street, then whirled back toward Jean, dangling a little black leather t purse in the air before him. It jingled with a healthy supply of heavy coins. "Ha! What do you say to that, hmmm?"

"I say it was bloody child's play. Doesn't mean a gods-damned thing." "Child's play? Die screaming, Jean, that was—"

"You're mangy" said Jean. "You're dirtier than a Shades" Hill orphan. You" ve lost weight, though where from is a great mystery. You haven't been exercising your wounds or letting anyone tend to them for you. You" ve been hiding in a room, letting your condition slip away, and you" ve been drunk for two straight weeks. You're not what you were and it's your own damn fault."

"So." Locke scowled at Jean, slipped the purse into a tunic pocket and straightened the cloak on his shoulders. "You require a demonstration. Fine. Get back inside and take down your silly wall, and wait for me in the room. I'll be back in a few hours." "I…"

But Locke had already thrown up the hood of his cloak, turned and begun to stride down the street, into the warm Vel Virazzo night. Jean cleared the barrier from the third-floor hallway, left a few more coins (from Locke's purse) with the bemused innkeeper and bustled about the room, allowing some of the smell of drunken enclosure to evaporate out via the open window. Upon reflection, he went down to the bar and came back with a glass decanter of water.

Jean was pacing, worriedly, when Locke burst back in about four hours later, just past the third hour of the morning. He set a huge wicker basket down on the table, threw off his cloak, grabbed the bucket Jean had used to douse him and noisily threw up in it.

"My apologies," he muttered when he had finished. He was flushed and breathing heavily, as wet as he'd been when he'd left, but now with warm sweat. "The wine has not entirely left my head… and my wind has all but deserted me."

Jean passed him the decanter and Locke slurped from it as shamelessly as a horse at a trough. Jean helped him into the chair. Locke said nothing for a few seconds, then suddenly seemed to notice Jean's hand on his shoulder, and he recoiled. "Here… we are… then," he gasped. "See what happens when you provoke me? I think we're going to have to flee the city." "What the— What have you done?"

Locke tore the lid from his basket; it was the sort commonly used by merchants to haul small loads of goods to and from a street market. A prodigious assortment of odds and ends lay inside, and Locke began to list them off as he pulled them out and showed them to Jean.

"What's this? Why, it's a pile of purses… one-two-three-/oMr of them, all plucked from sober gentlemen in open streets. Here's a knife, two bottles of wine, a pewter ale mug — dented a bit, but still good metal. A brooch, three gold pins, two earrings — earrings, Master Tannen, plucked from ears, and I'd like to see you try that. Here's a little bolt of nice silk, a box of sweetmeats, two loaves of bread — the crusty kind with all the spices baked in that you like so much. And now, specially for the edification of a certain pessimistic, peace-breaking son of a bitch who shall remain nameless…"

Locke held up a glittering necklace, a braided band of gold and silver supporting a heavy gold pendant, studded with sapphires in the stylized pattern of a floral blossom. The little phalanx of stones flashed like blue fire even by the light of the room's single soft lantern.

"That's a sweet piece," said Jean, briefly forgetting to be aggravated. "You didn't snatch that off a street."

"No," said Locke, before taking another deep draught of the warm water in the decanter. "I got it from the neck of the governor's mistress." "You can't be serious." "In the governor's manor." "Of all the—" "In the governor's bed." "Damned lunatic!" "With the governor sleeping next to her."

The night quiet was broken by the high, distant trill of a whistle, the traditional swarming-noise of city watches everywhere. Several other whistles joined in a few moments later.

"It is possible," said Locke with a sheepish grin, "that I have been slightly too bold."

Jean sat down on the bed and ran both of his hands through his hair. "Locke, I" ve spent the past few weeks making a name for Tavrin Callas as the biggest, brightest thing to come along in this city's sad little pack of Right People for ages! When the watch starts asking questions, someone's going to point me out… and someone's going to mention all the time I spend here, and the time I spend with you… and if we try to fence a piece of metal like that in a place this small—" "As I said, I think we're going to have to flee the city."

"Flee the city?" Jean jumped up and pointed an accusatory finger at Locke. "You" ve screwed up weeks of work! I" ve been training the Coves — signals, tricks, teasing, fighting, the whole bit! I was going to… I was going to start teaching them how to cook!"

"Oooh, this is serious. I take it the marriage proposal wouldn't have been far behind?"

"Dammit, this is serious! I" ve been building something! I" ve been out working while you" ve been sobbing and sulking and pissing your time away in here."

"You're the one who fit a fire under me because he wanted to see me dance. Now I" ve danced, and I believe I" ve made my point. Will you be apologizing?"

"Apologizing? You're the one who's been an insufferable little shit! Letting you live is apology enough! All my work—"

"Capa of Vel Virazzo? Is that how you saw yourself, Jean? Another Barsavi?"

"Another anything," said Jean. "There's worse things to be — Capa Lamora, for example, Lord of One Smelly Room. I won't be a bloody knockabout, Locke. I am an honest working thief and I'll do what I have to, to keep a table set and a roof over our heads!"

"So let's go somewhere and get back to something really lucrative," said Locke. "You want honest crooked work? Fine. Let's go and hook a big fish just like we used to in Camorr. You wanted to see me steal, let's go out and steall" "But Tavrin Callas—"

"Has died before," said Locke. "Seeker into Aza Guilla's mysteries, right? Let him seek again."

"Dammit." Jean stepped over to the window and took a peek out; whistling was still coming from several directions. "It might take a few days to arrange a berth on a ship, and we won't get out by land with what you" ve stolen — they'll be checking everyone at the gates, probably for a week or two to come."

"Jean," said Locke, "now you're disappointing me. Gates? Ships? Please. This is us we're talking about. We could smuggle a five cow past every constable in this city, at high noon. Without clothes."

"Locke? Locke Lamora?" Jean rubbed his eyes with exaggerated motions. "Why, where have you been all these weeks? Here I thought I'd been rooming with a miserable self-absorbed arsehole who—"

"Right," said Locke. "Fine. Ha. Yeah, maybe I deserved that kick in the face. But I'm serious, getting us out is as easy as a bit of cooking. Get down to the innkeeper. Wake him up and throw some more silver at him — there's plenty in those purses. I'm a mad Camorri don, right? Tell him I" ve got a mad whim. Get me some more dirty cloth, some apples, a hearthstone and a black iron pot full of water."

"Apples?" Jean scratched his beard. "Apples? You mean… the apple-mash trick?"

"Just so," said Locke. "Get me that stuff, and I'll get boiling, and we can be out of here by dawn."

"Huh." Jean opened the door, slipped out into the hall and turned once before leaving for good. "I take some of it back," he said. "You might still be a lying, cheating, low-down, greedy, grasping, conniving, pocket-picking son of a bitch." "Thanks," said Locke.

7

A drizzle was pattering softly around them as they walked out through Vel Virazzo's north gate a few hours later. Sunrise was a watery line of yellow on the eastern horizon, under scudding charcoal clouds. Purple-jacketed soldiers stared down in revulsion from atop the city's fifteen-foot wall; the heavy wooden door of the small sally-port slammed shut behind them as though it too was glad to be rid of them.

Locke and Jean were both dressed in tattered cloaks and wrapped in bandage-like fragments from a dozen torn-up sheets and pieces of clothing. A thin coating of boiled apple mash, still warm, soaked through some of the "bandages" on their arms and chests, and was plastered liberally over their faces. Sloshing around wearing a layer of the stuff under cloth was disgusting, but there was no better disguise to be had in all the world.

Slipskin was a painful, incurable disease, and those afflicted with it were even less tolerated than lepers. Had Locke and Jean approached from outside Vel Virazzo's walls, they never would have been let in. As it was, the guards had no interest in how thed'r entered the city in the first place; thed'r nearly stumbled over themselves in their haste to see them gone.

The outer city was an unhappy-looking place: a few blocks of crumbling one— and two-storey buildings, decorated here and there with the makeshift windmill-towers favoured in those parts for driving bellows over forges and ovens. Smoke sketched a few curling grey lines in the wet air overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Beyond the city, where the cobbles of the old Therin Throne Road became a wet dirt track, Locke could see scrubland, interrupted here and there by rocky clefts and piles of debris.

Their coin — and all of their other small goods worth transporting — were tucked into a little bag tied under Jean's clothes, where no guardsman would dare search, not if a superior stood behind him with a drawn sword and ordered it on pain of death.

"Gods," Locke muttered as they trudged along beside the road, "I'm getting too tired to think straight. I really have let myself slouch out of condition."

"Well, you're going to get some exercise these next few days, whether you like it or not. How" re the wounds?"

"They itch," said Locke. "This damn mush does them little good, I suspect. Still, it's not as bad as it was. A few hours of motion seems to have had some benefit."

"Wise in the ways of all such things is Jean Tannen," said Jean. "Wiser by far than most; especially most named Lamora."

"Shut your fat, ugly, inarguably wiser face," said Locke. "Mmmm. Look at those idiots scamper away from us."

"Would you do otherwise if you saw a pair of real slipskinners by the side of the road?" "Eh. I suppose not. Damn these aching feet, too."

"Let's get a mile or two outside town, then find a place to rest. Once we've put some leagues under our heels, we can ditch this mush and pose as respectable travellers again. Any idea where you want to strike out for?"

"I should" ve thought it was obvious," said Locke. "These little towns are for pikers. We're after gold and white iron, not clipped coppers. Let's make for Tal Verrar. Something's bound to present itself there." "Mmm. Tal Verrar. Well, it is close." "Camorri have a long and glorious history of kicking the piss out of.? our poor Verrari cousins, so I say, on to Tal Verrar," said Locke. "And glory." They walked on a way under the tickling mist of the morning drizzle. "And baths."

1

Though Locke saw that Jean remained as unsettled by their experience in the Night Market as he was, they spoke no more of the matter. There was a job to be done.

The close of the working day for honest men and women in Tal Verrar was just the beginning of theirs. It had been strange at first, getting used to the rhythm of a city where the sun simply fell beneath the horizon like a quiescent murder victim each night, without the glow of Falselight to mark its passing. But Tal Verrar had been built to different tastes or needs than Camorr, and its Elderglass simply mirrored the sky, raising no light of its own.

Their suite at the Villa Candessa was high-ceilinged and opulent; at five silver volani a night, nothing less was to be expected. Their fourth-floor window overlooked a cobbled courtyard in which carriages, studded with lanterns and outriding mercenary guards, came and went with echoing clatters.

"Bondsmagi," muttered Jean as he tied on his neck-cloths before a looking glass. Til never hire one of the bastards to do so much as heat my tea, not if I live to be richer than the Duke of Camorr."

"Now there's a thought," said Locke, who was already dressed and sipping coffee. A full day of sleep had done wonders for his head. "If we were richer than the Duke of Camorr, we could hire a whole pack of them and give them instructions to go lose themselves on a desolate fucking island somewhere."

"Mmm. I don't think the gods made any islands desolate enough for my tastes."

Jean finished tying his neck-cloths with one hand and reached for his breakfast with the other. One of the odder services the Villa Candessa provided for its long-term guests was its "likeness cakes" — little frosted simulacra fashioned after the guests by the inn's Camorr-trained pastry sculptor. On a silver tray beside the looking-glass, a little sweetbread Locke (with raisin eyes and almond-butter blond hair) sat beside a rounder Jean with dark chocolate hair and beard. The baked Jean's legs were already missing.

A few moments later, Jean was brushing the last buttery crumbs from the front of his coat. "Alas, poor Locke and Jean." "They died of consumption," said Locke.

"I do wish I could be there to see it when you talk to Requin and Selendri, you know."

"Hmmm. Can I trust you to still be in Tal Verrar by the time I finish?" He tired to leaven the question with a smile, only partially succeeding.

"You know I won't go anywhere," said Jean. "I'm still not sure it's wise. But you know I won't."

"I do. I'm sorry." He finished his coffee and set the cup down. "And my chat with Requin isn't going to be all that terribly interesting."

"Nonsense. I heard a smirk in your voice. Other people smirk when their work is finished; you grin like an idiot just before yours really begins."

"Smirking? I'm as slack-cheeked as a corpse. I'm just looking forward to being done with it. Tedious business. I anticipate a dull meeting."

"Dull meeting, my arse. Not after you walk straight up to the lady with the brass bloody hand and say, "Excuse me, madam, but…"

2

"I have been cheating," said Locke. "Steadily. At every single game I" ve played since my partner and I first came to the Sinspire, two years ago."

Receiving a piercing stare from Selendri was a curious thing; her left eye was nothing but a dark hollow, half-covered with a translucent awning that had once been a lid. Her single good eye did the work of two, and damned if it wasn't unnerving.

"Are you deaf, madam? Every single one. Cheating. All the way up and down this precious Sinspire, cheating floor after floor, taking your other guests for a very merry ride."

"I wonder," she said in her slow, witchy whisper, "if you truly understand what it means to say that to me, Master Kosta. Are you drunk?" "I'm as sober as a suckling infant." "Is this something you" ve been put up to?"

"I am completely serious," said Locke. "And it's your master I would speak to about my motivations. Privately."

The sixth floor of the Sinspire was quiet. Locke and Selendri were alone, with four of Requin's uniformed attendants waiting about twenty feet away. It was still too early in the evening for this level's rarefied crowd to have finished their slow, carousing migration up through the livelier levels.

At the heart of the sixth floor was a tall sculpture within a cylinder of transparent Elderglass. Though the glass could not be worked by human arts, there were literally millions of cast-off fragments and shaped pieces scattered around the world, some of which could be conveniently fitted to human use. There were Elderglass scavenging guilds in several cities, capable of filling special needs in exchange for exorbitant fees.

Within the cylinder was something Locke could only describe as a copperfall — it was a sculpture of a rocky waterfall, taller than a man, in which the rocks were shaped entirely from silver volani coins, and the "water" was a constant heavy stream of copper cenrira, thousands upon thousands of them. The clatter within the soundproof glass enclosure must have been tremendous, but for those on the outside the show proceeded in absolute silence. Some mechanism in the floor was catching the stream of coins and re-circulating it up the back of the silver "rocks". It was eccentric and hypnotic… Locke had never before known anyone to decorate a room with a literal pile of money. "Master? You presume that I have one." "You know I mean Requin." "He would be the first to correct your presumption. Violently."

"A private audience would give us a chance to clear up several misunderstandings, then."

"Oh, Requin will certainly speak to you — very privately." Selendri snapped the fingers of her right hand twice and the four attendants converged on Locke. Selendri pointed up; two of them took firm hold of his arms, and together they began to lead him up the stairs. Selendri followed a few steps behind.

The seventh floor was dominated by another sculpture within an even wider Elderglass enclosure. This one resembled a circle of volcanic islands, again built from silver volani, floating in a sea of solid-gold solari. Each of the silver peaks had a stream of gold coins bubbling from its top, to fall back down into the churning, gleaming "ocean". Requin's guards maintained a pace too vigorous for Locke to catch many more details of the sculpture or the room; they passed another pair of uniformed attendants beside the stairwell and continued up.

At the heart of the eighth floor was a third spectacle within glass, the largest yet. Locke blinked several times and suppressed an appreciative chuckle.

It was a stylized sculpture of Tal Verrar, silver islands nestled in a sea of gold coins. Standing over the model city, bestriding it like a god, was a life-sized marble sculpture of a man Locke recognized immediately. The statue, like the man, had prominent curving cheekbones that lent the narrow face a sense of mirth — plus a round protruding chin, wide eyes and large ears that seemed to have been jammed into the head at right angles. Requin, whose features bore a fair resemblance to a marionette put together in haste by a somewhat irate puppeteer.

The statue's hands were held outward at the waist, spread forward, and from the flaring stone cuffs around them two solid streams of gold coins were continually gushing onto the city below.

Locke, staring, only avoided tripping over his own feet because the attendants holding him chose that moment to tighten their grip. Atop the eighth-floor stairs was a pair of lacquered wooden doors. Selendri strode past Locke and the attendants. To the left of the door was a small niche in the wall; Selendri slid her brass hand into it, let it settle into some sort of mechanism and then gave it a half-turn to the left. There was a clatter of clockwork devices within the wall and the doors cracked open.

"Search him," she said as she vanished through the doors without turning around.

Locke was rapidly stripped of his coat; he was then poked, prodded, sifted and patted down more thoroughly than he'd been during his last visit to a brothel. His sleeve-stilettos (a perfectly ordinary thing for a man of consequence to carry) were confiscated, his purse was shaken out, his shoes were slipped off and one attendant even ran his hands through Locke's hair. When this process was finished, Locke (shoeless, coatless and somewhat dishevelled) was given a less-than-gentle shove toward the doors through which Selendri had vanished.

Beyond them was a dark space not much larger than a wardrobe closet. A winding black iron staircase, wide enough for one person, rose up from the floor toward a square of soft yellow light. Locke padded up the stairs and emerged into Requin's office.

This place took up the whole of the ninth floor of the Sinspire; an area against the far wall, curtained off with silk drapes, probably served as a bedroom. There was a balcony door on the right-hand wall, covered by a sliding mesh screen. Locke could see a wide, darkened sweep of Tal Verrar through it, so he presumed it looked east.

Every other wall of the office, as he'd heard, was liberally decorated with oil paintings — nearly twenty of them around the visible periphery of the room, in elaborate frames of gilded wood. Masterworks of the late Therin Throne years, when nearly every noble at the Emperor's court had kept a painter or sculptor on the leash of patronage, showing them off like pets. Locke hadn't the training to tell one from another by sight, but rumour had it that there were two Morestras and a Ventathis on Requin's walls. Those two artists — along with all their sketches, books of theory and apprentices — had died centuries before, in the firestorm that had consumed the imperial city of Therim Pel.

Selendri stood beside a wide wooden desk the colour of a fine coffee, cluttered with books and papers and miniature clockwork devices. A chair was pushed out behind it, and Locke could see the remnants of a dinner — some sort of fish on a white-iron plate, paired with a half-empty bottle of pale golden wine.

Selendri touched her flesh hand to her brass simulacrum, and there was a clicking noise. The hand folded apart like the petals of a gleaming flower. The fingers locked into place along the wrist and revealed a pair of blackened-steel blades, six inches long, previously concealed at the heart of the hand. Selendri waved these like a claw and gestured for Locke to stand before the desk, facing it.

"Master Kosta." The voice came from somewhere behind him, within the silk-curtained enclosure. "What a pleasure! Selendri tells me you" ve expressed an interest in getting killed."

"Hardly, sir. All I told your assistant was that I had been cheating steadily, along with my partner, at the games we've been playing in your Sinspire. For nearly the last two years." "Every game," said Selendri. "You said every single game."

"Ah, well," said Locke with a shrug, "it just sounded more dramatic that way. It was more like nearly every game." "This man is a clown," whispered Selendri. "Oh, no," said Locke. "Well, maybe occasionally. But not now."

Locke heard footsteps moving toward his back across the room's hardwood floor. "You're here on a bet," said Requin, much closer. "Not in the way that you mean, no." Requin stepped around Locke and stood before him, hands behind his back, peering at Locke very intently. The man was a virtual twin of his statue on the floor below; perhaps a few pounds heavier, with the bristling curls of steel-grey hair atop his head receding more sharply. His narrow frock coat was crushed black velvet, and his hands were covered with brown leather gloves. He wore optics, and Locke was surprised to see that the glimmer he had taken for reflected light the night before was actually imbued within the glass. They glowed a translucent orange, giving a demonic cast to the wide eyes behind them. Some fresh, expensive alchemy Locke had never heard of, no doubt.

"Did you drink anything unusual tonight, Master Kosta? An unfamiliar wine, perhaps?"

"Unless the water of Tal Verrar itself intoxicates, I'm as dry as baked sand."

Requin moved behind his desk, picked up a small silver fork, speared a white morsel of fish and pointed at Locke with it.

"So, if I'm to believe you, you" ve been successfully cheating here for two years, and aside from the sheer impossibility of that claim, now you just want to give yourself up to me. Case of conscience?" "Not even remotely." "An earnest wish for an elaborate suicide?" "I aim to leave this office alive."

"Oh, you wouldn't necessarily be dead until you hit the cobblestones nine storeys below." "Perhaps I can convince you I'm worth more to you intact."

Requin chewed his fish before speaking again. "Just how have you been cheating, Master Kosta?" "Fast-fingers work, mostly."

"Really? I can tell a card-sharp's fingers at a glance. Let's see that right hand of yours." Requin held out his gloved left hand and Locke hesitantly put his own forward, as though they might shake.

Requin snatched Locke's right hand above the wrist and slammed it down atop his desk — but rather than the sharp rap Locke expected, his hand tipped aside some sort of disguised panel and slid into an aperture just beneath the surface of the desk. There was a loud clack of clockwork and a cold pressure pinched his wrist. Locke jerked back, but the desk had swallowed his hand like the unyielding maw of a beast. Selendri's twin steel claws turned casually toward him, and he froze. "There now. Hands, hands, hands. They get their owners into such trouble, Master Kosta. Selendri and I are two who would know." Requin turned to the wall behind his desk and slid back a lacquered wood panel, revealing a long, shallow shelf set into the wall.

Within were dozens of sealed glass jars, each holding something dark and withered… dead spiders? No, Locke corrected himself — human hands. Severed, dried and stored as trophies, with rings still gleaming on many of their curled and desiccated fingers.

"Before we proceed to the inevitable, that's what we usually do," Requin said in a lightly conversational tone. "Right hand, ta-ta. I" ve got it down to a pretty process. Used to have carpets in here, but the damn blood made for such a mess."

"Very prudent of you." Locke felt a single bead of sweat start its slow slide down his forehead. "I am as awed and chastised as you no doubt hoped. Might I have my hand back?"

"In its original condition? I doubt it. But answer some questions and we'll see. Now, fast-fingers work, you say. But forgive me — my attendants are extremely adept at spotting card-sharps."

"I'm sure your attendants mean well." Locke knelt down before the desk, the most comfortable position possible, and smiled. "But I can finger-dance a live cat into a standard deck of fifty-six and slip it back out at leisure. Other players might complain about the noise, but thed'r never spot the source." "Set a live cat on my desk, then."

"It was, ah, a colourful figure of speech. Live cats, unfortunately, aren't in fashion as evening accessories for gentlemen of Tal Verrar this season."

"Pity. But hardly a surprise. I" ve had quite a few dead men kneeling where you are now, offering colourful figures of speech and little else."

Locke sighed. "Your boys removed my coat and my shoes, and if thed'r patted me down any more thoroughly they would have been fingering my liver. But what's this?"

He shook out his left sleeve and held up his left hand to show that a deck of cards had somehow fallen into it. Selendri shoved her blades toward Locke's throat, but Requin waved her back with a smile on his face. "He can hardly kill me with a pack of cards, darling. Not bad, Master Kosta."

"Now," said Locke, "let's see." He held his arm straight out to the side, with the deck held firmly upright between his thumb and all four fingers. A twist of the wrist, a flick of his thumb, and the deck was cut. -U He began to flex and splay his fingers, steadily increasing his tempo until they moved like a spider taking fencing lessons. Cut and shuffle, cut and shuffle — he sliced the deck apart and slid it back together no fewer than a dozen times. Then, with one smooth flourish, he slapped it down on the desk and spread it in a long arc, displacing several of Requin's knick-knacks.

"Pick one," said Locke. "Any one you like. Look at it, but don't show it to me."

Requin did as instructed. While he peeked at the card he'd drawn, Locke gathered the rest of the deck with a reverse slide across Requin's desktop; he shuffled and cut once more, then split the deck and left half on top of the desk. "Go ahead and place your chosen card atop that half of the deck. Remember it, now."

When Requin returned the card, Locke slapped the other half of the deck down on top of it. Taking the full deck in his left hand, he did his one-handed cut-and-shuffle another five times. Then he slid die top card from the deck — the four of Chalices — onto Requin's desk and smiled. "This, Master of the Sinspire, is your card." "No," said Requin with a smirk.

"Shit." Locke flicked out the next card from the top, the Sigil of the Sun. "Aha -1 knew it was around there somewhere." "No," said Requin.

"Damn me," said Locke, and he rapidly went through the next half-dozen from the top of the deck. "Eight of Spires? Three of Spires? Three of Chalices? Sigil of the Twelve Gods? Five of Sabres? Shit. Mistress of Flowers?" Requin shook his head for each one.

"Huh. Excuse me." Locke set the deck of cards down on Requin's desk, then fumbled at the clasp of his right sleeve with his left hand. After a few seconds, he slid the sleeve back above his elbow and re-set the clasp. Suddenly, there was another deck of cards in his left hand.

"Let's see… Seven of Sabres? Three of Spires? No, we already did that one… Two of Chalices? Six of Chalices? Master of Sabres? Three of Flowers? Damn, damn. That deck wasn't so good after all."

Locke set the second deck down beside the first on Requin's desk, appeared to scratch an itch near the slender black sash above his breeches and then held up a third deck of cards. He grinned at Requin and raised his eyebrows.

"This trick might work even better if I could have the use of my right hand." "Why, when you appear to be doing so well without it?"

Locke sighed and flicked the top card from the new deck onto the growing pile atop the desk. "Nine of Chalices! Look familiar?"

Requin laughed and shook his head. Locke set the third deck down beside the ones already on Requin's desk, stood up and conjured another from somewhere in the vicinity of his breeches.

"But your attendants would of course know," said Locke, "if I were loaded down with four concealed decks of cards, they being so adept at spotting something like that on a man with no jacket or shoes… wait, four? I may have miscounted…"

He produced a fifth deck from somewhere within his silk tunic, which joined the little tower of cards perched ever more precariously on the edge of the desk.

"Surely I couldn't have hidden five decks of cards from your guards, Master Requin. Five would be quite ridiculous. Yet there they are — though I'm afraid that's as good as it gets, lb conjure more, I would have to begin producing them from somewhere disagreeable. And, I'm sorry to say, I don't seem to have the card you took. But wait… I do know where it might be found…"

He reached across Requin's desk, nudged the wine bottle at its base and appeared to pluck a face-down card from underneath it.

"Your card," he said, twirling it in the fingers of his left hand. "Ten of Sabres."

"Well," laughed Requin, showing a wide arc of yellowing teeth below the fire-orange circles of his optics. "Very fine, very fine. And one-handed, too. But even if I grant that you could perform such tricks, continuously, in front of my attendants and my other guests… you and Master de Ferra have spent a great deal of time at games that are more rigorously controlled than the open card tables." "I can tell you how we beat those, too. Simply free me." "Why relinquish a clear advantage?"

"Then trade it to gain another. Free my right hand," said Locke, mustering every last bit of passionate sincerity he could pour into his words, "and I shall tell you exactly why you must never again trust the security of your Sinspire as it stands."

Requin stared down at him, laced his gloved fingers together and finally nodded to Selendri. She withdrew her blades — though she kept them pointed at Locke — and pressed a switch behind the desk. Locke was suddenly free to stumble back to his feet, rubbing his right wrist.

"Most kind," said Locke with a breeziness that was pure conjuring. "Now, yes, we have played at quite a bit more than the open tables. But which games have we scrupulously avoided? Reds-and-Blacks. Count to Twenty. Fair Maiden's Wish. All the games in which a guest plays against the Sinspire, rather than against another guest. Games mathematically contrived to give the house a substantial edge." "Hard to make a profit otherwise, Master Kosta."

"Yes. And useless for the purposes of a cheat like myself; I need flesh and blood to fool. I don't care how much clockwork and how many attendants you throw in. In a game between guests, larceny always finds a way, sure as water pushes through a ship's seams."

"More bold speech," said Requin. "I admire glibness in the doomed, Master Kosta. But you and I both know that there is no way to cheat at, say, Carousel Hazard, barring four-way complicity between the participants, which would render the game absolutely pointless."

"True. There is no way to cheat the carousel or the cards, at least not here in your "Spire. But when one cannot cheat the game, one must cheat the players. Do you know what beta paranella is?" "A soporific. Expensive alchemy."

"Yes. Colourless, tasteless and doubly effective when taken with liquor. Jerome and I were dusting our fingers with it before we handled our cards during each hand last night. Madam Corvaleur has a well-known habit of eating and licking her fingers while playing. Sooner or later, she was bound to take in enough of the drug to pass out."

"Well!" Requin looked genuinely taken aback. "Selendri, do you know anything about this?"

T can vouch for Corvaleur's habits, at least," she whispered. "It appears to be her preferred method of irritating her opponents."

"That it did," said Locke. "It was quite a pleasure to see her do herself in."

"I'll grant your story is remotely plausible," said Requin. "I had been… curious about Izmila's strange incapacity."

"Indeed. The woman's built like an Elderglass boathouse. Jerome and I had more empty vials than her side did; what she'd drunk wouldn't have got her eyelashes alone drunk, if not for the powder." "Perhaps. But let's discuss other games. What of Blind Alliances?"

A game of Blind Alliances was played at a circular table with tall, specially designed barriers before each player's hands so that everyone but the person directly across from them (their partner) could see at least some of their cards. Each silent participant set his or her right foot atop the left foot of the person on their right, all around the table, so no player could tap signals to a partner below the table. Partners therefore had to play by instinct and desperate inference, cut off from one another's sight, voice and touch.

"A child's stratagem. Jerome and I had special boots constructed, with iron-shod toes beneath the leather. We could slide our feet carefully out of the backs of them, and the iron would continue to provide the sensation of a full boot to die person beside us. We could tap entire books to one another with the code we've got. Have you ever known anyone to dominate that game as thoroughly as we did?" "You can't be serious." "I can show you the boots."

"Well. You did have an extraordinary run of luck… but what about billiards? You scored a rather famous victory against Lord Landreval. How could you have finessed that? My house provides all the balls, die sticks and the handling."

"Yes, so naturally those three things couldn't be fiddled. I paid Lord Landreval's consulting physiker ten solari for insight into his medical complaints. Turns out he's allergic to lemons. Jerome and I rubbed our necks, cheeks and hands with sliced lemons each night before we played him, and used other oils to mostly cover up the scent. Half an hour in our presence and he'd be so puffed up he could barely see. I'm not sure he ever realized what die problem was."

"You say you won a thousand solari with a few slices of lemon} Nonsense."

"Of course you're right. I asked politely if he'd lend me a thousand solari, and he offered to let us publicly humiliate him at his favourite game out of the kindness of his heart." "Hmmmph."

"How often did Landreval lose before he met Jerome and me? Once in fifty games?" "Lemons. I'll be damned."

"Yes. When you can't cheat the game, you" d best find a means to cheat die player. Given information and preparation, diere's not a player in your "Spire Jerome and I can't dance along like a finger-puppet. Hell, someone with my talents who knew enough about me could probably string me right along, too." "It's a good story, Master Kosta." Requin reached across his desk and took a sip of his wine. "I suppose I can charitably believe at least some of what you claim. I suspected that you and your friend were no more merchant-speculators than I am, but at my tower you may claim to be a duke or a three-headed dragon provided you have solid credit. You certainly did before you stepped into my office this evening. Which brings us only to the most important question of all — why the hell are you telling me this?" "I needed your attention." "You already had it."

"I needed more than that. I needed you to understand my skills and my inclinations."

"And now you have that as well, inasmuch as I accept your story. What exactly do you think that gets you?" "A chance that what I'm going to say next will actually sink in." "Oh?"

"I'm not really here to take your guests for a few thousand solari here and a few thousand solari there, Requin. It's been fun, but it's secondary to my actual goal." Locke spread his hands and smiled apologetically. "I" ve been hired to break into your vault, just as soon as I find a way to haul out everything in it from right under your nose."

3

Requin blinked. "Impossible!" "Inevitable."

"This isn't legerdemain or lemons we're talking about now, Master Kosta. Explain yourself."

"My feet are beginning to hurt," said Locke. "And my throat is somewhat dry."

Requin stared at him, then shrugged. "Selendri. A chair for Master Kosta. And a glass."

Frowning, Selendri turned and took a finely wrought dark wood chair with a thin leather cushion from its place at the wall. She placed it behind Locke, and he settled into it with a smile on his face. She then bustled about behind him for a few moments and returned with a crystal goblet, which she passed to Requin. He picked up the wine bottle and poured a generous stream of red liquid into the goblet. Red liquid? Locke blinked — and then relaxed. Kamekona, the shifting wine, of course. One of the hundreds of Tal Verrar's famous alchemical vintages. Requin passed him the goblet, then sat down atop his desk with his arms folded. "To your health," said Requin. "It needs all the assistance it can get."

Locke took a long sip of the warm wine and allowed himself a few seconds of contemplation. He marvelled at the way the taste of apricots transmuted to the sharper flavour of slightly tart apple in mid-swallow. That sip had been worth twenty volani, if his knowledge of the liquor market was still accurate. He gave a genuinely appreciative nod to Requin, who waved a hand nonchalantly.

"It cannot have escaped your attention, Master Kosta, that my vault is the most secure in Tal Verrar — the single most redundantly protected space in the entire city, in fact, not excepting the private chambers of the Archon himself." Requin tugged at the skintight leather of his right glove with the fingers of his left hand. "Or that it is encased within a structure of pristine Elderglass, and accessible only through several layers of metallurgical and clockwork artifice that are, if I may be permitted to stroke my own breechclout, peerless. Or that half the Priori councillors regard it so highly that they entrust much of their personal fortunes to it."

"Of course," said Locke. "I congratulate you on a very flattering clientele. But your vault doors are guarded by gears, and gears are shaped by men. What one man locks another will sooner or later unlock." "I say again, impossible."

"And I correct you again. Difficult. "Difficult" and "impossible" are cousins often mistaken for one another, with very little in common."

"You have more chance of giving birth to a live hippopotamus," said Requin, "than the best thief alive has of making it past the cordon drawn around my vault. But this is silly — we could sit here all night contrasting cock-lengths. I say mine is five feet long, you say yours is six and shoots fire upon command. Let's hurry back to significant conversation. You admit that cheating the mechanisms of my games is out of the question. My vault is the most secure of all mechanisms; am / therefore the flesh and blood you were presuming to fool?" "It's possible this conversation represents me giving up that hope."

"What does cheating my guests have to do with plotting entry into my vault?"

"Originally," said Locke, "we gamed merely to blend in and cover our observance of your operations. Time passed and we made no progress. The cheating was a lark to make the games more interesting." "My house bores you?"

"Jerome and I are thieves. We've been sharping cards and lifting goods east and west, from here to Camorr and back again, for years. Spinning carousels with the well-heeled is only amusing for so long, and we weren't getting far with our job, so we had to stay amused somehow." "Job. Yes, you said you were hired to come here. Elaborate."

"My partner and I were sent here as the point men of something very elaborate. Someone out there wants your vault emptied. Not merely penetrated, but pillaged. Plucked and left behind like an empty honeycomb." "Someone?"

"Someone. I haven't the faintest notion who; Jerome and I are dealt with through fronts. All of our efforts to penetrate them have been in vain. Our employer is as anonymous to us now as he was two years ago." "Do you frequently work for anonymous employers, Master Kosta?"

"Only the ones that pay me large piles of good, cold metal. And I can assure you — this one has been paying us very well."

Requin sat down behind his desk, removed his optics and rubbed his eyes with his gloved hands. "What's this new game, Master Kosta? Why favour me with all of this?"

"I tire of our employer. I tire of Jerome's company. I find Tal Verrar much to my taste, and I wish to arrange a new situation for myself." "You wish to turn your coat?" "If you must put it that way, yes." "What do you suggest I have to gain from this?"

"First, a means to work against my current employer. Jerome and I aren't the only agents set against you. Our job is the vault, and nothing else. All the information we gather on your operations is being passed to someone else. They" re waiting for us to come up with a means to crack your money-box, and then they" ve got further plans for you." "Go on."

"The other benefit would be mutual. I want a job. I'm tired of running from city to city chasing after work. I want to settle in Tal Verrar, find a home, maybe a woman. After I help you deal with my current employer, I want to work for you, here." "As an entertainer, perhaps?"

"You need a floor boss, Requin. Tell me truly, are you as complacent now about your security as you were before I came up your stairs? I know how to cheat every single game that can be cheated here, and if I weren't sharper than your attendants I'd already be dead. Who better to keep your guests playing fairly?"

"Your request is… logical. Your willingness to shrug off your employer isn't. Don't you fear their retribution?"

"Not if I can help you put us both beyond it. Identification is the problem. Once identified, any man or woman in the world can be dealt with. You have every gang in Tal Verrar under your thumb, and you have the ear of the Priori. Surely you could make the arrangements if we could come up with name." "And your partner, Master de Ferra?"

"We've worked well together," said Locke, "but we quarrelled, not long ago, over an intensely personal matter. He believes his insult is forgiven; I assure you it is anything but. I want to be quits with him when our current employer is dealt with. I want him to know before he dies that I" ve had the best of him. If possible, I'd like to kill him myself. That and the job are my only requests." "Mrnm. What do you think of all this, Selendri?" "Some mysteries are better off with their throats slit," she whispered.

"You might fear that I'm trying to displace you," said Locke. "I assure you, when I said floor boss I meant floor boss. I don't want your job."

"And you could never have it, Master Kosta, even if you did want it." Requin ran his fingers down Selendri's right forearm and squeezed her undamaged hand. "I admire your boldness only to a point."

"Forgive me, both of you. I had no intention of presuming too much. Selendri, for what it's worth, I agree with you. In your position, getting rid of me might seem like wisdom. Mysteries are dangerous to people in our profession. I am no longer pleased with the mystery of my employment. I want a more predictable life. What I ask and what I offer are straightforward."

"And in return," said Requin, "I receive possible insight into an alleged threat against a vault I have enhanced by my own design to be impenetrable."

"A few minutes ago, you expressed the same confidence concerning your attendants and their ability to spot card-sharps." "Have you penetrated my vault security as thoroughly as you say you" ve danced around my attendants, Master Kosta? Have you penetrated it at all?"

"All I need is tune," said Locke. "Give it to me and a way will make itself plain, sooner or later. I'm not giving up because it's too difficult; I'm giving up because it pleases me. But don't just take my word on my sincerity; look into the activities of Jerome and myself. Make inquiries about everything we've been doing in your city for the past two years. We have made some progress that might open your eyes."

"I shall," said Requin. "And in the meantime, what am I to do with you?"

"Nothing extraordinary," said Locke. "Make your inquiries. Keep your eyes on Jerome and myself. Continue to let us play at your "Spire — I promise to play more fairly, at least for the coming few days. Allow me to think on my plans and gather whatever information I can about my anonymous employer."

"Let you walk out of here, unscathed? Why not hold you somewhere secure while I exercise my curiosity about your background?"

"If you take me seriously enough to consider any part of my offer," said Locke, "then you must take the possible threat of my employer seriously as well. Any tip-off to them that I" ve been compromised, and Jerome and I might be cast loose. So much for your opportunity."

"So much for your usefulness, you mean. I am to take a great deal on faith, from a man offering to betray and kill his business partner."

"You hold my purse as surely as your desk held my hand. All the coin I have in Tal Verrar, I keep here within your Sinspire. You may look for my name at any counting house in the city, and you will not find it. I give you that leverage over me, willingly"

"A man with a grudge, a genuine grudge, might piss on all the white iron in the world for one chance at his real target, Master Kosta. I have been that target too many times to forget this."

"I am not crass," said Locke, taking back one of his decks of cards from Requin's desktop. He shuffled it a few times without looking at it. "Jerome insulted me without good cause. Pay me well and treat me well, and I will never give you any reason for displeasure."

Locke whisked the top card off his deck, flipped it and set it down face-up beside the remnants of Requin's dinner. It was the Master of Spires.

"I deliberately choose to throw in with you, if you'll have me. Place a bet, Master Requin. The odds are favourable."

Requin pulled his optics out of his coat pocket and slipped them back on. He brooded over the card; nothing was said by anyone for some time. Locke sipped quietly from his glass of wine, which had turned pale blue and now tasted of juniper.

"Why," said Requin at last, "all other considerations aside, should I allow you to violate the cardinal rule of my "Spire on your own initiative and suffer nothing in exchange?"

"Only because I imagine that cheaters are ordinarily discovered by your attendants while other guests are watching," said Locke, attempting to sound as sincere and contrite as possible. "Nobody knows about my confession, outside this office. Selendri didn't even tell your attendants why they were hauling me up here."

Requin sighed, then drew a gold solari from within his coat and set it down atop Locke's Master of Spires.

"I shall hold fast with a small wager for now," said Requin. "Do anything unusual or alarming and you will not survive long enough to reconsider. At the slightest hint that anything you" ve told me has been a lie, I will have molten glass poured down your throat." "Uh… that seems fair." "How much money do you currently have on the ledger here?" "Just over three thousand solari."

"Two thousand of that is no longer yours. It will remain on the ledger so Master de Ferra doesn't get suspicious, but I'm going to issue instructions that it is not to be released to you. Consider it a reminder that my rules are not to be broken on anyone's recognition but my own." "Ouch. I suppose I should be grateful. I mean, I am. Thank you." "You walk on eggshells with me, Master Kosta. Step delicately" "Then I may go? And I may think of myself as in your service?"

"\bu may go. And you may consider yourself on my sufferance. We will speak again when I know more about your recent past. Selendri will accompany you back down to the first floor. Get out of my sight."

With an air of faint disappointment, Selendri folded up the brass fingers of her artificial hand until it was whole once again and the blades were hidden. She gestured toward the stairs with that hand, and with the look in her good eye she told him precisely how much patience she had to spare for him if Requin's should start to wane.

4

Jean Tannen sat reading in a private booth at the Gilded Cloister, a club on the second tier of the Savrola, just a few blocks down from the Villa Candessa. The Cloister was a labyrinth of dark wood enclosures, well padded with leather and quilting for the benefit of diners wishing an unusual degree of solitude. The waitstaff, in their leather aprons and drooping red caps, were forbidden to speak, answering all customer requests with either a nod or a shake of the head.

Jean's dinner, smoked rock eel in caramel-brandy sauce, lay chopped into fragments and scattered like debris from a battle. He was making his way slowly through dessert, a cluster of marzipan dragonflies with crystallized sugar wings that glimmered in the steady glow of the booth's candles. He was absorbed in a leatherbound copy of Lucarno's Tragedy of the Ten Honest Turncoats, and he didn't notice Locke until the smaller man was already seated across from him in the booth. "Leocanto! You gave me a start."

"Jerome." They both spoke in a near-whisper. "You really were nervous, weren't you? Nose buried in a book to keep you from going mad. Some things never change." "I wasn't nervous. I was merely reasonably concerned." "You needn't have been." "Is it done, then? Am I successfully betrayed?" "Quite betrayed. Absolutely sold out. A dead man walking." "Wonderful! And his attitude?"

"Guarded. Ideal, I'd say. Had he been too enthusiastic, I would be worried. And had he not been enthusiastic at all, well…" Locke mimicked shoving a knife into his chest and wiggling it several times. "Is this smoked eel?"

"Help yourself. It's stuffed with apricots and soft yellow onions. Not entirely to my taste."

Locke took up Jean's fork and helped himself to a few bites of the eel; he was more partial to the stuffing than Jean had been. "We're going to lose two-thirds of my account, it seems," he said after making some progress on the dish. "A tax on cheating to remind me not to presume too much on Requin's patience."

"Well, it's not as though we expected to get out of the city with the money in those accounts. Might" ve been nice to have it for a few more weeks, at least."

"True. But I think the alternative would have been desktop surgery, whether I needed a hand amputated or not. What" re you reading?"

Jean showed him the title and Locke feigned choking. "Why is it always Lucarno? You drag him everywhere we go, his damn romances. Your brains will go soft with all that mush. You'll end up more fit for tending flower-gardens than for running confidence games."

"Well," said Jean, "I shall be sure to criticize your reading habits, Master Kosta, should I ever see you develop any." "I" ve read quite a bit!" "History and biography, mostly what Chains prescribed for you." "What could possibly be wrong with those subjects?"

"As for history, we are living in its ruins. And as for biographies, we are living with the consequences of all the decisions ever made in them. I tend not to read them for pleasure. It's not unlike carefully scrutinizing the map when one has already reached the destination."

"But romances aren't real, and surely never were. Doesn't that take away some of the savour?"

"What an interesting choice of words. "Not real, and never were." Could there be any more appropriate literature for men of our profession? Why are you always so averse to fiction, when we've made it our meal-ticket?"

"I live in the real world," said Locke, "and my methods are of the real world. They are, just as you say, a profession. A practicality, not some romantic whim."

Jean set the book down before him and tapped its cover. "This is where you and I are headed, Thorn — or at least you are. Look for us in history books and you'll find us in the margins. Look for us in legends and you might just find us celebrated."

"Exaggerated, you mean. Lied about. Trumped up, or stamped down. The truth of anything we do will die with us and nobody else will ever have a bloody clue."

"Better that than obscurity! I recall you once had quite a taste for drama. For plays, if nothing else."

"Yes." Locke folded his hands on the table and lowered his voice even further. "And you know what happened to it."

"Forgive me," said Jean with a sigh. "I should have known better than to bring up that particular red-headed subject once again."

A waiter appeared at the entrance to the little booth, looking attentively at Locke.

"Oh, no," said Locke, and set Jean's fork back on the eel plate. "Nothing for me, I'm afraid. I'm just here waiting for my friend to finish his little candied wasps."

"Dragonflies."Jean popped the last one into his mouth, swallowed it nearly whole and tucked his book away within his coat. "Give over the bill and I'll settle up with you."

The waiter nodded, cleared away the used dishes and left a scrap of paper pinned to a small wooden tablet.

"Well," said Locke as Jean counted copper coins from his purse, "we've no responsibilities for the rest of the evening. Requin is no doubt setting eyes on us as we speak. I think a night or two of light relaxation would be in order, to avoid upsetting him."

"Great," said Jean. "Why don't we wander around a bit, and maybe catch a boat over to the Emerald Galleries? They" ve got coffee houses there, and music. Would it be in character for Leo and Jerome to get a bit tipsy and chase tavern dancers?"

"Jerome can murder as much ale as he likes and bother tavern dancers until the sun chases us home to bed. Leo will sit and watch the festivities." "Maybe play spot-the-shadow with Requin's people?"

"Maybe. Damn, I wish we had Bug to lurk on a few rooftops for us. We could use a pair of top-eyes; there's not a trustworthy one in this damn city" "I wish we still had Bug, full stop," said Jean with a sigh.

They made their way to the foyer of the club, chatting quietly of imaginary business between Masters Kosta and de Ferra, batting little improvisations back and forth for the sake of any prying ears. It was just after midnight when they stepped out into the familiar quiet order and high walls of the Savrola. The place was artificially clean — no knackers here, no blood in the alleys, no piss in the gutters. The grey brick streets were well lit by silvery lanterns in swaying iron frames; the whole district seemed framed in bright moonlight, though the sky that night was occluded by a high ceiling of dark clouds. The woman was waiting for them in the shadows on Locke's left.

She matched pace with him as he and Jean moved down the street. One of Locke's sleeve-stilettos fell into the palm of his hand before he could control the reflex, but she stayed a full yard away, with her hands folded behind her back. She was youngish, short and slender with dark hair pulled back into a long tail. She wore a vaguely fashionable dark coat and a four-cornered hat with a long grey silk scarf that trailed behind her like a ship's pennant as she walked.

"Leocanto Kosta," she said in a pleasant, even voice. "I know you and your friend are armed. Let's not be difficult." "I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Move that blade in your hand and it's a shaft through the neck for you. Tell your friend to keep his hatchets under his coat. Let's just keep walking."

Jean began to move his left hand beneath his coat; Locke caught him with his right hand and swiftly shook his head. They were not alone on the street; people hurried here and there on business or pleasure, but some of them were staring at him and Jean. Some of them were standing in alleys and shadows, wearing unseasonably heavy cloaks, unmoving. "Shit," Jean muttered. "Rooftops."

Locke glanced up briefly. Across the street, atop the three— and four-storey stone buildings, he could see the silhouettes of at least two men moving slowly along with them, carrying thin, curved objects in their hands. Longbows.

"You appear to have us at a disadvantage, madam," said Locke, slipping his stiletto into a coat pocket and showing her his empty hand. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your attention?" "Someone wants to have a conversation with you."

"Clearly they knew where to find us. Why not simply join us for dinner?" "Conversation should be private, don't you think?" "Did a man in a rather tall tower send you?"

She smiled but said nothing. A moment later, she gestured ahead of them. "At the next corner, take a left. You'll see an open door, first building on your right. Go there. Follow directions."

Sure enough, the promised open door was waiting just past the next crossroads, a rectangle of yellow light casting a pale twin across the ground. The woman went in first. Locke, conscious of the presence of at least four or five nearby lurkers in addition to the rooftop archers, sighed and passed Jean a quick hand signal — easy, easy.

The place looked like a shop, disused but otherwise in good repair. There were six more people inside the room, men and women in silver-banded leather doublets with their backs up against the walls. Four of them held loaded crossbows, which neatly quashed any thoughts of resistance Locke might have been teasing around inside his head. Even Jean couldn't balance those odds.

One of the crossbowmen quietly closed the door, and the woman who'd led Locke and Jean in turned. The front of her coat fell open and Locke could see that she, too, was wearing reinforced leather armour. She held out her hands. "Weapons," she said, politely but firmly. "Smartly, now." When Locke and Jean glanced at one another, she laughed.

"Don't be dense, gentlemen. If we wanted you dead you" d already be pinned to the wall. I'll take good care of your property for you."

Slowly, resignedly, Locke removed one of his stilettos from his pocket and shook the other out of his coat sleeve, and Jean followed suit with his matched pair of hatchets and no fewer than three daggers of his own.

"I do like men who travel prepared," said the woman. She passed their weapons to one of the men behind her and drew two lightweight cloth hoods out of her coat. She tossed one to Locke and one to Jean. "On over your heads, please. Then we can get on with our business."

"Why?" Jean sniffed at his hood suspiciously, and Locke followed suit. The cloth appeared to be clean.

"For your own protection. Do you really want your faces out in the open if we drag you through the streets under guard?"

"I suppose not," said Locke. Frowning, he slipped the hood on and found that it put him in total darkness.

There was a sound of footsteps and the swirl of moving coats. Strong hands seized Locke's arms and forced them together behind his back. A moment later, he felt something being woven tightly around his wrists. There was a louder tumult and a number of irritated grunts from beside him; presumably they had ganged up on Jean in heavy numbers.

"There," came the voice of the woman, now behind Locke. "Now step lively. Don't worry about falling over — you'll be assisted."

By "assisted" she clearly meant that thed'r be seized and carried along by the arms. Locke felt hands close around his biceps and he cleared his throat. "Where are we going?"

"For a boat ride, Master Kosta," said the woman. "Don't ask any more questions, because I won't answer them. Let's be on our way." There was a creak as the door was thrown open once again, and a brief whirling sensation as he was pushed around and reoriented by the people holding him. Then they were moving back out into the muggy Verrari night, and Locke could feel heavy beads of sweat begin to slide their ticklish paths down his forehead.

1

The chamber was a rough brick cube about eight feet on a side. It was completely dark, and an arid sauna heat was radiating from the walls, which were too hot to touch for more than a few seconds. Locke and Jean had been sweltering inside it for only the gods knew how long — probably hours.

"Agh." Locke's voice was cracked. He and Jean were seated back to back in the blackness, leaning against one another for support, with their folded coats beneath them. Locke beat his heels against the stones of the floor, not for the first time. "Gods damn it!" Locke yelled. "Let us out. You" ve made your point!" "What point," rasped Jean, "could that possibly be?" "I don't know." Locke coughed. "I don't care. Whatever it is, they" ve damn well made it, don't you think?"

2

The removal of their hoods had been a relief, for about two heartbeats.

First had come an interminable interval spent stumbling around in stifling darkness, pulled and prodded along by captors who seemed to be in some haste. Next, there was indeed a boat ride; Locke could smell the warm salt mists rising off the city's harbour, while the deck swayed gently beneath him and oars creaked rhythmically in their locks.

Eventually, that too came to an end; the boat rocked as someone rose and moved about. The oars were drawn in and an unfamiliar voice called for poles. A few moments later, the boat bumped against something and strong hands again hoisted Locke to his feet. When he'd been helped from the boat to a firm stone surface, the hood was suddenly whisked off his head. He looked around, blinked at the sudden light and said: "Oh, shit." At the heart of Tal Verrar, between the three crescent islands of the Great Guilds, lay the Castellana, fortified estate of the Dukes of Tal Verrar centuries earlier. Now that the city had dispensed with titled nobility, the mansion-covered Castellana was home to a new breed of well-heeled gentry — the Priori councillors, the independently rich and those guildmasters whose social positions required the most ostentations displays of spending power.

At the very heart of the Castellana, guarded by a moat of empty air like a circular Elderglass canyon, was the Mon Magisteria, the palace of the Archon — a towering human achievement springing upward from alien grandeur. An elegant stone weed growing in a glass garden.

Locke and Jean had been brought to a point directly beneath it. Locke guessed that they stood within the hollow space that separated the Mon Magisteria from the surrounding island; a million-faceted cavern of darkened Elderglass soared upward around them, and the open air of the upper island lay fifty or sixty feet above their heads. The channel that the boat had travelled through wound away to his left, and the sound of the lapping water was drowned out by a distant rumbling noise with no visible cause.

There was a wide stone landing at the base of the Mon Magisterial private island, with several boats tied up alongside it, including an enclosed ceremonial barge with silk awnings and gilded woodwork Soft blue alchemical lamps in iron posts filled the space with fight, and behind those posts a dozen soldiers stood at attention. Even if a quick glance upward hadn't told Locke the identity of their captor, those soldiers would have revealed everything.

They wore dark-blue doublets and breeches, with black leather bracers, vests and boots all chased with raised designs in gleaming brass. Blue hoods were drawn up around the backs of their heads and their faces were covered with featureless oval masks of polished bronze. Grids of tiny pinholes permitted them to see and breathe, but from a distance every impression of humanity was erased — the soldiers were faceless sculptures brought to fife. The Eyes of the Archon.

"Here you are then, Master Kosta, Master de Ferra." The woman who'd waylaid Locke and Jean stepped up onto the landing between them and took them by the elbows, smiling as though they were out for a night on the town. "Is this not a more private place for a conversation?" "What," said Jean, "have we done to warrant our transport here?"

"I'm the wrong person to ask," said the woman as she pushed them gently forward. "My job is to retrieve, and deliver."

She released Locke and Jean just before the front rank of the Archon's soldiers. Their own disquieted expressions were reflected back at them in a dozen gleaming bronze masks.

"And sometimes," said the woman as she returned to the boat, "when guests don't come back out again, my job is to forget that I ever saw them at all."

The Eyes of the Archon moved without apparent signal; Locke and Jean were enveloped and secured by several soldiers apiece. One of them spoke — another woman, her voice echoing ominously. "We will go up. You must not struggle and you must not speak." "Or what?" said Locke.

The Eye who'd spoken stepped over to Jean without hesitation and punched him in the stomach. The big man exhaled in surprise and grimaced, while the female Eye turned back to Locke. "If either of you causes any trouble, I'm instructed to punish the other one. Do I make myself clear?" Locke ground his teeth together and nodded.

A wide set of switchback stairs led upward from the landing; the glass underfoot was rough as brick. Flight by flight the Archon's soldiers led Locke and Jean up past gleaming walls, until the moist night breeze of the city was on their faces once again.

They emerged within the perimeter defined by the glass chasm. A guardhouse stood just on their side of the thirty-foot gap, beside a drawbridge currently hauled straight up into the air and set inside a heavy wood frame. Locke presumed that was the usual means of entrance to the Archon's domain.

The Mon Magisteria was a ducal fortress in the true Therin Throne style, easily fifteen storeys high at its peak and three or four times as wide. Layer after layer of crenellated battlements rose up, formed from flat black stones that absorbed the fountains of light thrown up by dozens of lanterns burning on the castle's grounds. Columned aqueducts circled the walls and towers at every level, and decorative streams of water cascaded down from sculptures of dragons and sea monsters set at the fortress's corners.

The Eyes of the Archon led Locke and Jean toward the front of the palace, down a wide path dusted with white gravel. There were lush green lawns on either side of the path, set behind decorative stone i borders that made the lawns resemble islands. More blue-robed and black-armoured guards in bronze masks stood unmoving along the path, holding up blackened-steel halberds with alchemical lights built into their wooden shafts.

Where most castles would have a front gate the Mon Magisteria had a rushing waterfall wider than the path on which they stood; this was the source of the noise Locke had heard echoing at the boat landing below. Multiple torrents of water crashed out of huge, dark apertures set in a line running straight up the castle wall. These joined and fell into a churning moat at the very base of the structure, a moat even wider than the glass-sided canyon that cut the castle grounds off from the rest of the Castellana.

A bridge, slightly arched, vanished into the pounding white waterfall about halfway over the moat. Warm mist wafted up around them as their party approached the near end of this bridge, which Locke could now see had some sort of niche cut into it, running right along its centre for its full visible length. Beside the bridge was an iron pull-chain hanging from the top of a narrow stone pillar. The Eye officer reached up for this and gave it three swift tugs.

A moment later there came a metallic rattling noise from the direction of the bridge. A dark shape loomed within the waterfall, grew and then burst out toward them with mist and water exploding off its roof. It was a long box of iron-ribbed wood, fifteen feet high and as wide as the bridge. Rumbling, it slid along the track carved into the bridge until it halted with a squeal of metal-on-metal just before them. Doors popped open toward them, pushed from the inside by two attendants in dark-blue coats with silver-braid trim.

Locke and Jean were ushered into the roomy conveyance, which had windows set into the end facing the castle. Through them, Locke could see nothing but rushing water. The waterfall pounded off the roof; the noise was like being in a carriage during a heavy storm.

When Locke and Jean and all the Eyes had stepped into the box, the attendants drew the doors closed. One of them pulled a chain set into the right-hand wall, and with a lurching rumble the box was drawn back to where it had come from. The waterfall pounded off the roof; the noise was like being in a carriage during a heavy storm. As they passed through it, Locke guessed that it was fifteen to twenty feet wide. An unprotected man would never be able to pass beneath it without being knocked into the moat, which he supposed was precisely the point. That, and it was a hell of a way to show off.

They soon pushed through the other side of the falls. Locke could see tliat they were being drawn into a huge hemispherical hall, with a curved far wall and a ceiling about thirty feet high. Alchemical chandeliers shed light on the hall, silver and white and gold, so that the place gleamed like a treasure vault through the distortion of the water-covered windows. When the conveyor box ground to a halt, the attendants manipulated unseen latches to crack open the forward windows like a pair of giant doors.

Locke and Jean were prodded out of the box, but more gently than before. The stones at their feet were slick with water, and they followed the example of the guards in treading carefully. The waterfall roared at their backs for a moment longer, and then two huge doors slammed together behind the conveyor box and the deafening noise became a dull echo.

Some sort of water engine could be seen in a wall niche to Locke's left. Several men and women stood before gleaming cylinders of brass, working levers attached to mechanical contrivances whose functions were well beyond Locke's capability to guess. Heavy iron chains disappeared into dark holes in the floor just beside the track the huge wooden box rode along. Jean, too, cocked his head for a closer look at this curiosity, but once past the danger of the slick stones, the soldiers" brief spate of tolerance passed and they shoved the two thieves along at a good clip once again.

Through the entrance hall, wide and grand enough to host several balls at once, they passed at speed. The hall had no windows open to the outside, but rather artificial panoramas of stained glass, lit from behind. Each window showed a stylized view of what would be seen through a real hole cut in the stone — white buildings and mansions, dark skies, the tiers of islands across the harbour, dozens of sails in the main anchorage.

Locke and Jean were escorted down a side hall, up a flight of steps and down another hall, past blue-coated guards standing stiffly at attention. Was it Locke's imagination, or did something more than ordinary respect creep into their faces when the bronze masks of the Eyes swept past them? There was no more time to ponder, for they were suddenly halted before their evident destination. In a corridor full of wooden doorways, they stood before one made of metal.

An Eye stepped forward, unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room beyond was small and dark. Soldiers rapidly undid the bonds around Locke and Jean's wrists, and then the two of them were shoved forward into the little room.

"Hey, wait just a damn—" said Locke, but the door slammed shut behind them and the sudden blackness was absolute.

"Perelandro," said Jean. He and Locke spent a few seconds stumbling into one another before they managed to regain some balance and dignity. "How on earth did we attract the attention of these bloody arseholes?"

"I don't know, Jerome." Locke emphasized the pseudonym very slightly. "But maybe the walls have ears. Hey! Bloody arseholes! No need to be coy! We're perfectly well behaved when civilly incarcerated."

Locke stumbled toward the remembered location of the nearest wall to pound his fists against it. He discovered for the first time that it was rough brick. "Damnation," he muttered, and sucked at a scraped knuckle. "Odd," said Jean. "What?" "I can't be sure." "What?" "Is it just me, or does it seem to be getting warmer in here?"

3

Time went by with all the speed of a sleepless night.

Locke was seeing colours flashing and wobbling in the darkness, and while part of him knew they weren't real, that part of him was becoming less and less assertive with every passing minute. The heat was like a weight pressing in on every inch of his skin. His tunic was wide open and he'd slipped his neck-cloths off so he could wrap them around his hands to steady himself as he leaned back against Jean.

When the door clicked open, it took him a few seconds to realize that he wasn't imagining things. The crack of white light grew into a square, and he flinched back with his hands over his eyes. The air from the corridor fell across him like a cool autumn breeze.

"Gentlemen," said a voice from beyond the square of light, "there has been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Ungh gah ah," was all the response Locke could muster as he tried to remember just how his knees worked. His mouth felt dryer than if it had been packed with cornmeal.

Strong, cool hands reached out to help him to his feet; the room swam around him as he and Jean were helped back out into the bliss of the corridor. They were surrounded once again by blue doublets and bronze masks, but Locke squinted against the light and felt more ashamed than afraid. He knew he was confused, almost as though he were drunk, and he was powerless to do anything more than grasp at the vague realization. He was carried along corridors and up stairs (stairs! Gods! How many sets could there be in one bloody palace?), with his legs only sometimes bearing their fair share of his weight. He felt like a puppet in a cruel comedy with an unusually large stage set. "Water," he managed to gasp out. "Soon," said one of the soldiers carrying him. "Very soon."

At last he and Jean were ushered through tall black doors into a softly lit office with walls that appeared to be made up of thousands upon thousands of tiny glass cells, filled with little flickering shadows. Locke blinked and cursed his condition; he'd heard sailors talk of "dry-drunk", the stupidity, weakness and irritability that seized a man in great want of water, but he'd never imagined he'd experience it firsthand. It was making everything very strange indeed; no doubt it was embellishing the details of a perfectly ordinary room.

The office held a small table and three plain wooden chairs. Locke steered himself toward one of them gratefully, but was firmly restrained and held upright by the soldiers at his arms. "You must wait," said one of them.

Though not for long; a scant few heartbeats later, another door opened into the office. A man in long fur-trimmed robes of deep-water blue strode in, clearly agitated.

"Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar," said the four soldiers in unison.

Maxilan Stragos, came Locke's dazed realization, the gods-damned supreme warlord of Tal Verrar.

"For pity's sake, let these men have their chairs," said the Archon. "We have already done them a grievous wrong, Sword-Prefect. We shall now extend them every possible courtesy. After all… we are not Camorri." "Of course, Archon."

Locke and Jean were quickly helped into their seats. When the soldiers were reasonably certain that they wouldn't topple over immediately, they stepped back and stood at attention behind them. The Archon waved his hand irritably. "Dismissed, Sword-Prefect." "But… Your Honour…"

"Out of my sight. You have already conjured a serious embarrassment from my very clear instructions for these men. As a result, they are in no shape to be any threat to me." "But… yes, Archon."

The sword-prefect gave a stiff bow, which the other three soldiers repeated. The four of them hurriedly left the office, closing the door behind them with the elaborate click-clack of a clockwork mechanism.

"Gentlemen," said the Archon, "you must accept my deepest apologies. My instructions were misconstrued. You were to be given every courtesy. Instead, you were shown to the sweltering chamber, which is reserved for criminals of the lowest sort. I would trust my Eyes to be the equal of ten times their number in any fight, yet in this simple matter they have dishonoured me. I must take responsibility. You must forgive this misunderstanding, and allow me the honour of showing you a better sort of hospitality."

Locke mustered his will to attempt a suitable response, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to the Crooked Warden when Jean spoke first.

"The honour is ours, Protector." His voice was hoarse but his wits seemed to be returning faster than Locke's. "The chamber was a small price to pay for the pleasure of such an… an unexpected audience. There is nothing to forgive."

"You are an uncommonly gracious man," said Stragos. "Please, dispense with the superfluities. It will do to call me "Archon"."

There was a soft knock at the door through which the Archon had entered the office.

"Come," he said, and in bustled a short, bald man in elaborate blue and silver livery. He carried a silver tray, on which there were three crystal goblets and a large bottle of some pale-amber liquid. Locke and Jean fixed their gazes on this bottle with the intensity of hunters about to fling their last javelins at some charging beast.

When the servant set the tray down and reached for the bottle, the Archon gestured for him to withdraw and took up the bottle himself.

"Go," he said, "I am perfectly capable of serving these poor gentlemen myself."

The attendant bowed and vanished back through the door. Stragos withdrew the already loosened cork from the bottle and filled two goblets to their brims with its contents. That wet gurgle and splash brought an expectant ache to the insides of Locke's cheeks.

"It is customary," said Stragos, "for the host to drink first when serving in this city… to establish a basis for trust in what he happens to be serving." He dashed two fingers of liquid into the third goblet, lifted it to his lips and swallowed it at a gulp.

"Ahh," he said as he passed the full goblets over to Locke and Jean without further hesitation. "There now. Drink up. No need to be delicate. I'm an old campaigner."

Locke and Jean were anything but delicate; they gulped down the offered drinks with grateful abandon. Locke wouldn't have cared if the offering had been squeezed earthworm juice, but it was in fact some sort of pear cider, with just the slightest bite. A child's liquor, barely capable of intoxicating a sparrow, and an astute choice given their condition. The pleasantly tart, cold cider coated the inside of Locke's tortured throat and he shuddered with pleasure.

He and Jean thrust out their empty goblets without thinking, but Stragos was already waiting with the bottle in hand. He refilled their cups, smiling benevolently. Locke inhaled half of his new goblet, then forced himself to make the second half last. Already a new strength seemed to be radiating outward from his stomach, and he sighed with relief.

"Many thanks, Archon," he said. "May I, ah, presume to ask how Jerome and I have offended you?"

"Offended me? Not at all." Stragos, still smiling, set down the bottle and seated himself behind the little table. He reached toward the wall and pulled a silk cord; a shaft of pale-amber fight fell from the ceiling, illuminating the centre of the table. "What you" ve done, young fellows, is catch my interest."

Stragos sat framed by the shaft of light, and Locke studied him for the first time. A man of very late middle years, surely nearing sixty if not already past it. A strangely precise man, with squared-off features. His skin was pink and weathered, his hair a flat grey roof. In Locke's experience, most powerful men were either ascetics or gluttons; Stragos appeared to be neither — a man of balance. And his eyes were shrewd, shrewd as a usurer with a client in need. Locke sipped at his pear cider and prayed for wit.

The golden light was caught and reflected by the glass cells that walled the room, and when Locke let his eyes wander for a moment he was startled to see their contents moving. The little fluttering shadows were butterflies, moths, beetles — hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. Each one in its own little glass prison… the Archon's study was walled in with the largest insect collection Locke had ever heard of, let alone seen with his own eyes. Beside him, Jean gasped, evidently having noticed the same thing. The Archon chuckled indulgently. "My collection. Is it not striking?"

He reached toward the wall again and pulled another silken cord; soft white light grew behind the glass walls until the full details of each specimen became plainly visible. There were butterflies with scarlet wings, blue wings, green wings… some with multicoloured patterns more intricate than tattoos. There were grey, black and gold moths with curled antennae. There were beetles with burnished carapaces that gleamed like precious metals, and wasps with translucent wings flickering above their sinister tapered bodies. "It's incredible," said Locke. "How can it be possible?"

"Oh, it isn't. They" re all artificial, the best artistry and artisanry can provide. A clockwork mechanism several floors below works a set of bellows, sending gusts of air up shafts behind the walls of this office. Each cell has a tiny aperture at the rear. The fluttering of the wings looks quite random and realistic… in semi-darkness, one might never realize the truth." "It's no less incredible," said Jean.

"Well, this is the city of artifice," said the Archon. "Living creatures can require such tedious care. You might think of my Mon Magisteria as a repository of artificial things. Here, drink up and let me pour you the last of the bottle."

Locke and Jean obliged, and Stragos was able to give them each a few fingers more before the bottle was drained. He settled himself back down behind his table and pulled something off the silver tray — a slim file of some sort, wrapped in a brown cover with broken wax seals on three sides.

"Artificial things. Just as you are artificial things, Master Kosta and Master de Ferra. Or should I say, Master Lamora and Master Tannen?" If Locke had possessed the strength to crush heavy Verrari crystal with his bare hands, the Archon would have lost a goblet.

"I beg your pardon," said Locke, adopting a helpful, slightly confused smile, "but I don't know anyone by those names. Jerome?"

"There must be some mistake," said Jean, picking up Locke's exact tone of polite bewilderment.

"No mistake, gentlemen," said the Archon. He slipped the file open and briefly examined the contents, about a dozen pages of parchment covered in neat black script. "I received a very curious letter several days ago, through secure channels within my intelligence apparatus. A letter rich with the most singular collection of stories. From a personal acquaintance — a source within the hierarchy of the Bondsmagi of Karthain."

Not even Jean's hands could squeeze a Verrari crystal goblet to fragments, Locke thought, or that moment might have seen the Archon's office decorated with an exploding cloud of shards and blood.

Locke gamely raised an eyebrow, refusing to give in just yet. "The Bondsmagi? Gods, that sounds ominous. But, ah, what would Bondsmagi have to do with Jerome and myself?"

Stragos stroked his chin while he skimmed the documents in the file. "Apparently, you're both thieves from some sort of secret enclave formerly operating out of the House of Perelandro in Camorr's Temple District — cheeky, that. You operated without the permission of Capa Vencarlo Barsavi, no longer among the breathing. You stole tens of thousands of Crowns from several dons of Camorr. You are jointly responsible for the death of one Luciano Anatolius, a buccaneer captain who hired a Bondsmage to aid his plans. Perhaps most importandy, you foiled those plans and crippled that Bondsmage. Overcame him, at close quarters. Extraordinary. You shipped him back to Karthain half-dead and quite mad. No fingers, no tongue." "Actually, Leocanto and I are from Talisham, and we're—"

"You're both from Camorr. Jean Estevan Tannen, which is your real name, and Locke Lamora — which isn't yours. That's emphasized for some reason. You're in my city as part of a scheme against that scrub Requin… supposedly, you" ve been making preparations to break into his vault. Best of luck there. Need we continue with your charade? I have many more details. It seems that the Bondsmagi have it in for you." "Those arseholes," muttered Locke. "I see you are personally acquainted with them," said Stragos. Tve hired a few of them in the past. They" re a touchy bunch. So you'll admit to the truth of this report? Come, Requin is no friend of mine. He's in with the Priori; might as well be on their damn councils."

Locke and Jean looked at one another, and Jean shrugged. "Very well," said Locke. "You seem to have us at quite a disadvantage, Archon."

"To be precise, I have you at three. I have this report extensively documenting your activities. I have you here at the centre of all my power. And now, for the sake of my own comfort, I have you on a leash." "Meaning what?" said Locke.

"Perhaps my Eyes did not embarrass me, gentlemen. Perhaps you two were intended to spend a few hours in the sweltering chamber, to help you work up a thirst that needed quenching." He gestured at Locke and Jean's goblets, which now held only dregs. "You put something else in the cider," said Jean. "Of course," said Stragos. "An excellent little poison."

4

For a moment, the room was utterly silent save for the soft fluttering of artificial insect wings. Then Locke and Jean stumbled up from their chairs in unison, but Stragos didn't so much as twitch. "Sit down. Unless you" d prefer not to hear exactly what's going on." "You drank from the same bottle," said Locke, still standing.

"Of course I did. It wasn't actually in the cider. It was in your goblets, painted into the bottoms. Colourless and tasteless. A proprietary alchemical substance, quite expensive. You should be flattered. I" ve increased your net personal worth, heh." "I know a thing or two about poisons. What is it?"

"What would be the sense in telling you anything more? You might attempt to have someone assemble an antidote. As it stands, your only possible source for your antidote is me." He smiled, every pretence of contrite gentility shed from his features like a moulted insect's husk. A very different Stragos was with them now, and there was a lash in his voice. "Sit down. You're at my disposal now, obviously. You're not what I might have wanted, by the gods, but perhaps just what I can best put to use." Locke and Jean settled back into their chairs, uneasily. Locke threw his goblet down onto the carpet, where it bounced and rolled to a halt beside Stragos's table.

"You might as well know," said Locke, "that I" ve been poisoned for coercive purposes before."

"Have you? How convenient. Then surely you'll agree it's better than being poisoned for murderous ones." "What would you have us do?"

"Something useful," said Stragos, "Something grand. According to this report, you're the Thorn of Camorr. My agents brought me stories of you… the most ridiculous rumours, which now turn out to have been true. I thought you were a myth."

"The Thorn of Camorr is a myth," said Locke. "And it was never just me. We've always worked as a group, as a team."

"Of course. No need to stress Master Tannen's importance to me. It's all here, in this file. I shall keep you both alive while I prepare for the task I have in mind for you. I'm not ready to discuss it yet, so let us say that I'm keeping you on retainer in the mean time. Go about your business. When I call, you will come." "Will we?" spat Locke.

"Oh, it's well within your power to leave the city — and if you do, you will both die rather slow and miserable deaths before another season passes. And that would disappoint us all." "You could be bluffing," said Jean.

"Yes, yes, but if you're rational men, a bluff would hold you as surely as a real poison, would it not? But come now, Tannen. I have the resources not to bluff."

"And what's to keep us from running after we've received the antidote?"

"The poison is latent, Lamora. It slumbers within the body for many, many months, if not years. I will dole out your antidote at intervals so long as you please me."

"And what guarantee do we have that you'll continue to give us the antidote once we've done whatever task you" d set us to?" "You have none." "And no better alternatives." "Of course not."

Locke closed his eyes and gently massaged them with the knuckles of his index fingers. "Your alleged poison. Will it interfere with our daily lives in any way? Will it complicate matters of judgment, agility or health?"

"Not at all," said Stragos. "You won't notice a thing until the time for the antidote is well past, and then you'll notice a great deal all at once. Until then, your affairs will be unimpeded."

"But you have already impeded our affairs," said Jean. "We're at a very delicate point in our dealings with Requin."

"He gave us strict orders," said Locke, "to do nothing suspicious while he sniffs around our recent activities. Disappearing from the streets in the care of the Archon's people would probably qualify as suspicious."

"Already taken into consideration," said the Archon. "Most of the people who pulled you two off the street are in one of Requin's gangs. He just doesn't know they work for me. They'll report seeing you out and about, even if others do not." "Are you confident that Requin is blind to their true loyalty?"

"Gods bless your amusing insolence, Lamora, but I'm not going to justify my every order to you. You'll accept them like my other soldiers, and if you must trust, trust in the judgement that has kept me seated as Archon for fifteen years." "It's our lives under Requin's thumb if you're wrong, Stragos." "It's your lives under my thumb, regardless." "Requin is no fool!" "Then why are you attempting to steal from him?" "We flatter ourselves," said Jean, "that we're—"

"I'll tell you why," Stragos interrupted. He closed his file and folded his hands atop it. "You're not just greedy. You two have an unhealthy lust for excitement. The contemplation of long odds must positively get you drunk. Or else why choose the life you have, when you could obviously have succeeded as thieves of a more mundane stripe, within the limits allowed by that Barsavi?"

"If you think that little pile of papers gives you enough knowledge to presume so much—"

"You two are risk-takers. Exceptional, professional risk-takers. I have just the risk for you to take. You might even enjoy it."

"That might have been true," said Locke, "before you told us about the cider."

"Obviously I know that what I" ve done will give you cause to bear me malice. Appreciate my position. I" ve done this to you because I respect your abilities. I can V afford to have you in my service without controls. You're a lever and a fulcrum, you two, looking for a city to turn upside-down." "Why the hell couldn't you just hire us?"

"How would money be sufficient leverage for two men who can conjure it as easily as you?"

"So the fact that you're screwing us like a Jeremite cot doxy is really a very sweet compliment?" said Jean. "You fucking…" "Calm down, Tannen," said Stragos.

"Why should he?" Locke straightened his sweat-rumpled tunic and began tying his wrinkled neck-cloths back on in an agitated huff. "You poison us, lay a mysterious task at our feet and offer no pay. You complicate our lives as Kosta and de Ferra, and you expect to summon us at your leisure when you condescend to reveal this chore. Gods. What about expenses, should we incur them?"

"You shall have any funds and materials you require to operate in my service. And before you get excited, remember that you'll account for every last centira properly"

"Oh, splendid. And what other perquisites does this job of yours entail? Complementary luncheon at the barracks of your Eyes? Convalescent beds when Requin cuts our balls off and has them sewn into our eye sockets?" "I am not accustomed to being spoken to in this—"

"Get accustomed to it," snapped Locke, rising from his chair and beginning to dust off his coat. "I have a counter-proposal, one I urge you to entertain quite seriously." "Oh?"

"Forget about this, Stragos." Locke drew on his coat, shook his shoulders to settle it properly and gripped it by the lapels. "Forget about this whole ridiculous scheme. Give us enough antidote, if there is one, to settle us for the time being. Or let us know what it is and we'll have our own alchemist see to it, with our own funds. Send us back to Requin, for whom you profess no love, and let us get on with robbing him. Bother us no further, and we'll return the favour." "What could that possibly gain me?"

"My point is more that it would allow you to keep everything you have now."

"My dear Lamora," laughed Stragos with a soft, dry sound like an echo inside a coffin, "your bluster may be sufficient to convince some sponge-spined Camorri mongrel don to hand over his coin-purse. It might even be enough to see you through the task I have in mind. But you're mine now, and the Bondsmagi were rather clear on how you might be humbled." "Oh? How's that, then?"

"Threaten me one more time and I shall have Jean returned to the sweltering chamber for the rest of the night. You may wait, chained outside in perfect comfort, imagining what it must be like for him. And the reverse, Jean, should you decide to wax rebellious."

Locke clenched his jaw and looked down at his feet. Jean sighed, reached over and patted him on the arm. Locke nodded very slightly.

"Good." Stragos smiled without warmth. "Just as I respect your abilities, I respect your loyalty to one another. I respect it enough to use it, for good and for ill. So you will want to come at my summons, and accept the task I have for you… it's when I refuse to see you that you will begin to have cause for concern." "So be it," said Locke. "But I want you to remember." "Remember what?"

"That I offered to let this go," said Locke. "That I offered to simply walk away."

"Gods, but you do think highly of yourself, don't you, Master Lamora?" "Just highly enough. No higher than the Bondsmagi, I'd say."

"Are you suggesting that Karthain fears you, Master Lamora? Please. If that were so, they would have killed you already. No. They don't fear you — they want to see you punished. Giving you over to me to suit my own purposes would appear to accomplish that in their eyes. I daresay you" ve good reason to bear them malice." "Indeed," said Locke.

"Consider for a moment," said Stragos, "the possibility that I might not like them any more than you do. And that while I might use them, out of necessity, and freely accept windfalls they send in my direction… your service on my behalf might actually come to work against them. Doesn't that intrigue you?" "Nothing you say can be taken in good faith." Locke glowered.

"Ahhh. That's where you're wrong, Lamora. With the benefit of time, you'll see how little need I have to he about anything. Now, this audience is over. Reflect on your situation, and don't do anything rash. You may remove yourselves from the Mon Magisteria and return when summoned." "Wait," said Locke, "just—"

The Archon rose, tucked the file under his arm, turned and left the room through the same door he'd used to enter. It swung shut immediately behind him with the clatter of steel mechanisms. "Hell," said Jean.

"I'm sorry," muttered Locke. "I was so keen to come to Tal fucking Verrar."

"It's not your fault. We were both eager to hop in bed with the wench; it's just shit luck she turned out to have the clap."

The main doors to the office creaked open, revealing a dozen Eyes waiting in the hall beyond.

Locke stared at the Eyes for several seconds, then grinned and cleared his throat. "Oh, good. Your master has left strict instructions placing you at our disposal. We're to have a boat, eight rowers, a hot meal, five hundred solari, six women who know how to give a proper massage and—"

One thing Locke would say for the Eyes was that when they seized him and Jean to "escort" them from the Mon Magisteria, they were firm without being needlessly cruel. Their clubs remained at their belts, and there were a minimal number of body-blows to soften the resolve of their prisoners. All in all, a very efficient bunch by which to be manhandled.

5

They were rowed back to the lower docks of the Savrola in a long gig with a covered gallery. It was nearly dawn, and a watery orange light was coming up over the landside of Tal Verrar, peeking over the islands and making their seaward faces look darker by contrast. Surrounded by the Archon's oarsmen and watched by four Eyes with crossbows, Locke and Jean said nothing.

Their exit was quick; the boat simply drew up to the edge of one deserted quay and Locke and Jean hopped out. One of the Archon's soldiers threw a leather sack out onto the stones at their feet, and then the gig was backing away, and the whole damnable episode was over. Locke felt a strange daze and he rubbed his eyes, which felt dry within their sockets. "Gods," said Jean. "We must look as though we've been mugged." "We have been." Locke reached down, picked up the sack and exam— ined its contents — Jean's two hatchets and their assortment of daggers. He grunted. "Magi. Gods-damned Bondsmagi!" "This must be what they had in mind." "I hope it's all they have in mind." "They" re not all-knowing, Locke. They must have weaknesses."

"Must they really? And do you know what they are? Might one of them be allergic to exotic foods, or suffer poor relations with his mother? Some good that does us, when they're well beyond dagger-reach! Crooked Warden, why don't dog's arseholes like Stragos ever want to simply hire us for money? I'd be happy to work for fair pay" "No, you wouldn't." "Feh."

"Stop scowling and think for a moment. You heard Stragos's report. The Bondsmagi know about the preparations we've made for going after Requin's vault, but they don't know the whole story. The important part."

"Right… but what need would there be for them to tell Stragos everything?"

"None, of course, but also… they knew where we were operating from in Camorr, but he didn't mention our history. Stragos spoke of Barsavi, but not Chains. Perhaps because Chains died before the Falconer ever came to Camorr and started observing us? I don't think the Bondsmagi can read our thoughts, Locke. I think they're magnificent spies, but they're not infallible. We still have some secrets."

"Hrnmm. Forgive me if I find that a cold comfort, Jean. You know who waxes philosophical about the tiniest weaknesses of enemies? The powerless? "You seem resigned to that without much of a—"

"I'm not resigned, Jean. I'm angry. We need to cease being powerless as soon as possible." "Right. So where do we start?"

"Well, I'm going back to the inn. I'm going to pour a gallon of cold water down my throat. I'm going to get into bed, put a pillow over my head and stay there until sunset." "I approve."

"Good. Then we'll both be well rested when it comes time to get up and find a black alchemist. I want a second opinion on latent poisons. I want to know everything there is to know about the subject, and whether there are any antidotes we can start trying." "Agreed."

"After that, we can add one more small item to our agenda for this Tal Verrar holiday of ours." "Kick the Archon in the teeth?"

"Gods yes," said Locke, smacking a fist into an open palm. "Whether or not we finish the Requin job first. Whether or not there really is a poison! I'm going to take his whole bloody palace and shove it so far up his arse he'll have stone towers for tonsils!" "Any plans to that effect?"

"No idea. I" ve no idea whatsoever. I'll reflect on it, that's for damn sure. But as for not being rash, well, no promises."

Jean grunted. The two of them turned and began to plod along the quay, toward the stone steps that would lead laboriously to the island's upper tier. Locke rubbed his stomach and felt his skin crawling… he felt violated somehow, knowing that something lethal might be slipping unfelt into the darkest crevices of his own body, waiting to do mischief.

On their right the sun was a burning bronze medallion coming up over the city's horizon, perched there like one of the Archon's faceless soldiers, gazing steadily down upon them.

1

Azura Gallardine was not an easy woman to speak to. lb be sure, hers was a well-known name (Second Mistress of the Great Guild of Artificers, Reckoners and Minutiaiy Artisans), and her address was common knowledge (the intersection of Glassbender Street and the Avenue of the Cog-Scrapers, West Cantezzo, Fourth Tier, Artificers" Crescent), but anyone approaching that home had to walk forty feet off the main pedestrian thoroughfare. Those forty feet were one hell of a thing to contemplate.

Six months had passed since Locke and Jean had come to Tal Verrar; the personalities of Leocanto Kosta and Jerome de Ferra had evolved from bare sketches to comfortable second skins. Summer had been dying when thed'r clattered down the road toward the city for the first time, but now the hard, dry winds of winter had given way to die turbulent breezes of early spring. It was the month of Saris, in the seventy-eighth year of Nara, the Plaguebringer, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies.

Jean rode in a padded chair at the stern of a hired luxury scull, a low, sleek craft crewed by six rowers. It sliced across the choppy waters of Tal Verrar's main anchorage like an insect in haste, ducking and weaving between larger vessels in accordance with the shouted directions of a teenage girl perched in its bow.

It was a windy day, with the milky light of the sun pouring down without warmth from behind high veils of clouds. Tal Verrar's anchorage was crowded with cargo-lighters, barges, small boats and the great ships of a dozen nations. A squadron of galleons from Emberlain and Parlay rode low in the water with the aquamarine and gold banners of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows fluttering at their sterns. A few hundred yards away, Jean could see a brig flying the white flag of Lashain, and beyond that a galley with the banner of the Marrows over the smaller pennant of the Canton of Balinel, which was just a few hundred miles north up the coast from Tal Verrar.

Jean's scull was rounding the southern tip of the Merchants" Crescent, one of three sickle-shaped islands that surrounded the Castellana at the city's centre like the encompassing petals of a flower. His destination was the Artificers" Crescent, home of the men and women who had raised the art of clockwork mechanics from an eccentric hobby to a vibrant industry. Verrari clockwork was more delicate, more subtle, more durable — more anything, as required — than that fashioned by all but a handful of masters anywhere else in the known world.

Strangely, the more familiar Jean grew with Tal Verrar, the odder the place seemed to him. Every city built on Eldren ruins acquired its own unique character, in many cases shaped directly by the nature of those ruins. Camorri lived on islands separated by nothing more than canals, or at most the Angevine River, and their existence was shoulder-to-shoulder compared to the great wealth of space Tal Verrar had to offer. The hundred-thousand-odd souls on its seaward islands made full use of that space, dividing themselves into tribes with unusual precision.

In the west, the poor clung to spots in the Portable Quarter, where those willing to tolerate constant rearrangement of all their belongings by hard sea-weather could at least live free of rent. In the east, they crowded the Istrian District and provided labour for the tiered gardens of the Blackhands Crescent. There they grew luxury crops they could not afford, on plots of alchemically enriched soil they could never own.

Tal Verrar had only one graveyard, the ancient Midden of Souls, which took up most of the city's eastern island, opposite the Blackhands Crescent. The Midden had six tiers, studded with memorial stones, sculptures and mausoleums like miniature mansions. The dead were as strictly sifted in death as thed'r been in life, with each successive tier claiming a better class of corpse. It was a morbid mirror of the Golden Steps across the bay.

The Midden itself was almost as large as the entire city of Vel Virazzo, and it sported its own strange society — priests and priestesses of Aza Guilla, gangs of mourners-for-hire (all of whom would loudly proclaim their ceremonial specialities or particular theatrical flourishes to anyone within shouting distance), mausoleum-sculptors and, the oddest of all, the Midden Vigilants. The Vigilants were criminals convicted of grave-robbery. In place of execution, they were locked into steel masks and clanking scale armour and forced to patrol the Midden of Souls as part of a sullen constabulary. Each would be freed only when another grave-robber was captured to take his or her place. Some would have to wait years.

Tal Verrar had no hangings, no beheadings and none of the fights between convicted criminals and wild animals that were popular virtually everywhere else. In Tal Verrar, those convicted of capital crimes simply vanished, along with most of the city's garbage, into the Midden Deep. This was an open square pit, forty feet on a side, located to the north of the Midden of Souls. Its Elderglass walls plunged into absolute darkness, giving no hint as to how far down they truly went. Popular lore held that it was bottomless, and criminals prodded off the execution planks usually went screaming and pleading. The worst rumour about the place, of course, was that those thrown down into the Deep did not die… but somehow continued falling. For ever.

"Hard larboard!" cried the girl at the bow of the scull. The rowers on Jean's left yanked their oars out of the water and the ones on the right pulled hard, sliding the craft just out of the way of a cargo galley crammed with fairly alarmed cattle. A man at the side rail of the galley shook his fist down at the scull as it passed, perhaps ten feet beneath the level of his boots. "Get the shit out of your eyes, you undergrown cunt!" "Go back to pleasuring your cattle, you soft-dicked cur!"

"You bitch! You cheeky bitch! Heave-to and I'll show you who's soft-dicked! Begging your pardon, gracious sir."

Seated in his thronelike chair, dressed in a velvet frock coat with enough gold fripperies to sparkle even in the weak fight of an overcast day, Jean looked very much a man of consequence. It was important for the man on the galley to ensure that his verbal salvoes were accurately received; while they were an accepted part of life on the harbour in Tal Verrar, the moneyed class were always treated as though they were somehow levitating above the water, entirely independent of the vessels and labourers carrying them. Jean waved nonchalantly.

"I don't need to get any closer to know it's soft, lard-cock!" The girl made a rude gesture with both hands. "I can see how disappointed your fucking cows are from here!"

With that, the scull was out of range of any audible reply; the galley fell away to the stern and the south-western edge of the Artificers" Crescent grew before them. "For that," said Jean, "an extra silver volani for everyone here."

As the increasingly cheerful girl and her enthusiastic team pulled him steadily toward the docks of the Artificers" Crescent, Jean's eyes were drawn by a tumult on the water a few hundred yards to his left. A cargo-lighter flagged with some sort of Verrari guild banner Jean didn't recognize was surrounded by at least a dozen smaller craft. Men and women from the boats were trying to clamber aboard the cargo-lighter, while the outnumbered crew of the larger vessel attempted to fend them off with oars and a water-pump. A boat full of constables seemed to be approaching, but was still several minutes off. "Now, what the hell's that?" Jean yelled to the girl.

"What? Where? Oh, that. That's the Quill-Pen Rebellion, up to business as usual." "Quill-Pen Rebellion?"

"The Guild of Scribes. That cargo boat's flying a Guild of Letter-Pressers" flag. It must be carrying a printing press from the Artificers" Crescent. You ever seen a press?" "Heard of them. For the first time just a few months ago, in fact."

"The scribes don't like "em. Think they'll put their trade out of business. So they" ve been running ambushes when the Letter-Pressers try to get one across the bay. There must be six or seven of those new presses on the bottom by now. Plus a few bodies. It's a big, fat, weeping mess, you ask me." "I'm inclined to agree."

"Well, hopefully they won't come up with anything that can replace a good team of honest rowers. Here's your dock, sir, quite a bit ahead of schedule if I'm correct. You want us to wait around?"

"By all means," said Jean. "Amusing help is so hard to find. I expect I won't be but an hour." "At your service, then, Master de Ferra."

2

The Crescent was not exclusive to the Great Guild of Artificers, though it was where the majority of them chose to settle, and where their private halls and clubs loomed on virtually every street-corner, and where they were most tolerated in their habit of leaving incomprehensible and occasionally hazardous devices out in plain sight. Jean made his way up the steep steps of the Avenue of the Brass Cockatrice, past candle-merchants and blade-sharpeners and ven-iparsifers (mystics who claimed to be able to read the full sweep of someone's destiny from the pattern of blood vessels visible on their hands and forearms). At the top of the avenue he dodged away from a slim young woman in a four-cornered hat and sun veil walking a valcona on a reinforced leather leash. Valcona were flightless attack-birds, larger than hunting hounds. With their vestigial wings folded back along their stout bodies, they hopped about on claws that could tear out fist-sized chunks of human flesh. They bonded like affectionate babies to one person and were perfectly happy to kill anyone else in the entire world, at any time.

"Good killer bird," muttered Jean. "Pretty threat to life and limb. What a lovely little girl or boy or thing you are."

The creature chirruped a little warning at him and scampered after its mistress.

Huffing and sweating, Jean made his way up another set of switchback stairs and made an irritated mental note that a few hours of training would do his spreading gut some good. Jerome de Ferra was a man who viewed exercise solely as a means of getting from bed to the gambling tables and back again. Forty feet, sixty feet, eighty feet… up from the waterfront, up the second and third tiers of the island, up to the fourth and topmost, where the eccentric influence of the artificers was at its strongest.

The shops and houses on the fourth tier of the Crescent were provided with water by an extremely elaborate network of aqueducts. Some of them were the stones-and-pillars of the Therin Throne era, while others were merely leather chutes supported by wooden struts. Water wheels, windmills, gears, counterweights and pendulums swung everywhere Jean looked. Rearranging the water supply was a game the artificers played among themselves; the only rule was that nobody's supply was to be cut off at the point of final delivery. Every few days, a new offshoot of some duct or a new pumping apparatus would appear, stealing water from an older duct or pumping apparatus. A few days later another artificer would divert water through another new channel and the battle would continue. Tropical storms would invariably litter the streets of the Crescent with cogs and mechanisms and ductwork, and the artificers would invariably rebuild their water-channels twice as strangely as before. Glassbender Street ran the full length of the topmost tier. Jean turned to his left and hurried along the cobbles. The strange smells of glassmaking wafted out at him from shopfronts; through open doors he could see artisans spinning glowing orange shapes at the ends of long poles. A small crowd of alchemists" assistants brushed past him, hogging the street. They wore the trademark red skullcaps of their profession, and displayed the chemical burns along their hands and faces that were their badges of pride.

He passed the Avenue of the Cog-Scrapers, where a small crowd of labourers were seated before their shops, cleaning and polishing pieces of metal. Some were under the direct scrutiny of impatient artificers, who grumbled unhelpful directions and stamped their feet nervously. This intersection was the south-western end of the fourth tier; there was nowhere else to go except down — or out along the forty-foot walk to the home of Azura Gallardine.

At the cul-de-sac end to Glassbender Street was an arc of shopfronts, with one gap like a tooth knocked out of a smile. Jutting beyond this gap was an Elderglass pylon, anchored to the stone of the fourth tier for some unfathomable Eldren reason. The pylon was about a foot and a half wide, flat-topped and forty feet long. It speared out into the empty air, fifteen yards above the rooftops of a winding street down on the third tier.

The house of Azura Gallardine was perched at the far end of that pylon like a three-storey bird's nest on the tip of a branch. The Second Mistress of the Great Guild of Artificers had discovered an ideal means of assuring her privacy — only those with very serious business, or very sincere need of her skills, would be mad enough to scamper out along the pylon that led to her front door.

Jean swallowed, rubbed his hands together and said a brief prayer to the Crooked Warden before stepping out onto the Elderglass. "It can't be that difficult," he muttered. "I" ve been through worse. It's just a short little walk. No need to look down. I'm as steady as a laden galleon."

With his hands held out at his sides for balance, he began to make his way carefully along the pylon. It was curious, how the breeze appeared to pick up as he crossed, and how the sky looked suddenly wider above him… He fixed his eyes firmly on the door before him and (unbeknownst to himself) ceased to breathe until his hands were planted firmly on that door. He gasped in a deep breath and wiped his brow, which had sprung an embarrassing quantity of sweat. Azura Gallardine's house was solidly crafted from white stone blocks.

It had a high peaked roof crowned with a squeaking windmill and a large leather rain-collection bladder in a wooden frame. The door was decorated with relief carvings of gears and other clockwork mechanisms, and beside it a brass plate was set into the stone. Jean pressed the plate and heard a gong echoing within the house. Smoke from cookfires below curled up past him while he stood there waiting for some response.

He was about to press the plate again when the door creaked open. A short, scowling woman appeared in the gap between the door and its frame, staring up at him. She had to be on the downside of sixty, Jean thought — her reddish skin was lined like the joints of an aged leather garment. She was heavyset, with a vaguely froglike bulge of flesh at her throat and jowly features drooping like sculptor's putty from her high cheekbones. Her white hair was tightly braided with alternating rings of brass and black iron, and most of the visible flesh on her hands, forearms and neck was covered in elaborate, slightly faded tattoos.

Jean set his right foot before his left and bowed at a forty-five-degree angle, with his left hand flung out and his right tucked beneath his stomach. He was about to start conjuring verbal flowers when Guild-mistress Gallardine seized him by his collar and dragged him into her house. "Ow! Madam, please! Allow me to introduce myself!"

"You're too fat and well dressed to be an apprentice after patronage," she replied, "so you must be here to beg a favour, and when your kind says hello, it tends to take a while. No, shut up."

Her house smelled like oil, sweat, stone dust and heated metal. The interior was one tall, hollow space, the strangest cluttered conglomeration Jean had ever seen. There were man-sized arched windows on the right— and left-hand walls, but every other inch of wall space was taken up with a sort of scaffolding that supported a hundred wooden shelves crammed with tools, materials and junk. At the top of the scaffolding, set upon a makeshift floor of planks, Jean could see a sleeping pallet and a desk beneath a pair of hanging alchemical lamps. Ladders and leather cords hung down in several places; books and scrolls and half-empty corked bottles covered most of the floor. "If I" ve come at a bad time—" "It's usually a bad time, Young Master Interloper. A client with an interesting request is about the only thing that ever changes that. So what's it to be?"

"Guildmistress Gallardine, everyone I" ve asked has sworn that the most subtle, most accomplished, most imitated artificer in all of Tal Verrar is none other than y—"

"Stop bathing me with your flattery, boy," said the old woman, waving her hands. "Look around you. Gears and levers, weights and chains. You don't need to lick them with pretty words to make them work — nor me."

"As you wish," said Jean, straightening up and reaching within his coat. "I couldn't live with myself if I didn't extend one small courtesy, however."

From within his coat he brought forth a small package wrapped in cloth-of-silver. The neat corners of the wrapping were drawn together beneath a red wax seal, stamped into a curled disc of shaved gold.

Jean's informants had all mentioned Gallardine's single human failing: a taste for presents as strong as her distaste for flattery and interruptions. She knitted her eyebrows, but did manage a ghost of an anticipatory smile as she took the package in her tattooed hands.

"Well," she said, "well, we must all certainly be able to live with ourselves…"

She popped the disc-seal and pried the cloth-of silver apart with the eagerness of a little girl. The package contained a rectangular bottle with a brass stopper, filled with milky white liquid. She sucked in her breath when she read the label.

"White Plum Austershalin," she whispered. "Twelve gods. Who have you been speaking to?"

Brandy mixes were a Tal Verrar peculiarity: fine brandies from elsewhere (in this case, the peerless Austershalin of Emberlain) mixed with local liquor from rare alchemical fruits (and there were none rarer than the heavenly white plum), bottled and aged together to produce cordials that could blast the tongue into numbness with the richness of their flavour. The bottle held perhaps two glasses of White Plum Austershalin, and it was worth forty-five solari.

"A few knowledgeable souls," said Jean, "who said you might appreciate a modest draught." "This is hardly modest, Master…" "De Ferra. Jerome de Ferra, at your service."

"Quite the opposite, Master de Ferra. What do you want me to do for you?"

"Well — if you" d really prefer to get to the nub of the matter, I don't have a specific need just yet. What I have are… questions." "About what?" "Vaults."

Guildmistress Gallardine cradled her brandy mix like a new baby and said, "Vaults, Master de Ferra? Simple storage vaults, with mechanical conveniences, or secure vaults, with mechanical defences?" "My taste, madam, runs more toward the latter." "What is it you wish to guard?"

"Nothing," said Jean. "It is more a matter of something I wish to un-guard."

"Are you locked out of a vault? Needing someone to loosen it up a bit for you?" "Yes, madam. It's just…" "Just what?"

Jean licked his lips again and smiled. "I had heard, well, credible rumours that you might be amenable to the sort of work I might suggest."

She fixed him with a knowing stare. "Are you implying that you don't necessarily own the vault that you're locked out of?" "Heh. Not necessarily, no."

She paced around the floor of her house, stepping over books and bottles and mechanical devices.

"The law of the Great Guild," she said at last, "forbids any one of us from directly interfering with the work of another, save by invitation, or at the need of the state." There was another pause. "However… it's not unknown for advice to be given, schematics to be examined… in the interest of advancing the craft, you understand. It's a form of testing to destruction. It's how we critique one another, as it were."

"Advice would be all that I ask," said Jean. "I don't even need a locksmith; I just need information to arm a locksmith."

"There are few who could better arm such a one than myself. Before we discuss the matter of compensation, tell me — do you know the designer of the vault you" ve got your eyes on?" "I do." "And it is?" "Azura Gallardine." f

The guildmistress took a step away from him, as though a forked tongue had suddenly flicked out between his lips. "Help you circumvent my own work? Are you mad?"

"I had hoped," said Jean, "that the identity of the vault-owner might be one that wouldn't raise any particular pangs of sympathy." "Who and where?" "Requin. The Sinspire."

"Twelve gods, you are mad!" Gallardine glanced around as though checking the room for spies before she continued. "That certainly does raise pangs of sympathy! Sympathy for myself!"

"My pockets are deep, Guildmistress. Surely there must be a sum that would alleviate your qualms?"

"There is no sum in this world," said the old woman, "large enough to convince me to give you what you ask for. Your accent, Master de Ferra… I believe I place it. You're from Talisham, are you not?" "Yes." "And Requin — you" ve studied him, have you?" "Thoroughly, of course."

"Nonsense. If you" d studied him thoroughly, you wouldn't be here. Let me tell you a little something about Requin, you poor rich Talishani simpleton. Do you know that woman of his, Selendri? The one with the brass hand?" "I" ve heard that he keeps no other close to him." "And that's all you know?" "Ah, more or less."

"Until several years ago," said Gallardine, "it was Requin's custom to host a grand masque at the Sinspire each Day of Changes. A mad revel, in thousand-solari costumes, of which his were always the grandest. Well, one year he and that beautiful young woman of his decided to switch costumes and masks. On a whim.

"An assassin," she continued, "had dusted the inside of Requin's costume with something devilish. The blackest sort of alchemy, a kind of aqua regia for human flesh. It was just a powder… it needed sweat and warmth to bring it to life. And so that woman wore it for nearly half an hour, until she'd just begun to sweat and enjoy herself. And that's when she started to scream.

"I wasn't there. But there were artificers of my acquaintance in the crowd, and they say she screamed and screamed until her voice broke. Until there was nothing coming from her throat but a hiss, and still she kept trying to scream. Only one side of the costume was doused with the stuff… a perverse gesture. Her skin bubbled and ran like hot tar. Her flesh steamed, Master de Ferra. No one had the courage to touch her, except Requin. He cut her costume off, demanded water, worked over her feverishly. He wiped her burning skin clean with his jacket, with scraps of cloth, with his bare hands. He was so badly burned himself that he wears gloves to this day, to hide his own scars." "Astonishing,"said Jean.

"He saved her life," said Gallardine, "what was left of it to save. Surely you" ve seen her face. One eye evaporated, like a grape in a bonfire. Her toes required amputation. Her fingers were burned twigs, her hand a blistered waste. It had to go as well. They had to cut off a breast, Master de Ferra. I assure you, you can have no conception of quite what that means — it would mean much to me now, and it has been many long years since I was last thought comely.

"When she was abed, Requin passed the word to all of his gangs, all of his thieves, all of his contacts, all of his friends among the rich and the powerful. He offered a thousand solari, no questions asked, for anyone who could give him the identity of the would-be poisoner. But there was quite a bit of fear concerning this particular assassin, and Requin was not nearly as respected then as he is now. He received no answer. The next night, he offered five thousand solari, no questions asked, and still received no answer. The third night, he repeated his offer, for ten thousand solari, fruitlessly. On the fourth night, he offered twenty thousand… and still not one person came forward.

"And so the murders started the very next night. At random. Among the thieves, among the alchemists, among the servants of the Priori. Anyone who might have access to useful information. One a night, silent work, absolutely professional. Each victim had his or her skin peeled off with a knife, on their left side. As a reminder.

"And so his gangs, and his gamblers, and his associates begged him to stop. "Find me an assassin," he told them, "and I will." And they pleaded, and they made their inquiries, and came back with nothing. So he began to kill two people per night. He began to kill wives, husbands, children, friends. One of his gangs rebelled, and they were found dead the next morning. All of them. Every attempt to slay him in return failed. He tightened his grip on his gangs and purged them of the weak-hearted. He killed and killed and killed, until the entire city was in a frenzy to turn over every rock, to kick in every door for him. Until nothing could be worse than to keep disappointing him. At last, a man was brought before him who satisfied his questions.

"Requin," said Gallardine with a long, dry sigh, "set that man inside a wooden frame, chained there, on his left side. The frame was filled with alchemical cement, which was allowed to harden. The frame was tipped up — so you see, the man was half-sealed into a stone wall, all along his left side, from his feet to the top of his head. He was tipped up and left standing in Requin's vault to die. Requin would go in himself and force water down the man's throat each day. His trapped limbs rotted, festered, made him sick. He died slowly, starving and gangrenous, sealed into the most perfectly hideous physical torture I have ever heard of in all my long years.

"So you will forgive me," she said, taking Jean gently by the arm and leading him toward the left-hand window, "if Requin is one client with whom I intend to maintain absolute faith until the Lady Most Kind sweeps my soul out of this old sack of bones." "But surely, there's no need for him to know?"

"And just as surely, Master de Ferra, there is the fact that I would never chance it. Never." "But surely, a small consideration—"

"Have you heard," interrupted Gallardine, "of what happens to those caught cheating at his tower, Master de Ferra? He collects their hands, and then he drops their bodies onto a stone courtyard and bills their families or business partners to have the remains cleaned up. And what about the last man who started a fight inside the Sinspire, and drew blood? Requin had him tied to a table. His kneecaps were cut out by a dog-leech and red ants were poured into the wounds. The kneecaps were lashed back down with twine. That man begged to have his throat slit. His request was not granted.

"Requin is a power unto himself. The Archon can't touch him for fear of aggravating the Priori, and the Priori find him far too useful to turn on him. Since Selendri nearly died, he's become an artist of cruelty the likes of which this city has never seen. There is no mortal reward that I would consider worth provoking that man."

"I take all that very seriously, madam. So can we not carefully minimize your involvement? Settle for a basic schematic of the vault mechanisms, the most general overview? The sort of thing that could never be specifically tied to you?" *You haven't really been listening." She shook her head and gestured toward the left-hand window of her house. "Let me ask you something else, Master de Ferra. Can you see the view of Tal Verrar beyond this window?"

Jean stepped forward to gaze out through the pane of glass. The view was southward, over the western tip of the Artificers" Crescent, across the anchorage and the glimmering silver-white water to the Sword Marina. There the Archon's navy rode at anchor, protected by high walls and catapults. "It's a… very lovely view," he said.

"Isn't it? Now, you must consider this my final statement on the matter. Do you know anything of counterweights?" "I can't say that I—"

At that moment, the guildmistress yanked on one of the leather cords that hung down from her ceiling.

The first notion Jean had that the floor had opened up beneath his feet was when the view of Tal Verrar suddenly seemed to move up toward the ceiling; his senses conferred hastily on just what this meant, and were stumped for a split second until his stomach weighed in with nauseous confirmation that the view wasn't doing the moving.

He plunged through the floor and struck a hard square platform suspended just beneath Gallardine's house by iron chains at the corners. His first thought was that it must be some sort of lift — and then it began to plummet toward the street forty-odd feet below.

The chains rattled and the sudden breeze washed over him; he fell prone and clung to the platform with white-knuckled alarm. Roofs and carts and cobblestones rushed up toward him and he braced himself for the sharp pain of impact — but it didn't come. The platform was slowing down with impossible smoothness… sure death slowed to possible injury and then to mere embarrassment. The descent ended a bare few feet above the street, when the chains on Jean's left stayed taut while the others went slack. The platform tilted with a lurch and dumped him in a heap on the cobbles.

He sat up and sucked in a grateful breath; the street was spinning slightly around him. He looked up and saw that the chain-platform was rapidly ascending back to its former position. A split second before it drew home into the underside of Gallardine's floor, something small and shiny tumbled out of the trap door above it. Jean managed to flinch away and cover his face just before glass shards and liquor from the exploding bottle of brandy mix sprayed over him.

He wiped a good few solari-worth of White Plum Austershalin out of his hair as he stumbled to his feet, wide-eyed and cursing.

"A fine afternoon to you, sir. But wait, don't tell me. Let me guess. Proposal not accepted by the guildmistress?"

Jean, befuddled, found a smiling beer-seller not five feet to his right, leaning against the wall of a closed and unmarked two-storey building. The man was a tanned scarecrow with a broad-brimmed leather hat that drooped with age until it nearly touched his bony shoulders. He drummed the fingers of one hand on a large wheeled cask, to which several wooden mugs were attached by long chains.

"Urn, something like that," said Jean. A hatchet slipped out of his coat and clattered against the cobblestones. Red-faced, he bent, retrieved it and made it vanish again.

"You might call this self-serving, and I'd certainly be the first to agree with you, sir, but you look to me like a man in need of a drink. A drink that won't bust open against the cobbles and damn near break your skull, that is." "Do I? What have you got?"

"Burgle, sir. Presuming you" ve heard of it, it's a Verrari speciality and if you" ve had it in Talisham you haven't had it at all. Nothing at all against Talishani, of course. Why, I" ve got family in Talisham, you know."

Burgle was a thick, dark beer usually flavoured with a few drops of almond oil. It had a kick comparable to many wines. Jean nodded. "A full mug, if you please."

The beer-seller opened the tap on his cask and filled one of the chained mugs with liquid that looked almost black. He passed this to Jean with one hand and tipped his cap with the other. "She does it a few times a week, you know."

Jean quaffed the warm beer and let the yeasty, nutty flavour flow down the back of his throat. "A few times a week?"

"She's a mite impatient with some of her visitors. Doesn't wait to terminate conversation with all the usual niceties. But then you knew that already." "Mmm-hmmm. This is pretty tolerable stuff."

"Thank you kindly, sir. One centira the full mug… thank you, thank you kindly. I do a brisk business with folks falling out of Guildmistress Gallardine's floor. I usually try to stake this spot out just in case it rains a customer or two. I'm very sorry you didn't find satisfaction in your meeting with her."

"Satisfaction? Well, she might have got rid of me before I expected, but I think I did what I set out to do." Jean poured the last of the beer down his throat, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and passed the mug back. "I'm really just planting a seed for the future, is all."

1

"Master Kosta, please be reasonable. Why would I be holding anything back from you? If I had a treatment to suggest, it would mean a fair bit more gold in my pocket, now wouldn't it?"

Pale Therese, the Consulting Poisoner, kept a rather comfortable parlour in which to discuss confidential business with her clients. Locke and Jean were seated cross-legged on soft, wide cushions, holding (but not sipping from) little porcelain cups of thick Jereshti coffee. Pale Therese, a serious, ice-eyed Vadran of about thirty, had hair the colour of new sail-canvas that bobbed against the collar of her black velvet coat as she paced the room across from her guests. Her bodyguard, a well-dressed Verrari woman with a basket-hiked rapier and a lacquered wooden club hanging from her belt, lounged against the wall beside the room's single locked door, silent and watchful.

"Of course," said Locke. "I beg your pardon, madam, if I'm a bit out of sorts. I hope you can appreciate our situation… possibly poisoned, with no means to tell in the first place, let alone begin securing an antidote." "Yes, Master Kosta. It's certainly an anxious position you're in."

"This is the second time I" ve been poisoned for coercive purposes. I was lucky enough to escape the first."

"Pity it's such an effective means of keeping someone on a chain, isn't it?" "You needn't sound so satisfied, madam."

"Oh, come now, Master Kosta. You mustn't think me unsympathetic" Pale Therese held up her left hand, showing off a collection of rings and alchemical scars, and Locke was surprised to see that the fourth finger of that hand was missing. "A careless accident, when I was an apprentice, working with something unforgiving. I had ten heartbeats to choose — my finger or my life. Fortunately there was a heavy knife very close at hand. I know what it means to taste the fruits of my art, gentlemen. I know what it is to feel sickly and anxious and desperate, waiting to see what happens next."

"Of course," said Jean. "Forgive my partner. It's just… well, the artistry of our apparent poisoning surely left us hoping for some equally miraculous solution."

"As a rule of thumb, it's always easier to poison than it is to cure." Therese idly rubbed the stump of her missing finger, a gesture that looked like an old, familiar tic. "Antidotes are delicate things; in many cases, they're poisons in their own right. There is no panacea, no cure-all, no cleansing draught that can blunt every venom known to my trade. And since the substance you describe does indeed appear to be proprietary, I'd sooner just cut your throats than attempt random antidote treatments. They could prolong your misery, or even enhance the effect of the substance already within you."

Jean cupped his chin in one hand and gazed around the parlour. Therese had decorated one wall with a shrine to fat, sly Gandolo, Lord of Coin and Commerce, heavenly father of business transactions. On the opposite wall was a shrine to veiled Aza Guilla, Lady of the Long Silence, Goddess of Death. "But you said there are known substances that linger on like the one we're supposed to be afflicted with. Might they not narrow the field of worthwhile treatments?"

"There are such substances, yes. Twilight Rose essence sleeps in the body for several months and deadens the nerves if the subject doesn't take a regular antidote. Witherwhite steals the nourishment from all food and drink; the victim can gorge themselves all they like and still waste away to nothing. Anuella dust makes the victim bleed out through their skin weeks after they inhale it… but don't you see the problem? Three lingering poisons, three very different means of causing harm. An antidote for, say, a poison of the blood might well kill you if your poison works by some other means."

"Damn," said Locke. "All right, then. I feel silly bringing this up, but… Jerome, you said there was one more possibility—" "Bezoars," said Jean. "I read a great deal about them as a child."

"Bezoars are, sadly, a myth." Therese folded her hands in front of her and sighed. "Just a fairy story, like the Ten Honest Turncoats, the Heart-Eating Sword, the Clarion Horn of Therim Pel and all that wonderful nonsense. I'm sure I read the same books, Master de Ferra. I'm sorry. In order to extract magic stones from the stomachs of dragons, we" d have to have living dragons somewhere, wouldn't we?" "They do seem to be in short supply."

"If it's miraculous and expensive you're looking for," said Therese, "there is one more course of action I could suggest." "Anything…" said Locke.

"The Bondsmagi of Karthain. I have credible reports that they do have means to halt poisonings that we alchemists cannot. For those who can afford their fees, of course." "… Except that," muttered Locke.

"Well," said Therese with a certain resigned finality. "Though it aids neither my purse nor my conscience to set you back on the street without a solution, I fear I can do little else, given how thin our information is. You are absolutely confident the poisoning happened but recently?"

"Last night, madam, was the very first opportunity our… tormentor ever had."

"Then take what little comfort I can give. Stay useful to this individual and you probably have weeks or months of safety ahead. In that time, some lucky stroke may bring you more information on the substance in question. Watch and listen keenly for whatever clues you may. Return with more solid information for me and I will instruct my people to take you in at any hour, night or day, to see what I might do." "That's quite gracious of you, madam," said Locke.

"Poor gentlemen! I offer you my best prayers for good fortune. I know you shall five for some time with a weight on your shoulders… and should you eventually find no solution forthcoming, I can always offer you my other services. Turnabout, as they say, is fair play."

"You're our kind of businesswoman," said Jean, rising to his feet. He set down his little cup of coffee and beside it placed a gold solari coin. "We appreciate your time and hospitality" "No trouble, Master de Ferra. Are you ready to go out, then?"

Locke stood up and adjusted his long coat. He and Jean nodded in unison.

"Very well, then. Valista will see you back out the way you came. Apologies once again for the blindfolds, but… some precautions are for your benefit as well as mine."

The actual location of Pale Therese's parlour was a secret, tucked away somewhere among the hundreds of respectable businesses, coffee houses, taverns and homes in the wooden warrens of the Emerald Galleries, where sunlight and moonlight alike filtered down a soothing —.1., sea-green through the mushrooming, intersecting Elderglass domes that roofed the district. Therese's guards led prospective clients to her, blindfolded, along a lengthy series of passageways. The armed young woman stood away from the door, a pair of blindfolds in hand.

"We understand completely," said Locke. "And never fear. We're becoming quite accustomed to being led around by our noses in the dark."

2

Locke and Jean skulked about the Savrola for two nights after that, keeping their eyes on every rooftop and every alley, but neither Bondsmagi nor agents of the Archon came forward and conveniently announced themselves. They were being followed and observed by several teams of men and women, that much was clear. Locke's guess was that these were Requin's people, given instructions to let just enough of their activities slip to keep him and Jean on their toes.

On the third night, they decided they might as well return to the Sinspire and put on their brave faces. Decked out in several hundred solari-worth of finery apiece, they walked up the red velvet carpet and placed silver volani in the hands of the door-guards, while a sizeable crowd of well-dressed nobodies stood nearby hoping for a glimmer of social mercy.

Locke's practised eye picked out the ringers among them: men and women with worse teeth, leaner faces and warier eyes than the rest of the crowd, dressed in evening clothes that didn't look precisely tailored, or wearing the wrong accessories, or the wrong colours. Requin's Right People, out for a night at his Sinspire as a reward for some job well done. Thed'r be let in in good time, but not allowed past the second floor, to be sure. Their presence was just one more component of the tower's mystique: a chance for the great and good to mingle with the dirty and dangerous.

"Masters Kosta and de Ferra," said one of the doormen, "welcome back."

When the wide doors swung open toward Locke and Jean, a wave of noise and heat and smells washed out over them into the night — the familiar exhalation of decadence.

The first floor was merely crowded, but the second floor was a wall-to-wall sea of flesh and fine clothes. The crowd began on the stairs, and Locke and Jean had to use elbows and threats to make their way up into the mess.

"What in Perelandro's name is going on?" Locke asked of a man pressed against him. The man turned, grinning excitedly. "It's a cage spectacle!"

In the centre of the second floor was a brass cage that could be lowered from the ceiling, locking into apertures in the floor to create a sturdy cube about twenty feet on a side. Tonight the cage was also covered with a very fine mesh — no, Locke corrected himself, two layers of mesh, one inside the cage and one outside. A lucky minority of the Sinspire patrons in the room were watching from elevated tables along the outer walls; it was standing-room only for at least a hundred others.

Locke and Jean made their way through the crowd anticlockwise, attempting to get close enough to see what the spectacle was. The excited murmur of conversation surrounded them, more frantic than Locke had ever heard it within these walls. But as he and Jean approached the cage, he suddenly realized that not all of the noise was coming from the crowd.

Something the size of a sparrow beat its wings against the mesh and buzzed angrily, a low thrumming sound that sent a shiver of pure animal dread up Locke's spine. "That's a fucking stiletto wasp," he whispered to Jean, who nodded vigorously in agreement.

Locke had never been unfortunate enough to encounter one of the insects personally. They were the bane of several large tropical islands a few thousand miles to the east, far past Jerem and Jeresh and the lands detailed on most Therin maps. Years before, Jean had found a gruesome account of the creatures in one of his natural philosophy books and read it aloud to the other Gentlemen Bastards, ruining their sleep for several nights.

They were called stiletto wasps on account of descriptions the rare survivors gave of being stung by them. They were as heavy as songbirds, bright red in colour, and their stinging abdomens were longer than a grown man's middle finger. Possession of a stiletto wasp queen in any Therin city-state was punishable by death, lest the things should ever gain a foothold on Therin soil. Their hives were said to be the size of houses.

A young man ducked and wove inside the cage, dressed in nothing more protective than a silk tunic, cotton breeches and short boots. Thick leather gauntlets were his weapons as well as his only armour; they were wedded to bracers buckled around his forearms, and he kept his hands up before his face like a boxer. With gloves like that a man could certainly contemplate swatting or crushing a stiletto wasp — but he would have to be very quick and very sure of himself.

On a table at the opposite side of the cage sat a heavy wooden cabinet, fronted with dozens of mesh-covered cells, a few of which were already open. The rest, judging by the noise, were crammed full of highly agitated stiletto wasps just waiting to be released. "Master Kosta! Master de Ferra!"

The shout carried across the noisy crowd but even so was hard to pinpoint. Locke had to look around several times before he could spot the source — Maracosa Durenna, waving to him and Jean from her place at one of the tables against a far wall.

Her black hair was pulled back into a sort of fan-tail around a gleaming silver ornament, and she was smoking from a curved silver pipe almost as long as her arm. Bands of white iron and jade slid against one another on her left wrist as she beckoned Locke and Jean across the room. They raised eyebrows at each other but pushed their way through the crowd toward her, and were soon standing beside her table.

"Where have you been these past few nights? Izmila has been indisposed, but I" ve been cruising the waters with other games in mind."

"Our apologies, Madam Durenna," said Jean. "Matters of business have kept us elsewhere. We occasionally consult on a freelance basis for very… demanding clients." "There was a brief trip over water," added Locke. "Negotiations concerning futures in pear cider," said Jean. "We came highly recommended by former associates," said Locke.

"Pear cider futures? What a romantic and dangerous sort of trade you two must ply. And are you as accomplished at stake-placing in futures as you are at Carousel Hazard?"

"It stands to reason," said Jean, "or else we wouldn't have the funds to play Carousel Hazard."

"Well then, how about a demonstration? The cage duel. Which participant do you believe to have a happier prospect for the future?"

In the cage, the free stiletto wasp darted toward the young man, who swatted it out of the air and crushed it beneath one of his boots with an audible juicy crack. Most of the crowd cheered.

"Apparently, it's too late for our opinion to matter one way or the other," said Locke. "Or is there more to the show?"

"The show's only just started, Master Kosta. That hive has one hundred and twenty cells. There's a clockwork device opening the doors, mostly at random. He might get one at a time, he might get six. Eye-catching, isn't it? He can't leave the cage until he's got one hundred and twenty wasps dead at his feet, or…" She punctuated the sentence with a deep intake of smoke from her pipe and a raising of both her eyebrows. "I believe he's killed eight so far," she finished.

"Ah," said Locke. "Well… if I had to choose, I'd be inclined to favour the boy. Call me an optimist."

"I do." She let two long streams of smoke fall out of her nose like faint grey waterfalls, and she smiled. "I would take the wasps. Shall we call it a wager? Two hundred solari from me, one hundred apiece from each of you?"

"I'm as fond of a small wager as the next man, but let's ask the next man — Jerome?" "If it's your pleasure, madam, our coin-purses are yours to command."

"What a font of gracious untruths you two are." She beckoned one of Requin's attendants, and the three of them pledged their credit with the house for markers. They received four short wooden sticks engraved with ten rings apiece. The attendant recorded their names on a tablet and moved on; the tempo of the betting around the room was still rising.

In the cage, two more murderously annoyed insects wriggled out of their enclosures and took wing toward the young man.

"Did I mention," said Durenna as she set her pair of markers down atop her little table, "that the death of nearby wasps seems to excite the others to a higher state of frenzy? That boy's opponents will become angrier and angrier as the fight goes on."

The pair currently free in the enclosure looked angry enough; the boy was dancing a lively jig to keep them away from his back and flanks. "Fascinating," said Jean, working a series of specific hand gestures into his mannerisms as he craned his neck to watch the duel. There were a few creative uses of fairly limited signals in Jean's message, but Locke eventually sorted the gist of it out: Do we really have to stay to watch this with her?

He was about to answer when a familiar hard weight fell on his left shoulder.

"Master Kosta," said Selendri before Locke had even finished turning. "One of the Priori wishes to speak to you on the sixth floor. A small matter. Something concerning… card tricks. He said you" d understand."

"Madam," said Locke, "I, ah, would be only too happy to attend. Can you let him know that I'll be with him shortly?"

"Better," she said with a half-smile that didn't move the devastated side of her face at all. "I can escort you myself, to greatly speed your passage."

Locke smiled as though that was exactly what he would have wished, and he turned back to Madam Durenna with his hands spread out before him.

"You do move in interesting circles, Master Kosta. Best hurry; Jerome can tend your wager, and share a drink with me."

"A most unlooked-for pleasure," said Jean, already beckoning an attendant to order that drink.

Selendri didn't waste another moment; she turned and stepped into the crowd, setting course for the stairs on the far side of the circular room. She moved quickly, with her brass hand cradled in her flesh hand before her like an offering, and the throng parted almost miraculously. Locke hurried along in her wake, keeping just ahead of the crowd as it closed up again behind him like some colony of scuttling creatures briefly disturbed in its chores. Glasses clinked, ragged layers of smoke twirled in the air and wasps buzzed.

Up the stairs to the third floor; again the well-dressed masses melted away before Requin's major-domo. On the south side of the third floor was a service area filled with attendants bustling about shelves of liquor bottles. At the rear of the service room was a narrow wooden door with a niche beside it. Selendri slid her artificial hand into this niche and the door cracked open on a dark space barely larger than a coffin. She stepped in first, put her back against the wall of the enclosure and beckoned him in.

"The climbing closet," she said. "Much easier than the stairs and the crowds."

It was a tight fit; Jean would have been unable to share the compartment with her. As it was, Locke was crammed in against her left side, and he could feel the heavy weight of her brass hand against his upper back. She reached past him with her other hand and drew the compartment closed. They were locked in warm darkness, and Locke became intensely aware of their smells — his fresh sweat and her feminine musk, and something in her hair, like the smoke from a burning pine log. Woodsy, tingly, not at all unpleasant.

"Well," he said softly, "this is where I'd have an accident, right? If I had an accident coming?"

"It wouldn't be an accident, Master Kosta. But no, you're not to have it on the way up."

She moved, and he heard the clicking of some mechanism from the wall on her right. A moment later, the walls of the compartment shuddered and a faint creaking noise grew above them. "You dislike me," Locke said on a whim. There was a brief silence.

"I" ve known many traitors," she said at last, "but perhaps none so glib."

"Only those who initiate treachery are traitors," said Locke, injecting a hurt tone into his voice. "What I desire is redress for a grievance." "You would have your rationalizations," she whispered. "I" ve offended you somehow." "Call it whatever you like."

Locke concentrated furiously on the tone of his next few words. In darkness, facing away from her, his voice would be detached from all the cues of his face and his mannerisms. It would never have a more effective theatre of use. Like an alchemist, he mingled long-practised deceptions into the desired emotional compound — regret, abashedness, longing.

"If I have offended you, madam — I would unsay what I said, or undo what I did." The briefest hesitation, just the thing for conveying sincerity. The trustiest tool in his verbal kit. "I would do it the moment you told me how, if you only would give me the chance."

She shuffled ever so slightly against him; the brass hand pressed harder for a heartbeat. Locke closed his eyes and willed his ears, his skin and his pure animal instincts to pluck whatever slightest clue they could out of the darkness. Would she scorn pity, or did she crave it? He could feel the shuddering beat of his own heart, hear the faint pulse in his temples. "There is nothing to unsay or undo," she replied, faintly. "I almost wish that there were. So that I could put you at ease." "You cannot." She sighed. "You could not." "And you won't even let me try?" "You talk the way you perform card tricks, Master Kosta. Far too — J smoothly. I fear you may be even better at hiding things with words than you are with your hands. If you must know, it's your possible usefulness against your employer — and that alone — that preserves my consent for letting you live."

"I don't want to be your enemy, Selendri. I don't even want to be trouble." "Words are cheap. Cheap and meaningless."

"I can't…" Judicious pause again. Locke was as careful as a master sculptor placing crow's feet around the edges of a stone statue's eye. "Look, maybe I am glib. I can't speak otherwise, Selendri." Repeated use of her proper name, a compulsion, almost a spell. More intimate and effective than titles. "I am who I am." "And you wonder that I distrust you for it?" "I wonder more if there's anything that you don't distrust."

"Distrust everyone," she said, "and you can never be betrayed. Opposed, but never betrayed."

"Hmmm." Locke bit his tongue and thought rapidly. "But you don't distrust him, do you, Selendri?" "That's no gods-damned business of yours, Master Kosta."

There was a loud rattle from the ceiling of the climbing closet. The room gave a last heavy shudder and then fell still.

"Forgive me, again," said Locke. "Not the sixth floor, of course. The ninth?" "The ninth."

In a second she would open the door. They had one last moment alone in the intimate darkness. He weighed his options, hefted his last conversational dart. Something risky, but potentially disquieting.

"I used to think much less of him, you know. Before I found out that he was wise enough to really love you." Another pause, and he lowered his voice to the barest edge of audibility. "I think you must be the bravest woman I" ve ever met." He counted his own heartbeats in the darkness until she responded.

"What a pretty presumption," she whispered, and there was acid beneath her words. There was a click and a line of yellow light split the blackness, stinging his eyes. She gave him a firm push with her artificial hand, against the door that opened out into the lamplit heart of Requin's office.

Well, let her roll his words over in her thoughts for a while. Let her give him the signals that would tell him how to proceed. He had no specific goal in mind; it would be enough to keep her uncertain, simply less inclined to stick a knife in his back. And if some small part of him felt sour at twisting her emotions (gods damn it, that part of him had rarely spoken up before!), well — he reminded himself that he could do as he pleased and feel as he pleased while he was Leocanto Kosta. Leocanto Kosta wasn't real.

He stepped out of the climbing closet, unsure if he was any more convinced by himself than Selendri was.

3

"Master Kosta! My mysterious new associate. What a busy man you" ve been."

Requin's office was as cluttered as it had been on Locke's last visit. Locke was gratified to see his decks of cards stacked haphazardly at various points on and near Requin's desk. The climbing closet opened out of a wall niche between two paintings, a niche Locke certainly hadn't noticed on his previous visit.

Requin was standing gazing out through the mesh screen that covered the door to his balcony, wearing a heavy maroon frock coat with black lapels. He scratched at his chin with one gloved hand and glanced sideways at Locke.

"Actually," said Locke, "Jerome and I have had a quiet few days. As I believe I promised you we would."

"I don't mean just these past few days. I" ve been making those inquiries into your past two years in Tal Verrar." "As I'd hoped. Enlightening?"

"Most educational. Let's be direct. Your associate tried to shake down Azura Gallardine for information concerning my vault. Something more than a year ago. You know who she is?"

Selendri was pacing the room to Locke's left, slowly, watching him over her right shoulder.

"Of course. One of the high muck-a-shits of the Artificers" Guild. I told Jerome where to find her."

"And how did you know that she'd had a hand in the design of my vault?"

"It's amazing how much you can learn by buying drinks in artificer bars and pretending that every story you hear is incredibly fascinating." "I see.",1.. "The old bitch didn't tell him anything, though."

"She wouldn't have. And she would have been content at that; she didn't even tell me about the inquiry he'd made. But I put out the question a few nights ago, and it turns out that a beer-seller on my list of reliable eyes once saw someone answering your associate's description fall out of the sky."

"Yes. Jerome said the guildmistress had a unique method of interrupting conversations."

"Well, Selendri had an uninterrupted conversation with her yesterday evening. She was enticed to remember everything she could about Jerome's visit." "Enticed?" "Financially, Master Kosta." "Ah."

"I have also come to understand that you made inquiries with some of my gangs over in the Silver Marina. Starting around the time Jerome visited Guildmistress Gallardine."

"Yes. I spoke to an older fellow named Drava, and a woman named… what was it…" "Armania Cantazzi."

"Yes, that was her. Thank you. Gorgeous woman; I tried to push past business and get a bit friendlier with her, but she didn't seem to appreciate my charms." "Armania wouldn't have; she prefers the company of other women." "Now there's a relief. I thought I was losing my touch."

"You were curious about shipping, the sort customs officials never get to hear about. You discussed a few terms with my people and never followed up. Why?"

"Jerome and I agreed, upon reflection, that securing shipping from outside Tal Verrar would be wisest. We could then simply hire a few small barges to move whatever we stole from you, and avoid the more complicated dealings involved in getting a lighter."

"If I were planning to rob myself, I suppose I would agree. Now, the matter of alchemists. I have reliable information placing you with several over the past year. Reputable and otherwise."

"Of course. I conducted a few experiments with fire-oils and acids, on second-hand clockwork mechanisms. I thought it might save some tedious lockpicking." "Did these experiments bear fruit?'s "I'd share that information with an employer," said Locke, grinning.

"Mmmm. Leave that for now. But it does indeed appear that you" ve been up to something. So many disparate activities that do add up to support your story. There's just one thing more." "Which is?"

"I'm curious. How was old Maxilan doing when you saw him three nights ago?"

Locke was suddenly aware that Selendri was no longer pacing. She had placed herself just a few steps directly behind him, unmoving. Crooked Warden, give me a golden line of bullshit and the wisdom to know when to stop spinning it, he thought. "Uh, well, he's a prick."

"That's no secret. Any child on the street could tell me that. But you admit you were at the Mon Magisteria?"

"I was. I had a private audience with Stragos. Incidentally, he's under the impression that his agents among your gangs are undetected."

"As per my intentions. But you do get around, Leocanto. Just what would the Archon of Tal Verrar want with you and Jerome? In the middle of the night, no less? On the very night we had such an interesting conversation ourselves?"

Locke sighed to buy himself a few seconds to think. "I can tell you," he said when he'd hesitated as long as was prudent, "but I doubt you're going to like it." "Of course I won't like it. Let's have it anyway."

Locke sighed again. Headfirst into a lie, or headfirst out of the window.

"Stragos is the one who's been paying Jerome and myself. The fronts we've been dealing with are his agents. He's the man who's so keen to see your vault looking like a larder after a banquet. He thought it was time to crack the whip on us."

Faint lines appeared on Requin's face as he ground his teeth together, and he put his hands behind his back. "You heard that from his own mouth?" "Yes."

"What an astonishing regard he must feel for you, to give you a personal briefing on his affairs. And your proof?"

"Well, you know, I did ask for a signed affidavit concerning his intentions to rake you over the coals, and he was happy to provide me with one, but clumsy me… I lost it on my way over here tonight!" I Locke turned to his left and scowled. He could see that Selendri was watching him keenly, with her flesh hand resting on something under her jacket. "For fuck's sake, if you don't believe me I can jump out of the window right now and save us all a great deal of time."

"No… no need to paint the cobblestones with your brains just yet." Requin held up one hand. "It is, however, unusual for someone in Stragos's position to deal directly with agents that must be, ah, somewhat lowly placed within his hierarchy, and in his regard. No offence."

"None taken. If I might hazard a guess, I think Stragos is impatient for some reason. I suspect he wants faster results. And… I'm fairly sure that Jerome and myself are no longer intended to outlive any success we achieve on his behalf. It's the only reasonable presumption."

"And it would save him a fair bit of money, I'd guess. Stragos's sort are ever more parsimonious with gold than they are with lives." Requin cracked his knuckles beneath his thin leather gloves. "The damnable thing is, this all makes a great deal of sense. I have a rule of thumb — if you have a puzzle and the answers are elegant and simple, it means someone is trying to fuck you over."

"My only remaining question," said Selendri, "is why Stragos would deal with you personally, knowing full well you could now implicate him if put to… persuasion."

"There is one thing I hadn't thought to mention," said Locke, looking abashed. "It is… a matter of great embarrassment to Jerome and myself. Stragos gave us cider to drink during our audience. Not daring to be inhospitable, we drank quite a bit of it. He claims to have laced it with a poison, something subtle and latent. Something that will require Jerome and me to take an antidote from his hand at regular intervals, or else die unpleasantly. So now he has us by the hip, and if we want the antidote, we must be his good little creatures." "An old trick," said Requin. "Old and reliable."

"I said we were duly embarrassed. And so you see," said Locke, "he already has a means to dispose of us when we've served his purpose. I'm sure he feels very confident of our loyalty for the time being." "And yet you still wish to turn against him?"

"Be honest, Requin. If you were Stragos, would you give us the antidote and send us on our merry way? We're already dead to him. So now I have the burden of two revenges to carry out before I die. Even if I do succumb to Stragos's damn cider, I want my last moment with Jerome. And I want the Archon to suffer. You are still the best means I have to either end."

"A reasonable presumption," purred Requin, growing slightly warmer in his manner.

"I'm glad you think so, because apparently I know less about the politics of this city than I thought I did. What's the hell is going on, Requin?"

"The Archon and the Priori are gnashing their teeth at one another again. Now, half the Priori store large portions of their personal fortunes in my vault, making it impossible for the Archon's spies to know the true extent of their resources. Emptying my vault would not only strip them of funds, but put me in their bad graces. Right now, Stragos could never put me out of business without major provocation, for fear of initiating a civil war. But sponsoring an apparent third party to hit my vault… oh yes, that" d do the trick nicely. I'd be busy hunting you and Jerome, the Priori would be busy trying to have me drawn and quartered, and then Stragos could simply…"

Requin illustrated what the Archon could do by placing a balled fist inside an open palm and squeezing hard.

"I was under the impression," said Locke, "that the Archon was subordinate to the Priori councils."

"Technically, he is. The Priori have a lovely piece of parchment that says so. Stragos has an army and a navy that afford him a dissenting opinion." "Great. So now what do we do?"

"Good question. No more suggestions from you, no more schemes, no more card tricks, Master Kosta?"

Locke decided it was a good time to make Leocanto Kosta a bit more human. "Look," he said, "when my employer was just an anonymous someone who sent a bag of coins every month, I knew exactly what I was doing. But now something else is happening, knives are coming out, and you can see all the angles that I don't. So tell me what to do and I'll do it."

"Hmmmm. Stragos. Did he ask about the conversation you and I had?"

"He didn't even mention it. I don't think he knew about it. I think Jerome and I were scheduled to be picked up and brought in that night regardless." "You're sure?" "I'm as sure as I can be."

"Tell me something, Leocanto. If Stragos had revealed himself to you before you" d had a chance to perform your card tricks for me… if you" d known it was him you were betraying, would you still have done it?"

"Well…" Locke pretended to consider the question. "I can't say what I might think if I actually liked him, or trusted him. Maybe I'd just give Jerome a knife in the back and work for him if I did. But… We're rats to Stragos, aren't we? We're fucking insects. Stragos is one presumptuous son of a bitch. He thinks he knows Jerome and me. I just… don't like him, not a bit, even without the poison to consider."

"He must have spoken to you at length, to inspire such distaste," said Requin with a smile. "So be it. If you want to buy your way into my organization, there will be a price. That price is Stragos." "Oh, gods. What the hell does that mean?"

"When Stragos is either verifiably dead or in my custody, you may have what you ask. A place at the Sinspire assisting with my games. A salary. All the assistance I can offer you with his poison. And Jerome de Ferra crying under your knife. Is that agreeable?" "How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't expect you to do it all yourself. But Maxilan has clearly ruled long enough. Assist me in enabling his retirement by any means you can, or any means I order. Then I suppose I'll have a new floor boss."

"Best thing I" ve heard in a long while. And the, ah, money in my account, locked away by your command?"

"Will remain locked away, lost by your own actions. I am not a man of charity, Leocanto. Remember that, if you would serve me."

"Of course. Of course. But now indulge me, please, in a question of my own. Why aren't you worried that I might be double-timing you for Stragos? That I might run back and tell him all this?"

"Why do you presume that Ym not playing you falsely on that very presumption?" Requin smiled broadly, in genuine amusement.

"All these possibilities make my head hurt," said Locke. "I prefer card-sharping to intrigue. If you're not on the up-and-up, logically I might as well go home and hang myself tonight."

"Yes. But I'll give you a better answer. What could you possibly tell Stragos? That I dislike him, bank for his enemies and wish him dead? So he'd have confirmation of my hostility? No point. He knows I'm hostile. He knows the underworld of Tal Verrar is an impediment to him if he wants to assert his power. My felantozzi prefer the rule of the guilds to the possibility of rule by uniforms and spears; there's less money in dictatorship by arms."

Felantozzi was a Throne Therin term for foot soldiers; Locke had heard it used to refer to criminals a few times before, but he'd never heard them using it among themselves.

"All that remains," said Requin, "is for your other judge to concur that you are still a risk worth taking." "Other judge?"

Requin gestured toward Selendri. "You" ve heard everything, my dear. Do we put Leocanto out of the window, or do we send him back down to where you fetched him from?"

Locke met her gaze, folded his arms and smiled in what he hoped was his most agreeable harmless-puppy fashion. She scowled inscrutably for a few moments, then sighed.

"There's so much to distrust here. But if there's a chance to place a turncoat relatively close to the Archon… I suppose it costs us little enough. We may as well take it."

"There, Master Kosta." Requin stepped over and placed a hand on Locke's shoulder. "How" s that for a ringing endorsement of your character?"

"I'll take what I can get." Locke tried not to let too much of his genuine relief show.

"Then for the time being, your task will be to keep the Archon happy. And, presumably, feeding you your antidote."

"I shall, gods willing." Locke scratched his chin thoughtfully. "I'll have to let him know that we've made our personal acquaintance; he must have other eyes in your "Spire who'll figure it out sooner or later. Best have it explained sooner."

"Of course. Is he likely to bring you back to the Mon Magisteria soon?" "I don't know how soon, but yes. Very much more than likely"

"Good. That means he might blather on about his plans again. Now, let's get you back down to Master de Ferra and your evening's business. Cheating anyone tonight?" "We" d only just arrived. We were taking in the cage spectacle." "Oh, the wasps. Quite a windfall, those monsters." "Dangerous property." "Yes, a Jeremite captain had a seed hive and a queen he was trying to sell. My people tipped off customs, had him executed, burned the queen, and the rest vanished into my keeping after they were impounded. I knew I'd find some sort of use for them." "And the young man facing them?"

"Some eighth son of a titled nobody with sand for brains and debts to the "Spire. He said he'd cover his markers or die trying, and I took him at his word."

"Well, I" ve got a hundred solari on him, so I hope he lives to cover those markers." He turned back toward Selendri. "The climbing closet again?"

"Only to the sixth floor. You can walk back down from there." She smirked slightly. "By yourself."

4

When Locke managed to elbow his way back down to the second floor at last, the young man in the cage was limping, bleeding and wobbling on his feet. Half a dozen stiletto wasps were free in the enclosure, hovering and darting around him. Locke sighed as he pushed through the crowd.

"Master Kosta! Returned to us just in time for the issue to be settled, I believe."

Madam Durenna smiled over the top of her drink, some milky orange liquor in a slender glass vessel nearly a foot high. Jean was sipping from a smaller tumbler of something pale brown, and he passed an identical glass to Locke, who took it up with a grateful nod. Honeyed rum — hard enough to avoid Durenna's scorn, but not quite powerful enough to start beating anyone's better judgment down for the evening.

"Is it about that time? My apologies for my absence. Silly little business." "Silly? With one of the Priori involved?"

"I made the mistake of showing him a card trick last week," said Locke. "Now he's making arrangements for me to perform the same trick for, ah, a friend of his."

"It must be an impressive trick, then. More impressive than what you usually do at a card table?"

"I doubt it, madam." Locke took a long sip from his drink. "For one thing, I don't have to worry about such excellent opposition when I'm performing a card trick." f

"Has anyone ever tried to cut out that disgustingly silver tongue of yours, Master Kosta?" "It's become a traditional pastime in several cities I could mention."

In the cage, the mad buzzing of the wasps grew louder as more of them exploded from their cells… two, three, four… Locke shuddered and watched helplessly as the blurry dark shapes hurtled around the meshed cage. The young man tried to stand his ground, then panicked and began to flail wildly. One wasp met his glove and was slapped to the floor, but another alighted on his lower back and drove its body down. The boy howled, slapped at it and arched his back. The crowd grew deadly silent in mingled horror and anticipation.

It was fast, but Locke would never have called it merciful. The wasps swarmed the young man, darting and stinging, digging their clawed legs into his blood-soaked shirt. One on his chest, one on his arm, its abdomen pulsing madly up and down… one fluttered about his hair, and another drove its sting home into the nape of his neck. The boy's wild screams became wet choking noises. Foam trickled from his mouth, blood ran in rivulets down his face and chest, and at last he fell over, twitching wildly. The wasps buzzed and stalked atop his body, looking horribly like blood-coloured ants as they went about their business, still stinging and biting.

Locke's stomach revolted against the small breakfast he'd eaten at the Villa Candessa, and he bit down hard on one of his curled fingers, using the pain to assert some self-control. When he turned back to Madam Durenna, his face was once again placid.

"Well," she said, waving the four wooden sticks at him and Jean, "this is a tolerable salve for the wounds I still bear from our last meeting. But when shall we have the pleasure of full redress?"

"It can't possibly come soon enough," said Locke. "But if you'll excuse us for the evening, we've got some… political difficulties to discuss. And before we leave I'm going to dispose of my drink on the body of the man who's cost us two hundred solari."

Madam Durenna waved airily and was reloading her silver pipe from a leather pouch before Locke and Jean had taken two steps. j Locked queasiness rose again as he approached the cage. The crowd was breaking up around him, trading marker sticks and enthusiastic babble. The last few paces around the cage, though, were already clear. The noise and movement in the room around them were keeping the wasps agitated. As Locke approached the cage, a pair leapt back into the air and hovered menacingly, bearing loudly against the inner layer of mesh and following him along. Their black eyes seemed to stare right into his. He cringed despite himself.

He knelt as close to the young man's body as he could get, and in seconds half the free wasps in the enclosure were buzzing and batting against the mesh just a foot or two from his face. Locke threw the remaining half of his rum on die wasp-covered corpse. Behind him, there was an eruption of laughter.

"That's the spirit, friend," came a slurred voice. "Clumsy son of a bitch cost me five hundred solari. Take a piss on him while you're down there!"

"Crooked Warden," Locke muttered under his breath, speaking quickly, "a glass poured on die ground for a stranger without friends. Lord of gallants and fools, ease this man's passage to the Lady of the Long Silence. This was a hell of a way to die. Do this for me and I'll try not to ask for anything for a while. I really do mean that this time."

Locke kissed the back of his left hand and stood up. With the blessing said, suddenly he couldn't be far enough away from the cage. "Where now?" asked Jean quietly. "The hell away from these gods-damned insects.'s The sky was clear over the sea and roofed in by clouds to the east; a high pearlescent ceiling hung there like frozen smoke beneath the moons. A hard breeze was blowing past them as they trudged across the docks that fringed the inner side of the Great Gallery, whipping discarded papers and other bits of junk about their feet. A ship's bell echoed across the lapping silver water.

On their left, a dark Elderglass wall rose storey after storey like a looming cliff, crossed here and there by rickety stairs with faint lanterns to guide the way of those stumbling up and down them. At the top of those heights was the Night Market, and the edge of the vast roof that covered the tiers of the island down to the waves on its other side.

"Oh, fantastic," said Jean when Locke had finished his recounting of what had transpired in Requin's office. "So now we've got Requin thinking that Stragos is out to get him. I" ve never helped precipitate a civil war before. This should be fun." "I didn't have much choice," said Locke. "Can you think of any r other convincing reasons for Stragos to take a personal interest in us? Without a good explanation, I was going out of that window, that much was clear."

"If only you" d landed on your head, you" d have had nothing to fear but the bill for damaged cobblestones. Do you think Stragos needs to know that Requin's not as blind to his agents as he thought?" "Oh, fuck the son of a bitch." "Didn't think so."

"Besides, for all we know Stragos really is out to get Requin. They" re certainly not friends, and trouble's brewing all over this damn city. On the assets side of the ledger," said Locke, "I think Selendri can be sweet-talked, at least a little bit. And it appears that Requin really thinks of me as his." "Well, good on that. Do you think it's time to give him the chairs?"

"Yeah, the chairs… the chairs. Yes. Let's do it before Stragos decides to push us around some more."

"I'll have them taken out of storage and brought round in a cart whenever you like."

"Good. I'll deliver them later this week, then. You mind avoiding the Sinspire for a night or two?" "Of course not. Any particular reason?"

"I just want to disappoint Durenna and Corvaleur for a bit. Until we're a little more secure with our situation, I'd really prefer not to waste another night losing money and getting drunk. The betaparanella trick might rouse suspicion if we pull it again."

"If you put it that way, I can't say no. How about if I poke around in a few other places, and see if I can catch any whispers about the Archon and the Priori} I think we might arm ourselves with a little more of this city's history." "Lovely. What the hell's this?"

They were not alone on the dockside; in addition to occasional strangers hurrying here and there on business, there were boatmen sleeping under cloaks beside their tied-up craft and a fair number of drunks and derelicts curled up beneath any shelter they could claim. A pile of crates lay just a few paces to their left, and in its shadow sat a thin figure covered in layers of torn rags, near a tiny alchemical globe that shone a pale red. The figure clutched a small burlap sack and beckoned to them with one pale hand. "Sirs, sirs!" The loud, croaking voice sounded female. "For pity's sake, you fine gentlemen. For pity's sake, for Perelandro's sake. A coin, any coin, thin copper would do. Have pity, for Perelandro's sake."

Locke's hand went to his purse, just inside his frock coat. Jean had taken his off and now carried it folded over his right arm; he seemed content to let Locke see to the evening's act of charity.

"For Perelandro's sake, madam, you may have more than just a centira."

Temporarily distracted by the warm glow of his own affected gallantry, Locke was holding out three silver volani before the first little warning managed to register. The beggar would be happy to have one thin copper, and had a loud voice… why hadn't they heard her speaking to any of the strangers who'd passed by just ahead of them?

And why was she reaching out with the burlap sack rather than an open hand?

Jean was faster than he was, and with no more elegant way to get Locke to safety, he raised his left arm and gave Locke a hard shove. A crossbow bolt punched a neat, dark hole in the burlap sack and hissed through the air between them; Locke felt it tug at his coat-tails as he fell sideways. He toppled over a smaller crate and landed clumsily on his back.

He sat up just in time to see Jean kick the beggar in the face. The woman's head snapped back, but she planted her hands on the ground and scissored her legs, sweepingjean off his feet. As Jean hit the ground and tossed his folded coat away, the beggar drew her legs straight up, kicked them down and flung herself forward in an arc. She was on her feet in a second, casting off her rags.

Ah, shit. She's a foot-boxer — a bloody chassoneur, Locke thought, stumbling to his feet. Jean hates that. Locke twitched his coat-sleeves and a stiletto fell into each hand. Moving warily, he skipped across the stones toward Jean's attacker, who was kicking Jean in the ribs as the big man attempted to roll away. Locke was within three paces of the chassoneur when the slap of boot-leather against the ground warned of a presence close behind him. He raised the stiletto in his right hand as though to strike Jean's assailant, then ducked and whirled, lunging blindly to his rear with the left-hand blade.

Locke was instantly glad he'd ducked: something whirled past his head close enough to tear painfully at his hair. His new attacker was another "beggar", a man close to his own stature, and he'd just missed a swing with a long iron chain that would have opened Locke's skull like an egg. The force of the man's attack helped carry him onto the point of Locke's stiletto, which plunged in up to the hilt just beneath the man's right armpit. The man gasped and Locke pressed his advantage ruthlessly, bringing his other blade down overhand and burying it in the man's left clavicle.

Locke wrenched both of his blades as savagely as he could, and the man moaned. The chain slipped from his fingers and hit the stones with a clatter; a second later Locke worked his blades out of the man's body as though he was pulling skewers from meat, and let the poor fellow slump to the ground. He raised his bloody stilettos, turned and, with a sudden burst of ill-advised self-confidence, charged Jean's assailant.

She kicked out from the hip, barely sparing him a glance. Her foot struck his sternum; it felt like walking into a brick wall. He stumbled back, and she took the opportunity to step away from Jean (who looked to have been rather pummelled) and advance on Locke.

Her rags were discarded. Locke saw that she was a young woman, probably younger than he was, wearing loose, dark clothing and a thin, well-fashioned ribbed leather vest. She was Therin, relatively dark-skinned, with tightly braided black hair that circled her head like a crown. She had a poise that said she'd killed before.

No problem, thought Locke as he moved backwards, so have I, and that's when he tripped over the body of the man he'd just stabbed.

She took instant advantage of his misstep. Just as he regained his balance, she snapped out in an arc with her right leg. Her foot landed like a hammer against Locke's left forearm, and he swore as his stiletto flew from suddenly nerveless fingers. Incensed, he lunged with his right-hand blade.

Moving as deftly as Jean ever had, she grabbed Locke's right wrist with her left hand, pulled him irresistibly forward and slammed the heel of her right hand into his chin. His remaining stiletto whirled into the darkness like a man diving from a tall building, and suddenly the dark sky above him with was replaced with looming grey stones. He made their acquaintance hard enough to rattle his teeth like dice in a cup.

She kicked him once to roll him over onto his back, then planted a foot on his chest to pin him down. She'd caught one of his blades, and he watched in a daze as she bent forward to put it to use. His hands were numb, traitorously slow, and he felt an unbearable itching sensation on his unprotected neck as his own stiletto dipped toward it.

Locke didn't hear Jean's hatchet sink into her back, but he saw its effect and guessed the cause. The woman jerked upright, arched backwards and let the stiletto slip. It clattered against the ground just beside Locke's face, and he flinched. His assailant sank down to her knees just beside him, breathing in swift, shallow gasps, and then twisted away. He could see one of Jean's Wicked Sisters buried in a spreading dark stain on her lower back, just to the right of her spine.

Jean stepped over Locke, reached down and yanked the hatchet from the woman's back. She gasped, fell forward and was viciously yanked back upright by Jean, who stood behind her and placed the blade of his hatchet against her throat. "Lo… Leo! Leocanto. Are you all right?" "With this much pain," Locke gasped, "I know I can't be dead."

"Good enough." Jean applied more force to the hatchet, which he was holding just behind its head, like a barber wielding a beard-scraper. "Start talking. I can help you die without further pain, or I can even help you live. You're no simple bandit. Who put you here?"

"My back," sobbed the woman, her voice trembling and utterly without threat. "Please, please, it hurts." "It's supposed to. Who put you here? Who hired you?"

"Gold," said Locke, coughing. "White iron. We can pay you. Double. Just give us a name." "Oh, gods, it hurts…"

Jean seized her by the hair with his free hand and pulled; she cried out and straightened up. Locke blinked as he saw what appeared to be a dark, feathered shape burst out of her chest; the wet thud of the crossbow quarrel's impact didn't register until a split second later. Jean leapt back, dumbfounded, and dropped the woman to the ground. A moment later, he looked past Locke and gestured threateningly with his hatchet. "You!" "At your service, Master de Ferra."

Locke craned his head back far enough to catch an upside-down glimpse of the woman who'd stolen them off the street and delivered them to the Archon a few nights before. Her dark hair fluttered freely behind her in the breeze. She wore a tight black jacket over a grey waistcoat and a grey skirt, and held a discharged crossbow in her left hand. She was walking toward them at a leisurely pace, from the direction thed'r come. Locke groaned and rolled over until she was rightside-up. Beside him, the beggar-chassoneur gave one last wet cough and died.

"Gods damn it," cried Jean, "I was about to get some answers from her!"

"No, you weren't," said the Archon's agent. "Take a look at her right hand."

Locke (climbing shakily to his feet) and Jean both did so: a slender knife with a curved blade glistened there by the faint light of the moons and the few dockside lamps.

"I was assigned to watch over you two," the woman said as she stepped up beside Locke, beaming contentedly. "Fine fucking job," said Jean, rubbing his ribs with his left hand.

"You seemed to be doing well enough until the end." She looked down at the little knife and nodded. "Look, this knife has an extra groove right alongside the cutting edge. That usually means something nasty on the blade. She was buying time to slip it out and stick you with it."

"I know what a groove along the blade means," mumbled Jean, petulantly. "Do you know who the hell these two work for?" "I have some theories, yes." "And would you mind sharing them?" asked Locke. "If I were given orders to that effect," she said sweetly.

"Gods damn all Verrari, and give them more sores on their privates than hairs on their heads," muttered Locke. "I was born in Vel Virazzo," said the woman. "Do you have a name?" asked Jean.

"Lots. All of them lovely and none of them true," she replied. "You two can call me Merrain."

"Merrain. Ow." Locke winced and massaged his left forearm with his right hand. Jean set a hand on his shoulder. "Anything broken, Leo?

"Not much. Perhaps my dignity and my previous presumptions of divine benevolence." Locke sighed. "We've seen people following us for the past few nights, Merrain. I suppose we must have seen you."

"I doubt it. You gentlemen should collect your things and start walking. Same direction you were moving before. There'll be constables here soon enough, and the constables don't take orders from my employer."

Locke retrieved his wet stilettos and wiped them on the trousers of the man he'd killed before returning them to his sleeves. Now that the anger of the fight had run cold, Locke felt his gorge rising at the sight of the corpse, and he scuttled away as fast as he could.

Jean gathered up his coat and slipped his hatchet into it. Soon enough the three of them were walking along, Merrain in the middle with her elbows linked in theirs.

"My employer," she said after a few moments, "wished me to watch over you tonight, and when convenient show you down to a boat." "Wonderful," said Locke. "Another private conversation."

"I can't say. But if I were to conjecture, I'd guess that he's found a job for the pair of you."

Jean spared a quick glance for the two bodies lying in the darkness far behind them, and he coughed into his clenched fist. "Splendid," he growled. "This place has been so dull and uncomplicated so far."

1

Six days north up the coast road from Tal Verrar, the demi-city of Salon Corbeau lies within an unusually verdant cleft in the black seaside rocks. More than a private estate, not quite a functional village, the demi-city clings to its peculiar life in the smouldering shadow of Mount Azar.

In the time of the Therin Throne Azar exploded to life, burying three living villages and ten thousand souls in a matter of minutes. These days it seems content merely to rumble and brood, sending twisting charcoal plumes out to sea, and nights of ravens wheel without concern beneath the tired old volcano's smoke. Here begin the hot, dusty plains called the Adra Morcala, inhabited by few and loved by none. They roll like a cracked, dry sea all the way to the southern boundaries of Balinel, most westerly and desolate canton of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows.

Locke Lamora rode into Salon Corbeau on the ninth day of Aurim, in the Seventy-Eighth Year of Nara. A mild westerly winter. A fruitful year (and more) had passed since he and Jean had first set foot in Tal Verrar, and in the armoured strongbox at the rear of Locke's rented carriage rattled a thousand gold solari, stolen at billiards from a certain Lord Landreval of Espara who was unusually sensitive to lemons.

The little harbour that served the demi-city was thick with small craft — yachts and pleasure-barges and coasting galleys with square silk sails. Farther out, upon the open sea, a galleon and a sloop rode at anchor, each flying the pennant of Lashain under family crests and colours Locke didn't recognize. The breeze was slight and the sun was pale, more silver than gold behind the hazy exhalations of the mountain.

"Welcome to Salon Corbeau," said a footman in livery of black and olive-green, with a tall hat of pressed black felt. "How are you styled, and how must you be announced?" A liveried woman placed a wooden block beneath the open door to Locke's carriage and he stepped out, bracing his hands in the small of his back and stretching with relief before hopping to the ground. He wore a drooping black moustache beneath black-rimmed optics and slicked-black hair; his heavy black coat was tight in the chest and shoulders but flared out from waist to knees, fluttering behind him like a cape. He had eschewed the more refined hose and shoes for grey pantaloons tucked into knee-high field boots, dull black beneath a faint layer of road dust.

"I am Mordavi Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain," he said. "I doubt that I shall require announcement as I have no title of any consequence."

"Very good, Master Fehrwight," said the footman smoothly. "The Lady Saljesca appreciates your visit to Salon Corbeau and earnestly wishes you good fortune in your affairs."

"Appreciates your visit," noted Locke, rather than "would be most pleased to receive your audience." " Countess Vira Saljesca of Lashain was the absolute ruler of Salon Corbeau; the demi-city was built on one of her estates. Equidistant from Balinel, Tal Verrar and Lashain, just out of convenient rulership by any of them, Salon Corbeau was more or less an autonomous resort state for the wealthy of the Brass Coast.

In addition to the constant arrival of carriages along the coast roads and pleasure-vessels from the sea, Salon Corbeau attracted one other noteworthy form of traffic, which Locke had meditated on in a melancholy fashion during his journey.

Ragged groups of peasants, urban poor and rural wretches alike, trudged wearily along the dusty roads to Lady Saljesca's domain. They came in intermittent but ceaseless streams, flowing to the strange private city beneath the dark heights of the mountain.

Locke imagined that he already knew exactly what they were coming for, but his next few days in Salon Corbeau would prove that understanding to be woefully incomplete.

2

Locke had originally expected that a sea voyage to Lashain or even Issara might be necessary to secure the final pieces of his Sinspire scheme, but conversation with several wealthier Verrari had convinced him that Salon Corbeau might have exactly what he needed. Picture a seaside valley carved from night-dark stone, perhaps three hundred yards in length and a hundred wide. Its little harbour lies on its western side, with a crescent beach of fine black sand. At its eastern end, an underground stream pours out of a fissure in the rocks, rushing down a stepped arrangement of stones. The headlands above this stream are commanded by Countess Saljesca's residence, a stone manor house above two layers of crenellated walls — a minor fortress.

The valley walls of Salon Corbeau are perhaps twenty yards in height, and for nearly their full length they are terraced with gardens. Thick ferns, twisting vines, blossoming orchids and fruit and olive trees flourish there, a healthy curtain of brown and green in vivid relief against the black, with little water-ducts meandering throughout to keep Saljesca's artificial paradise from growing thirsty.

In the very centre of the valley is a circular stadium, and the gardens on both sides of this stone structure share their walls with several dozen sturdy buildings of polished stone and lacquered wood. A miniature city rests on stilts and platforms and terraces, charmingly enclosed by walkways and stairs at every level.

Locke strolled these walkways on the afternoon of his arrival, looking for his ultimate goal with a stately lack of haste — he expected to be here for many days, perhaps even weeks. Salon Corbeau, like the chance-houses of Tal Verrar, drew the idle rich in large numbers. Locke walked among Verrari merchants and Lashani nobles, among scions of the western Marrows, past Nesse ladies-in-waiting (or perhaps more accurately ladies-weighted-down, in more cloth-of-gold than Locke would have previously thought possible) and the landed families they served. Here and there he was sure he even spotted Camorri, olive-skinned and haughty, though thankfully none were important enough for him to recognize.

So many bodyguards and so many bodies to guard! Rich bodies and faces; people who could afford proper alchemy and physik for their ailments. No weeping sores or sagging facial tumours, no crooked teeth lolling out of bleeding gums, no faces pinched by emaciation. The Sinspire crowd might be more exclusive, but these folk were even more refined, even more pampered. Hired musicians followed some of them, so that even little journeys of thirty or forty yards need not threaten a second of boredom. Rich men and women were haem-orrhaging money all around Locke, to the strains of music. Even a man like Mordavi Fehrwight might spend less to eat for a month than some of them would throw away just to be noticed at breakfast each day.

He" d come to Salon Corbeau because of these folk; not to rob them, for once, but to make use of their privileged existence. Where the rich nested like bright-feathered birds, the providers of the luxuries and services they relied upon followed. Salon Corbeau had a permanent community of tailors, clothiers, instrument-makers, glassbenders, alchemists, caterers, entertainers and carpenters. A small community, to be sure, but one of the highest reputation, fit for aristocratic patronage and priced accordingly.

Almost in the middle of Salon Corbeau's south gallery, Locke found the shop he had come all this way to visit — a rather long, two-storey stone building without windows along its walkway face. The wooden sign above the single door said:

On the door of the Baumondain shop was a scrollwork decoration, the crest of the Saljesca family (as Locke had glimpsed on banners fluttering here and there, and on the cross-belts of Salon Corbeau's guards), implying Lady Vira's personal approval of the work that went on there. Meaningless to Locke, since he knew too little of Saljesca's taste to judge it… but the Baumondain reputation stretched all the way to Tal Verrar.

He would send a messenger first thing in the morning, as was appropriate, and request an appointment to discuss the matter of some peculiar chairs he needed built.

3

At the second hour of the next afternoon, a warm, soft rain was falling, a weak and wispy thing that hung in the air more like damp gauze than falling water. Vague columns of mist swirled among the plants and atop the valley, and the walkways were for once clear of most of their well-heeled traffic. Grey clouds necklaced the tall, black mountain to the north-west. Locke stood outside the door to the Baumondain shop with water dripping down the back of his neck and rapped sharply three times. The door swung inward immediately; a wiry man of about fifty peered out at Locke through round optics. He wore a simple cotton tunic cinched up above his elbows, revealing guild tattoos in faded green and black on his lean forearms, and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a grey kitten, with only its little head visible. "Master Fehrwight? Mordavi Fehrwight?"

"So pleased you could make the time for me," began Locke. He spoke with a faint Vadran accent, just enough to suggest an origin in the far north. He" d decided to be lazy, and let this Fehrwight be as fluent in Therin as possible. Locke stretched out his right hand to shake. In his left he carried a black leather satchel with an iron lock upon its flap. "Master Baumondain, I presume?"

"None other. Come in directly, sir, out of the rain. Will you take coffee? Allow me to trade you a cup for your coat."

"With pleasure." The foyer of the Baumondain shop was a high, cosily panelled room lit with little golden lanterns in wall sconces. A counter with one swinging door ran across the rear of the room, and behind it Locke could see shelves piled high with samples of wood, cloth, wax and oils in glass jars. The placed smelled of sanded wood, a sharp and pleasant tang. There was a little sitting area before the counter, where two superbly wrought chairs with black velvet cushions stood upon a floor tapestry.

Locke set his satchel at his feet, turned to allow Baumondain to help him shrug out of his damp black coat, picked up his satchel once again and settled himself in the chair nearest to the door. The carpenter hung Locke's coat on a brass hook on the wall. "Just a moment, if you please," he said, and went behind the counter. From his new vantage point, Locke could see that a canvas-covered door led from behind the counter to what he presumed must be the workshop. Baumondain pushed the canvas flap aside and yelled, "Lauris! The coffee!"

Some muffled reply came back to him from the workshop that he evidently found satisfactory, and he hurried around the counter to take his place in the chair across from Locke, crinkling his seamy face into a welcoming smile. A few moments later, the canvas flew aside once again and out from the workshop came a freckled girl of fifteen or sixteen years, chestnut-haired, slim in the manner of her father but more firmly muscled about the arms and shoulders. She carried a wooden tray before her set with cups and silver pots, and when she stepped through the door in the counter Locke saw the tray had legs like a very small table.

She placed the coffee service between Locke and her father, just to the side, and gave Locke a respectful nod.

"My oldest daughter, Lauris," said Master Baumondain. "Lauris, this is Master Fehrwight, of the House of bel Sarethon, from Emberlain."

"Charmed," said Locke. Lauris was close enough for him to see that her hair was full of curly little wood shavings.

"Your servant, Master Fehrwight." Lauris nodded again, prepared to withdraw, and then caught sight of the grey kitten sticking out of her father's apron pocket. "Father, you" ve forgotten Lively. Surely you didn't mean to have him sit in on the coffee?"

"Have I? Oh dear, I see that I have." Baumondain reached down and eased the kitten out of his apron. Locke was astonished to see how limply it hung in his hands, with its legs and tail drooping and its little head lolling; what self-respecting cat would sleep while plucked up and carried through the air? Then Locke saw the answer as Lauris took Lively in her own hands and turned to go. The kitten's little eyes were wide open, and stark white.

"That creature was Gentled," said Locke in a low voice when Lauris had returned to the workshop. "I'm afraid so," said the carpenter. "I" ve never seen such a thing. What purpose does it serve, in a cat?"

"None, Master Fehrwight, none." Baumondain's smile was gone, replaced by a wary and uncomfortable expression. "And it certainly wasn't my doing. My youngest daughter, Parnella, found him abandoned behind the Villa Verdante." Baumondain referred to the huge luxury inn where the intermediate class of Salon Corbeau's visitors stayed, the wealthy who were not private guests of the Lady Saljesca. Locke himself was rooming there. "Damned strange."

"We call him Lively, as a sort of jest, though he does little. He must be coaxed to eat, and prodded to… to excrete, you see. Parnella thought it would be kinder to smash his skull but Lauris would not hear of it, and so I could not refuse. You must think me weak and doting."

"Not at all," said Locke, shaking his head. "The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all."

"Master Fehrwight." The carpenter licked his lips nervously. "You seem a humane man, and you must understand… our position here brings us a steady and lucrative business. My daughters will have quite an inheritance when I turn this shop over to them. There are… there are things about Salon Corbeau, things that go on, that we artisans… do not pry into. Must not. If you take my meaning."

"I do," said Locke, eager to keep the man in a good humour. However, he made a mental note to perhaps poke around in pursuit of whatever was disturbing the carpenter. "I do indeed. So let us speak no more of the matter, and instead look to business."

"Most kind," said Baumondain, with obvious relief. "How do you take your coffee? I have honey and cream." "Honey, please."

Baumondain poured steaming coffee from the silver pot into a thick glass cup and spooned in honey until Locke nodded. Locke sipped at his cup while Baumondain bombarded his own with enough cream to turn it leather-brown. It was quality brew, rich and very hot. "My compliments," Locke mumbled over a slightly scalded tongue.

"It's from Issara. Lady Saljesca's household has an endless thirst for the stuff," said the carpenter. "The rest of us buy pecks and pinches from her sellers when they come around. Now, your messenger said that you wished to discuss a commission that was, in her words, very particular."

"Yes, particular indeed," said Locke, "to a design and an end that may strike you as eccentric. I assure you I am in grave earnest."

Locke set down his coffee and lifted his satchel into his lap, then pulled a small key from his waistcoat pocket to open the lock. He reached inside and drew out a few pieces of folded parchment.

"You must be familiar," Locke continued, "with the style of the last few years of the Therin Throne? The very last few, just before Talathri died in battle against the Bondsmagi?" He passed over one of his sheets of parchment, which Baumondain removed his optics to examine.

"Oh, yes," the carpenter said slowly. "The Talathri Baroque, also called the Last Flowering. Yes, I" ve done pieces in this fashion before… Lauris has as well. You have an interest in this style?"

"I require a suite of chairs," said Locke. "Four of them, leather-backed, lacquered shear-crescent with real gold insets."

"Shear-crescent is a somewhat delicate wood, fit only for occasional use. For more regular sitting I'm sure you" d want witchwood."

"My master," said Locke, "has very exact tastes, however peculiar. He insisted upon shear-crescent, several times, to ensure that his wishes were clear."

"Well, if you wished them carved from marzipan, I suppose I should have to do it… with the clear understanding, of course, that I did warn you against hard use."

"Naturally. I assure you, Master Baumondain, you won't be held liable for anything that happens to these chairs after they leave your workshop."

"Oh, I would never do less than vouch for our work, but I cannot make a soft wood hard, Master Fehrwight. Well, then, I do have some books with excellent illustrations of this style. Your artist has done well to start with, but I'd like to give you more variety to choose from—"

"By all means," said Locke, and he sipped his coffee contentedly as the carpenter rose and returned to the workshop door. "Lauris," Baumondain cried, "my three volumes of Velonetta … yes, those."

He returned a moment later cradling three heavy, leather-bound tomes that smelled of age and some spicy alchemical preservative. "Velonetta," he said as he settled the books on his lap. "You are familiar with her? No? She was the foremost scholar of the Last Flowering. There are only six sets of her work in all the world, as far as I know. Most of these pages are on sculpture, painting, music, alchemy… but there are fine passages on furniture, gems worth mining. If you please…"

They spent half an hour poring over the sketches Locke had provided and the pages Baumondain wished to show him. Together, they hammered out an agreeable compromise on the design of the chairs that "Master Fehrwight" would receive. Baumondain fetched a stylus of his own and scrawled notes in an illegible chicken-scratch. Locke had never before considered how many details might go into something as straightforward as a chair; by the time they had finished their discussion of legs, bracings, cushion-filling, leathers, scrollwork and joinery, Locke's brain was in full revolt.

"Excellent, Master Baumondain, excellent," is nonetheless what he said. "The very thing, in shear-crescent, lacquered black, with gold leaf to gild the incised decorations and the rivets. They must look as though they had been plucked from Emperor Talathri's court just yesterday, new and unburned." "Ah," said the carpenter, "a delicate subject arises, then. Without meaning to give the slightest offence, I must make it clear that these will never pass for originals. They will be exact reconstructions of the style, perfect facsimiles of a quality to match any furnishings in the world — but an expert could tell. They are few and far between, but such a one would never confuse a brilliant reconstruction for even a modest original. They have had centuries to weather; these will be plainly new."

"I take your meaning, Master Baumondain. Never fear; I am ordering these for eccentric purposes, not for deceptive ones. These chairs will never be alleged to be originals, on my word. And the man who will receive them is such an expert, in fact." "Very good, then, very good. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Locke, who had withheld two sketch-covered sheets of parchment, and now passed them over. "Now that we've settled on a design for the suite of chairs, this — or something very much like it, subject to your more expert adjustments — must be included in the plans."

As Baumondain absorbed the implications of the sketches, his eyebrows rose steadily until it looked as if they were being drawn up to the fullest possible extent of his forehead's suppleness, and must be flung back down to the floor like crossbow bolts when they reached their zenith.

"This is a prodigious curiosity," he said at last. "A very strange thing to incorporate… I'm not at all sure—"

"It is essential," said Locke. "That, or something very much like it, within the bounds of your own discretion. It is absolutely necessary. My master simply will not place an order for the chairs unless these features are built into them. Cost is no object."

"It's possible," said the carpenter after a few seconds of further contemplation. "Possible, with some adjustments to these designs. I believe I see your intention, but I can improve upon this scheme… must, if the chairs are to function as chairs. May I ask why this is necessary?"

"My master is a dear old fellow, but as you must have gathered, quite eccentric, and morbidly afraid of fire. He fears to be trapped in his study or his library tower by flames. Surely you can see how these mechanisms might help set his mind at ease?"

"I suppose I can," muttered Baumondain, his puzzled reluctance turning to interest in a professional challenge as he spoke. After that, it was merely a matter of haggling, however politely, over finer and finer details, until Locke was finally able to coax a suggested price out of Baumondain. "What coin would you wish to settle in, Master Fehrwight?" "I presumed solari would be convenient."

"Shall we say… six solari per chair?" Baumondain spoke with feigned nonchalance; that was a cheeky initial offer, even for luxury craftsmanship. Locke would be expected to haggle it down. Instead, he smiled and nodded. "If six per chair is what you require, then six you will have."

"Oh," said Baumondain, almost too surprised to be pleased. "Oh. Well then! I should be only too happy to accept your note."

"While that would be fine in ordinary circumstances, let's do something more convenient for both of us." Locke reached inside the satchel and drew out a coin-purse, from which he counted twenty-four gold solari onto the little coffee table while Baumondain watched with growing excitement. "There you are, in advance. I prefer to carry hard coinage when I come to Salon Corbeau. This little city needs a moneylender."

"Well, thank you, Master Fehrwight, thank you! I didn't expect… well, let me get a work order and some papers for you to take with you, and we'll be set."

"Now, let me ask — do you have all the materials you need for my master's order?" "Oh yes! I know that off the top of my head." "Warehoused here, at your shop?" "Yes indeed, Master Fehrwight." "About how long might I expect the construction to take?"

"Hmmm… given my other duties, and your requirements… six weeks, possibly seven. Will you be returning for them yourself, or will we need to arrange shipping?" "In that, too, I was hoping for something a little more convenient."

"Ah, well… you having been so very civil, I'm sure I could shift my schedule. Five weeks, perhaps?"

"Master Baumondain, if you and your daughters were to work on my master's order more or less exclusively, starting this afternoon, at your best possible speed… how long then would you say it might take?"

"Oh, Master Fehrwight, Master Fehrwight, you must understand, I have other orders pending, for clients of some standing. Significant people, if you take my meaning." Locke set four more gold coins atop the coffee table.

"Master Fehrwight, be reasonable! These are just chairs! I will bend every effort to finishing your order as fast as possible, but I cannot simply displace my existing clients or their pieces…" Locke set four more coins down, next to the previous pile.

"Master Fehrwight, please, we would give you our exclusive efforts for far less, if only we didn't already have clients to satisfy! How could I possibly explain this to them?"

Locke set eight more coins directly in the middle of the two stacks of four, building a little tower. "What is that now, Baumondain? Forty solari, when you were so pleased to receive just twenty-four?"

"Sir, please, my sole consideration is that clients who placed their orders before your master's must, in all courtesy, have precedence…"

Locke sighed and dumped ten more solari onto the coffee table, upsetting his little tower and emptying the purse. "You can have a shortage of materials. Some essential wood or oil or leather. You need to send away for it; six days to Tal Verrar and six days back. Surely it's happened before. Surely you can explain." "Oh, but the aggravation; they'll be so annoyed…"

Locke drew a second coin-purse from his satchel and held it poised like a dagger in the air before him. "Refund some of their money. Here, have more of mine." He shook out even more coins, haphazardly. The clink-clink-clink of metal falling upon metal echoed in the foyer. "Master Fehrwight," said the carpenter, "who are you?"

"A man who's dead serious about chairs." Locke dropped the half-full purse atop the pile of gold next to the coffee pot. "One hundred solari, even. Put off your other appointments, set aside your other jobs, make your excuses and your refunds. How long would it take?" "Perhaps a week," said Baumondain, in a defeated whisper.

"Then you agree? Until my four chairs are finished, this is the Fehrwight Furniture Shop? I have more gold in the Villa Verdante's strongbox. You will have to kill me to stop forcing it upon you if you say no. So do we have a deal?" "Gods help us both, yes!"

"Then shake on it. You get carving, and I'll start wasting time back at my inn. Send messengers if you need me to inspect anything. I'll stay until you're finished."

4

"As you can see, my hands are empty, and it is unthinkable that anything should be concealed within the sleeves of such a finely tailored tunic"

Locke stood before the full-length mirror in his suite at the Villa Verdante, wearing nothing but his breeches and a light tunic of fine silk. The cuffs of the tunic were drawn away from his wrists and he stared intently at his own reflection.

"It would, of course, be impossible for me to produce a deck of cards from thin air… but what's this?"

He moved his right hand toward the mirror with a flourish, and a deck of cards slipped clumsily out of it, coming apart in a fluttering mess as it fell to the floor. "Oh, fucking hell," Locke muttered.

He had a week of empty time on his hands, and his legerdemain was improving with torturous slowness. Locke soon turned his attention to the curious institution at the heart of Salon Corbeau, the reason so many idle rich made pilgrimage to the place, and the reason so many desperate and downtrodden ate their carriage dust as they trudged to the same destination. They called it the Amusement War.

Lady Saljesca's stadium was a miniature of the legendary Stadia Ultra of Therim Pel, complete with twelve marble idols of the gods gracing the exterior in high stone niches. Ravens perched on their divine heads and shoulders, cawing half-heartedly down at the bustling crowd around the gates. As he made his way through the tumult, Locke noted every species of attendant known to man. There were physikers clucking over the elderly, litter-bearers hauling the infirm (or the unabashedly lazy), musicians and jugglers, guards, translators and dozens of men and women waving fans or hoisting wide silk parasols, looking like nothing so much as fragile human-sized mushrooms as they chased their patrons under the growing morning sun.

While it was said that the floor of the Imperial Arena had been too wide for even the strongest archer to send an arrow across, the floor of Saljesca's re-creation was just fifty yards in diameter. There were no common seats; the smooth stone walls rose twenty feet above the smooth stone floor and were topped with luxury galleries whose cloth sunscreens flapped gently in the breeze. Three times per day, Lady Saljesca's liveried guards would open the public gates to the better class of Salon Corbeau's visitors. There was a single standing gallery (which even had a decent view) to which admission was free, but the vast majority of spectators at the stadium would take nothing less than the luxury seats and boxes that needed to be reserved at some considerable expense. Unfashionable as it was, Locke elected to stand for his first visit to the Amusement War. A relative nonentity like Mordavi Fehrwight had no reputation to protect.

On the floor of the arena was a gleaming grid of black and white marble squares, each one a yard on a side. The squares were set twenty by twenty, like a gigantic Catch-the-Duke board. Where little carved pieces of wood or ivory were used in that game, Saljesca's playing field featured living pieces. The poor and destitute would man that field, forty to a side, wearing white or black tabards to distinguish themselves. This strange employment was the reason they risked the long, hard trudge to Salon Corbeau.

Locke had already discovered that there were two large barracks behind Lady Saljesca's stadium, heavily guarded, where the poor were taken upon arrival in Salon Corbeau. There they were made to clean themselves up, and were given two simple meals a day for the duration of their stay, which could be indefinite. Each "aspirant", as they were known, was assigned a number. Three times per day, random drawings were held to select two teams of forty for the coming Amusement War. The only rule of the War was that the living pieces had to be able to stand, move and obey orders; children of eight or nine were about the youngest taken. Those that refused to participate when their number was drawn, even once, were thrown out of Saljesca's demi-city immediately and barred from returning. Without supplies and preparation, being cast out onto the roads in this dry land could be a death sentence.

The aspirants were marched into the arena by two dozen of Saljesca's guards, who were armed with curved shields and lacquered wooden sticks. They were robust men and women who moved with the easy assurance of hard experience; even a general uprising of the aspirants would stand no chance against them. The guards lined the aspirants up in their starting positions on the board, forty white "pieces" and forty black "pieces", with sixteen rows of squares separating each double-ranked army.

At opposite ends of the stadium were two special gallery boxes, one draped with black silk curtains and the other with white. These boxes were reserved far in advance by a waiting list, much as patrons of a chance-house would lay claim to billiard tables or private rooms at certain hours. Whoever reserved a box gained the right to absolute command of that colour for the duration of a War.

That morning's White Warmistress was a young Lashani viscountess whose retinue looked as nervous with the affair as she was enthusiastic; they appeared to be scribbling notes and consulting charts. The Black Warmaster was a middle-aged Iridani with the well-fed, calculating look of a prosperous merchant. He had a young son and daughter with him in his gallery.

Although the living pieces could be hung (by the agreement of both players) with special tabards that gave them unusual privileges or movement allowances, the rules of this particular Amusement War appeared to be plain Catch-the-Duke with no variations. The controllers began calling orders and the game slowly developed, with white and black pieces trudging nervously toward one another, very gradually closing the distance between the opposing forces. Locke found himself puzzled by the reaction of the stadium crowd.

There were easily sixty or seventy spectators in the boxes, with twice as many servants, bodyguards, assistants and messengers on hand, not to mention caterers in Saljesca's livery hurrying to and fro to serve their wants. Their buzz of eager anticipation seemed totally incongruous given the plodding nature of the contest shaping up on the squares.

"What," Locke muttered to himself in Vadran, "is so damn fascinating?"

Then the first piece was taken, and the Demons came out to the arena floor.

The White Warmistress deliberately placed one of her "pieces", a middle-aged man, in harm's way. More of her army lurked behind him in an obvious trap, but the Black Warmaster apparently decided it was a worthwhile exchange. Under the shouted orders of the Black Adjutant, a teenaged girl in black stepped from a diagonal square and touched the middle-aged man on the shoulder. He hung his head, and the appreciative clapping of the crowd was drowned out a moment later by a wild shrieking that arose from the far left side of Locke's view of the stadium.

Six men ran onto the arena floor from a side portal, dressed in elaborate leather costumes with black and orange fluting; their faces were covered with grotesque flame-orange masks trailing wild manes of black hair. They threw their arms in the air, screaming and hollering meaninglessly, and the crowd cheered back as they ran across the arena toward the cringing man in white. The Demons seized him by the arms and by the hair; he was thrust, sobbing, to the side of the game board and exhibited to the crowd like a sacrificial animal. One of the Demons, a man with a booming voice, pointed to the Black Warmaster and shouted: "Cry the default!" "I want to cry it," said the little boy in the merchant's gallery.

"We agreed that your sister would go first. Theodora, name the default." The little girl peered down to the arena floor in concentration, then whispered up to her father. He cleared his throat and shouted, "She wants the guards to beat him with their clubs. On his legs!"

And so it was: the Demons held the writhing, screaming man with his limbs spread while two guards obligingly laid into him. The fall of their sticks echoed across the arena; they thoroughly bruised his thighs, shins and calves until the chief Demon waved his hands to clear them off. The audience applauded politely (though not with particular enthusiasm, noted Locke), and the Demons hauled the quivering, bleeding man off the stadium floor.

They came back soon enough; one of the Whites removed a Black on the next move. "Cry the default!" echoed once again across the arena.

"I'll sell the right for five solari," shouted the Lashani viscountess. "First taker."

"I'll pay it," cried an old man in the stands, dressed in layers of velvet and cloth-of-gold. The chief Demon pointed up at him and he beckoned to a frock-coated attendant standing just behind him. The attendant threw a purse down to one of Saljesca's guards, who carried it over to the White War-mistress's side of the field and threw it into her gallery. The Demons then hauled the young woman in black over for the old man's examination. After a moment of exaggerated contemplation, he shouted: "Get rid of her dress!"

The young woman's black tabard and dirty cotton dress were ripped apart by the grasping hands of the Demons; in seconds, she was naked. She seemed determined to give less of a demonstration than the man who'd gone before; she glared stonily up at the old man, be he minor lord or merchant prince, and said nothing. "Is that all?" cried the chief Demon. "Oh no," said the old man. "Get rid of her hair, too!" The crowd burst into applause and cheers at that, and the woman betrayed real fear for the first time. She had a thick mane of glossy black hair down to the small of her back, something to be proud of even among the penniless — perhaps all she had to be proud of in the world. The chief Demon played to the crowd, hoisting a gleaming, crooked dagger over his head and howling with glee. The woman attempted to struggle against the five pairs of arms that held her, to no avail. Swiftly, painfully, the chief Demon slashed at her long black locks — they fluttered down until the ground was thick with them and the woman's scalp was covered with nothing but a chopped, irregular stubble. Trickles of blood ran down her face and neck as she was dragged, too numb for further struggle, out of the arena.

So it went, as Locke watched in growing unease, as the pitiless sun crept across the sky and the shadows shortened. The living pieces moved on the gleaming-hot squares, without water and without relief, until they were taken from the board and subjected to a default of the opposing Warmaster's choosing. It soon became apparent to Locke that the default could be virtually anything, short of death. The Demons would follow orders with frenzied enthusiasm, playing up each new injury or humiliation for the appreciative crowd.

Gods, Locke realized, barely any of them are here for the game at all. They" ve only come to see the defaults.

The rows of armoured guards would dissuade all possibility of refusal or rebellion. Those "pieces" that refused to hurry along to their appointed places, or dared to step off their squares without instructions, were simply beaten until they obeyed. Obey they did, and the cruelty of the defaults did not wane as the game went on.

"Rotten fruit," the little boy in the Black Warmaster's box yelled, and so it was: an elderly woman with a white tabard was thrown against the stadium wall and pelted with apples, pears and tomatoes by four of the Demons. They knocked her off her feet and continued the barrage until the woman was a shuddering heap, curled up beneath her frail arms for protection, and great spatters of sour pulp and juice were dripping from the wall behind her.

The white player's retaliation was swift. She took a stocky young man in black colours and for once reserved the choice of default for herself. "We must keep our hostess's stadium clean. Take him to the wall with the fruit stains," she shouted, "and let him clean it with his tongue!" The crowd broke into wild applause at that; the man on the arena floor was pushed up to the wall by the chief Demon. "Start licking, scum!"

His first efforts were half-hearted. Another Demon produced a whip that ended in seven knotted cords and lashed the man across the shoulders, knocking him into the wall hard enough to bloody his nose. "Earn your fucking pay, worm," screamed the Demon, whipping him once again. "Haven't you ever had a lady tell you to get down and use your tongue before?"

The man ran his tongue desperately up and down the wall, gagging every few seconds, which would bring another crack of the Demon's whip. The man was a bleeding, retching nervous wreck by the time he was finally hauled from the arena floor. So it went, all morning long.

"Gods, why do they bear it? Why do they take this?" Locke stood in the free gallery, alone, staring out at the wealthy and powerful, at their guards and servants, and at the thinning ranks of the living pieces in the game beneath them. He brooded, sweating in his heavy black garments.

Here were the richest and freest people in the Therin world, those with positions and money but no political duties to constrict them, gathered together to do what law and custom forbade beyond Saljesca's private fiefdom — to humiliate and brutalize their lessers however they saw fit, for their own gleeful amusement. The arena and the Amusement War itself were obviously just frames. Means to an end.

There was no order to it, no justice. Gladiators and prisoners fighting before a crowd were there for a reason, risking their fives for glory or paying the price for having been caught. Men and women hung from a gibbets because the Crooked Warden had only so much help to give to the foolish, the slow and the unlucky. But this was wanton. Locke felt his anger growing like a chancre in his guts.

They had no idea who he was or what he was really capable of. No idea what the Thorn ofCamorr could do to them, unleashed on Salon Corbeau, with Jean to aid him! Given months to plan and observe, the Gentlemen Bastards could take the place apart, find ways to cheat the Amusement War, surely — rob the participants, rob the Lady Saljesca, embarrass and humiliate the bastards, blacken the demi-city's reputation so thoroughly that nobody would ever want to visit again. But…

"Crooked Warden," Locke whispered, "why now? Why show me this now}"

Jean was waiting for him back in Tal Verrar, and they were already neck-deep in a game that had taken a year to put together. Jean didn't know anything about what really went on at Salon Corbeau. He would be expecting Locke to return in short order with a set of chairs, so the two of them could carry on with the plan thed'r agreed to, a plan that was already desperately delicate. "Gods damn it," said Locke. "Gods damn it all to hell."

5

Camorr, years before. The wet, seeping mists enclosed Locke and Father Chains in curtains of midnight grey as the old man led the boy back home from his first meeting with Capa Vencarlo Barsavi. Locke, drunk and sweat-soaked, clung to the back of his Gentled goat for dear life.

"… You don't belong to Barsavi," Chains said. "He's good enough for what he is, a good ally to have on your side and a man that you must appear to obey at all times. But he certainly doesn't own you. In the end, neither do I." "So I don't have to—"

"Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less," Chains confided through a feral grin, "than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo's precious Secret Peace." "Uh…" Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. "Why?"

"Heh. It's… complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you'll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden." "Is the capa doing something wrong?"

"Well," said Chains, "well, lad, now there's a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes — the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hanged. Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates — laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is, thieves prosper. Simple as that. We're ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi's got that mandate covered, never doubt that.

"But the second mandate," said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, "is this — the rich remember? "Remember what?"

"That they're not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We're sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We're the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their flesh, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgement. That's our second mandate, and it's as important as the first."

"And… the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don't like it?"

"It's not that I don't like it." Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. "Barsavi" s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He's not sworn to the mandates like I am; he's got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can't just let it go. It's my divine duty to see that the bluebloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what fife hands the rest of us as a matter of routine — a nice, sharp jab in the arse every now and again." "And Barsavi… doesn't need to know about this?"

"Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this"11 be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden."

6

"Why do they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods… er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled… to what end?"

Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family's workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau. "As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight." Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. "If you're selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you're given a default, you get a silver volani. There's also a random drawing: one person per War, one in eighty, gets a gold solari." "They must be desperate," said Locke.

"Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they" ve got nowhere else to go, they come here. There's a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and… amuse them." "It's perverse. It's infamous."

"You have a soft heart, for what you're spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight." Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. "Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn."

"Speak as you will. I'm not a rich man, Lauris. I'm just my master's servant. But even he… we're frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. Some might call us eccentric, but we're not cruel."

"I" ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight."

"We're not nobles. We're merchants… merchants of Emberlain. I can't speak for our nobles, and often don't want to. Look, I" ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I" ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I" ve never seen anything like that — the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something… something so very wrong."

"There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca's laws," said Lauris. "Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you're seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? My sister saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I'm sorry it's not the paradise it looks like from a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?" "Yes," said Locke slowly. "Yes, I suppose it does."

"If I were to presume to give you advice," said Lauris, "I'd suggest that you avoid the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do: ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind's eye and pretend that it's not there."

"As you say, Madam Baumondain." Locke sighed. "I might just do so."

7

But Locke could not stay away. Morning, afternoon and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, War after War, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants that were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.

"Crooked Warden," Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. "They don't even have a priest… not a single one…"

He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan. He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.

The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he'd half-heartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.

Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.

"I hope you'll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don't appear to be enjoying yourself!"

Locke was snapped out of his brooding by the arrival of another man in the free gallery. The stranger was tanned and fit-looking, perhaps five or six years older than Locke, with brown curls down to his collar and a precisely trimmed goatee. His long velvet coat was lined with cloth-of-silver and he held a gold-topped cane behind his back with both hands. "But forgive me. Fernand Genrusa, peer of the Third, of Lashain."

Peer of the Third Order — a baron — a purchased Lashani patent of nobility, just as Locke and Jean had toyed with possibly acquiring. Locke bent slightly at the waist and inclined his head. "Mordavi Fehrwight, m" lord. Of Emberlain."

"A merchant, then? You must be doing well for yourself, Master Fehrwight, to take your leisure here. So what's behind your long face?" "What makes you think I'm displeased?"

"You stand here alone, taking no refreshment, and you watch each new War with such an expression on your face… as though someone were slipping hot coals into your breechclout. I" ve seen you several times from my own gallery. Are you losing money? I might be able to share some insights I" ve cultivated on how to best place wagers at the Amusement War."

"I have no wagers outstanding, m" lord. I am merely… unable to stop watching." "Curious. Yet it does not please you."

"No." Locke turned slightly toward Baron Genrusa and swallowed nervously. Etiquette demanded that a lowborn like Mordavi Fehrwight, and a Vadran at that, should defer even to a banknote-baron like Genrusa and offer no unpleasant conversation, but Genrusa seemed to be inviting explanation. Locke wondered how much he might get away with. "Have you ever seen a carriage accident, m" lord, or a man run over by a team of horses? Seen the blood and wreckage and been completely unable to take your eyes off the spectacle?" "I can't say that I have."

"There I would beg to differ. You have a private gallery to see it three times a day if you wish. "M" lord." "Ahhhh. So you find the Amusement War, what, indecorous?" "Cruel, m" lord Genrusa. Most uncommonly cruel."

"Cruel? Compared to what? War? Times of plague? Have you ever seen Camorr, by chance? Now there's a basis for comparison that might have you thinking more soundly, Master Fehrwight."

"Even in Camorr," said Locke, "I don't believe anyone is allowed to beat old women in broad daylight on a whim. Or tear their clothes off, stone them, rape them, slash their hair off, splash them with alchemical caustics… it's like… like children tearing off an insect's wings. So they might watch and laugh."

"Who forced them to come here, Fehrwight? Who put a sword to their backs and made them march all the way to Salon Corbeau along those hot, empty roads? That pilgrimage takes days from anywhere worthy of note."

"What choice do they have, m" lord? They" re only here because they're desperate. Because they could not sustain themselves where they were. Farms fail, businesses fail… it's desperation, is all. They cannot simply decide not to eat."

"Farms fail, businesses fail, ships sink, empires fall." Genrusa brought his cane out from behind his back and punctuated his statements by gesturing at Locke with the gold head. "That's life, under the gods, by the will of the gods. Perhaps if thed'r prayed harder, or saved more, or been less thoughtless with what they had, they wouldn't need to come crawling here for Saljesca's charity. Seems only fair that she should require most of them to earn it." "Charily?

"They have a roof over their heads, food to eat and the chance of earning money. Those that earn the gold prizes seem to have no trouble taking their coin and leaving."

"One in eighty wins a solari, m" lord. No doubt more money than they" ve ever seen at once in their lives. And for the other seventy-nine that gold is just a promise, holding them here day after day, week after week, default after default. And those that die because the Demons get out of hand? What good is gold or the promise of gold to them? Anywhere else, it would be plain murder."

"It's Aza Guilla who takes them from the arena floor, not you or me or anyone mortal, Fehrwight." Genrusa's brows were furrowed and his cheeks were reddening. "And yes, anywhere else it might be plain murder. But this is Salon Corbeau, and they're here of their own free will. As are you and I. They could simply choose not to come—" "And starve and die elsewhere."

"Please. I have seen the world, Master Fehrwight. I might recommend it to you for perspective. Certainly, some of them must be down on their luck. But I wager you" d find that most of them are just hungry for gold, hoping for an easy break. Look out at those on the arena floor now… quite a few young and healthy ones, aren't there?"

"Who else might be expected to make the journey here on foot without extraordinary luck, m" lord Genrusa?"

"I can see there's no talking sense to sentiment, Master Fehrwight. I'd thought you coin-kissers from Emberlain were a harder lot than this." "Hard perhaps, but not vulgar."

"Now mind yourself, Master Fehrwight. I wanted a word because I was genuinely curious about your disposition; I think I can see now what it stems from. A bit of advice… Salon Corbeau might not be the healthiest place to harbour your sort of resentment." "My business here will be… concluded shortly"

"All for the better, then. But perhaps your business at the Amusement War might be curtailed even sooner. I'm not the only one who's taken an interest in you. Lady Saljesca's guards are… sensitive about discontent. Above the arena floor as well as on it."

/ could leave you penniless and sobbing, whispered the voice in Locke's head. / could have you pawning your piss-buckets to keep your creditors from slitting your throat.

"Forgive me, m" lord. I will take what you say most seriously," muttered Locke. "I doubt… that I shall trouble anyone here again."

8

On the morning of Locke's ninth day in Salon Corbeau, the Bau-mondains were finished with his chairs.

"They look magnificent," said Locke, running his fingers lightly over the lacquered wood and padded leather. "Very fine, as fine as I had reason to hope. And the… additional features?"

"Built to your specifications, Master Fehrwight. Exactly to your specifications." Lauris stood beside her father in the Baumondain workshop, while ten-year-old Parnella was struggling to brew tea over an alchemical hearthstone at a corner table covered with unidentifiable tools and half-empty jars of woodworking oils. Locke made a mental note to smell any tea offered to him very carefully before drinking. "You have outdone yourselves, all of you."

"We were, ah, financially inspired, Master Fehrwight," said the elder Baumondain. "I like building weird things," Parnella added from the corner. "Heh. Yes, I suppose these would qualify." Locke stared at his suite of four matching chairs and sighed in mingled relief and aggravation. "Well, then. If you" d be so kind as to ready them for transport, I shall hire two carriages and take my leave this afternoon." "In that much of a hurry to leave?"

"I hope you'll forgive me if I say that every unnecessary moment I spend in this place weighs on me. Salon Corbeau and I do not agree." Locke removed a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to Master Baumondain. "An additional twenty solari. For your silence, and for these chairs never to have existed. Is this clear?"

"I… well, I'm sure we can accommodate your request… I must say, your generosity is—"

"A subject that needs no further discussion. Humour me, now. I'll be gone soon enough."

So that's all, said the voice in Locke's head. Stick to the plan. Leave this all behind, and do nothing, and return to Tal Verrar with my tail between my legs.

While he and Jean enriched themselves at Requin's expense and cheated their way up the luxurious floors of the Sinspire, on the stone floor of Lady Saljesca's arena the defaults would go on, and the faces of the spectators would be the same, day after day. Children tearing the wings from insects to laugh at how they flailed and bled… and stepping on one every now and again.

"Thieves prosper," muttered Locke under his breath. He tightened his neck-cloths and prepared to go and summon his carriages, feeling sick to his stomach.

1

The glass-fronted transport box erupted out of the Mon Magisterial waterfall once again and slid home with a lurch just inside the palace. Water hissed through iron pipes, the high gates behind the box slammed shut and the attendants pushed the front doors open for Locke, Jean and Merrain.

A dozen Eyes of the Archon were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They fell in wordlessly on either side of Locke and Jean as Merrain led them forward.

Though not to the same office as before, it appeared. Locke glanced around from time to time as they passed through dimly lit halls and up twisting staircases. The Mon Magisteria was truly more fortress than palace; the walls outside the grand hall were devoid of decoration, and the air smelled mainly of humidity, sweat, leather and weapons-oil. Water rumbled through unseen channels behind the walls. Occasionally they would troop past servants, who would stand with their backs to the wall and their heads bowed toward their feet until the Eyes were past.

Merrain led them to an iron-reinforced door in a nondescript corridor several floors up from the entrance. Faint silver moonlight could be seen rippling through an arched window at the far end of the hall. Locke squinted and realized that a stream of water from the palace's circling aqueducts was falling down the glass.

Merrain pounded on the door three times. When it opened with a click, allowing a crack of soft yellow light into the hall, she dismissed the Eyes with a wave of her hand. As they marched away down the corridor, she pushed the door open slightly and pointed toward it with her other hand.

"At last. I might have hoped to see you sooner. \bu must have been away from your usual haunts when Merrain found you." Stragos looked up from where he sat, on one of only two chairs in the small, bare room, and shuffled the papers he'd been examining. His bald attendant sat on the other with several files in hand, saying nothing.

"They were having a bit of trouble on the inner docks of the Great Gallery," said Merrain as she closed the door behind Locke and Jean. "A pair of fairly motivated assassins."

"Really?" Stragos looked genuinely annoyed. "What business might that be in relation to?"

"I only wish we knew," said Locke. "Our chance for an interrogation took a crossbow bolt in the chest when Merrain showed up."

"The woman was about to stick one of these two with a poisoned knife, Protector. I thought you" d prefer to have them both intact for the time being." "Hmmm. A pair of assassins. Were you at the Sinspire tonight?" "Yes," said Jean.

"Well, it wouldn't be Requin, then. He" d simply have taken you while you were there. So it's some other business. Something you should have told me about before, Kosta?"

"Oh, begging your pardon, Archon. I thought that between your little friends the Bondsmagi and all the spies you must have slinking about at our backsides, you" d know more than you do."

"This is serious, Kosta. I aim to make use of you; it doesn't suit my needs to have someone else's vendetta on my hands. You don't know who might have sent them?" "Truthfully, we have no bloody clue." "You left the bodies of these assassins on the docks?" "The constables have them by now, surely," said Merrain.

"They'll throw the bodies in the Midden Deep, but first they'll inter them at the death-house for a day or two," said Stragos. "I want someone down there to have a look at them. Note their descriptions, plus any tattoos or other markings that might be meaningful." "Of course," said Merrain.

"Tell the officer of the watch to see to that now. You'll know where to find me when you're finished."

"Your will… Archon." Merrain looked as though she might say something else, then turned, opened the door and hurried out.

"You called me Kosta," said Locke when the door had slammed closed once again. "She doesn't know our real names, does she? Curious. Don't you trust your people, Stragos? Seems like it" d be easy enough to get your hooks into them the same way you got them into us."

"I'll wager," said Jean, "that you never take up your master's offer of a friendly drink when you're off-duty, eh, baldy?" Stragos's attendant scowled but still said nothing.

"By all means," said Stragos lightly, "taunt my personal alchemist, the very man responsible for me "getting my hooks into you", not to mention the preparation of your antidote."

The bald man smiled thinly. Locke and Jean cleared their throats and shuffled their feet in unison, a habit thed'r synchronized as boys.

"You seem a reasonable fellow," said Locke. "And I for one have always found a hairless brow to be a noble thing, sensible in every climate—"

"Shut up, Lamora. Do we have the people we need, then?" Stragos passed his papers over to his attendant.

"Yes, Archon. Forty-four of them, all told. I'll see that they're moved by tomorrow evening." "Good. Leave us the vials and you may go."

The man nodded and gathered his papers. He handed two small glass vials over to the Archon, then left without another word, closing the door respectfully behind him.

"Well, you two." Stragos sighed. "You seem to attract attention, don't you? You're certain you" ve no idea who else might be trying to kill you? Some old score to settle from Camorr?" "There are so many old scores to settle," said Locke.

"There would be, wouldn't there? Well, my people will continue to protect you as best they can. You two, however, will have to be more… circumspect." "That sentiment is not exactly unprecedented," said Locke.

"Confine your movements to the Golden Steps and the Savrola until further notice. I'll have extra people placed on the inner docks; use those when you must travel."

"Gods damn it, we cannot operate like that! For a few days, perhaps, but not for the rest of our stay in Tal Verrar, however long it might be."

"In that, you're more right than you know, Locke. But if someone else is after you, I can't let it interfere with my needs. Curtail your movements or I'll have them curtailed for you."

"You said there" d be no further complication of our game with Requin!"

"No, I said that the poison wouldn't further complicate your game with Requin."

"You seem pretty confident of our good behaviour for a man who's all alone with us in a little stone room," said Jean, taking a step forward. "Your alchemist's not coming back, is he? Nor Merrain?"

"Should I be worried? You" ve absolutely nothing to gain by harming me."

"Except immense personal satisfaction," said Locke. "Youpresume that we're in our right minds. You presume that we give a shit about your precious poison, and that we wouldn't tear you limb from limb on general principle and take the consequences afterward."

"Must we do this?" Stragos remained seated, one leg crossed over the other, a mildly bored expression on his face. "It occurred to me that the two of you might be stubborn enough to nurse a bit of mutiny in your hearts. So listen carefully — if you leave this room without me, the Eyes in the hall outside will kill you on sight. And if you otherwise harm me in any way, I repeat my earlier promise. I'll revisit the same harm on one of you, tenfold, while the other is forced to watch." "You," said Locke, "are a goat-faced wad of slipskinner's shit."

"Anything's possible," said Stragos. "But if you're thoroughly in my power, pray tell me, what does that make pa?" "Downright embarrassed," muttered Locke.

"Very likely. Can you, both of you, set aside this childish need to avenge your self-regard and accept the mission I have for you? Will you hear the plan and keep civil tongues?"

"Yes." Locke closed his eyes and sighed. "I suppose we truly have no choice. Jean?" "I wish I didn't have to agree."

"Just so long as you do." Stragos stood up, opened the door to the corridor and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. "My Eyes will see you along to my gardens. I have something I want to show the two of you… while we speak more privately about your mission." "What exactly do you intend to do with us?" asked Jean.

"Simply put, I have a navy riding at anchor in the Sword Marina, accomplishing little. Inasmuch as I still depend on the Priori to help pay and provision it, I can't send it out in force without a proper excuse." Stragos smiled. "So I'm going to send you two out to sea to find that excuse for me." "Out to sea" said Locke. "Are you out of your fu—"

"Take them to my garden," said Stragos, spinning on his heel.

2

It was less a garden than a forest, stretching for what must have been hundreds of yards on the northern side of the Mon Magisteria. Hedges entwined with softly glowing silver creeper vines marked the paths between the swaying blackness of the trees; by some natural alchemy the vines shed enough artificial moonlight for the two thieves and their guards to step easily along the gravel paths. The moons themselves were out, but had now fallen behind the looming fifteen-storey darkness of the palace itself and could not be seen from Locke and Jean's position.

The perfumed air was humid and heavy; rain lurked in the creeping arc of clouds enclosing the eastern sky. There was a buzzing flutter of unseen wings from the darkness of the trees, and here and there pale gold and scarlet lights drifted around the trunks like some fairy mischief. "Lantern beetles," said Jean, mesmerized despite himself.

"Think on how much dirt they must have had to haul up here, to cover the Elderglass deeply enough to let these trees grow…" whispered Locke. "It's good to be a duke," said Jean. "Or an archon."

At the centre of the garden was a low structure like a boathouse, lit by hanging alchemical lanterns in the heraldic blue of Tal Verrar. Locke heard the faint lapping of water against stone, and soon enough saw that there was a dark channel perhaps twenty feet wide cut into the ground just beyond the little structure. It meandered into the darkness of the forest-garden like a miniature river. In fact, Locke realized, the lantern-lit structure was a boathouse.

More guards appeared out of the darkness, a team of four being half-led and half-dragged by two massive black dogs in armoured harnesses. These creatures, waist-high at the shoulders and nearly as broad, bared their fangs and sniffed disdainfully at the two thieves, then snorted and pulled their handlers along into the Archon's garden.

"Very good," said Stragos, appearing out of the darkness a few strides behind the dog team. "Everything" s prepared. You two, come with me. Sword-Prefect, you and yours are dismissed." The Eyes turned as one and marched off toward the palace, their boots crunching faintly on the gravel underfoot. Stragos beckoned to Locke and Jean, then led them down to the water's edge. There, a boat floated on the still water, lashed to a little post behind the boathouse. The craft looked to be built for four, with a leather-padded bench up front and another at the stern. Stragos gestured again, this time for Locke and Jean to climb down onto the forward bench.

Locke had to admit it was pleasant enough, settling against the cushions and resting his arm against the gunwale of the sturdy little craft. Stragos rocked the boat slightly as he stepped down behind them, untied the lashing and settled on his own bench. He took up an oar and dipped it over the left gunwale. "Tannen," he said, "be so kind as to light our bow lantern."

Jean glanced over his shoulder and spotted a fist-sized alchemical lantern in a faceted glass hanging off his side of the boat. He fiddled with a brass dial atop the lantern until the vapours inside mingled and sputtered to life, like a sky-blue diamond casting ghosts of the lantern's facets on the water below.

"This was here when the Dukes of the Therin Throne built their palace," said Stragos. "A channel cut down into the glass, eight yards deep, like a private river. These gardens were built around it. We archons inherited this place along with the Mon Magisteria. While my predecessor was content with still waters, I have made modifications."

As he spoke, the sound of the water lapping against the sides of the channel became louder and more irregular. Locke realized that the rushing, gurgling noise slowly rising around them was the sound of a current flowing through the river. The bow lantern's reflected light bobbed and shifted as the water beneath it undulated like dark silk. "Sorcery?" asked Locke.

"Artifice, Lamora." The boat began to slide gently away from the side of the channel, and Stragos used the oar to align them in the centre of the miniature river. "There's a strong breeze blowing from the east tonight, and windmills at the far side of my garden. They can be used to drive water wheels beneath the surface of the channel. In still air, forty or fifty men can crank the mechanisms by hand. I can call the current up as I see fit."

"Any man can fart in a closed room and say that he commands the wind," said Locke. "Though I will admit, this whole garden is… more elegant than I would have given you credit for." "How pleasant to have your good opinion of my aesthetic sense."

J

Stragos steered them in silence for a few minutes after that, around a wide turn, past hanging banks of silver creeper and the rustle of leaves on low-hanging branches. The smell of the artificial river rose up around them as the current strengthened — not unpleasant, but more stale and less green, somehow, than the scent of natural ponds and rivers Locke recalled. "I presume this river is a closed circuit," said Jean. "A meandering one, but yes." "Then, ah… forgive me, but where exactly are you taking us?" "All in good time," said Stragos.

"Speaking of where you're taking us," said Locke, "would you care to return to our earlier subject? One of your guards must have struck me on the head; I thought I heard you say that you wanted us to go to sea." "So I do. And so you shall." "To what possible end?"

"Are you familiar," said Stragos, "with the story of the Free Armada of the Ghostwind Isles?" "Vaguely," said Locke."

"The pirate uprising on the Sea of Brass," mused Jean. "Six or seven years ago. It was put down."

7 put it down," said the Archon. "Seven years ago, those damn fools down in the Ghostwinds got it into their heads to make a bid for power. Claimed to have the right to levy taxes on shipping on the Sea of Brass, if by taxes you mean boarding and plundering anything with a hull. They had a dozen fit vessels and a dozen more or less fit crews."

"Bonaire," said Jean. "That was the captain they all followed, wasn't it? Laurella Bonaire?"

"It was," said Stragos. "Bonaire and her Basilisk; she was one of my officers, and that was one of my ships, before she turned her coat." "And you such a pleasant, unassuming fellow to work for," said Locke.

"That squadron of brigands hit Nicora and Vel Virazzo and just about every little village on the nearby coast; they took ships in sight of this palace and hauled sail for the horizon when my galleys went out to meet them. It was the greatest aggravation this city had faced since the war against Camorr, in my predecessor's time." "I don't recall it lasting long," said Jean.

"Half a year, perhaps. That declaration was their downfall; freebooters can run and skulk well enough, but when you make declarations you usually end up in battle to uphold them. Pirates are no match for real naval men and women, when it's line-against-line on the open sea. We hammered them just off Nicora, sank half their fleet and sent the rest pissing their breeches all the way back to the Ghostwinds. Bonaire wound up in a crow's cage dangling over the Midden Deep. After she watched all of her crew go in, I cut the rope that held her up myself."

Locke and Jean said nothing. There was a faint watery creak as Stragos adjusted the course of their boat. Another bend in the artificial river was looming ahead.

"Now, that little demonstration," the Archon continued, "made piracy a fairly unpopular trade on the Sea of Brass. It's been a good time for honest merchants since then; of course there are still pirates in the Ghostwinds, but they don't come within three hundred miles of Tal Verrar, nor anywhere near Nicora or the coast. My navy hasn't had anything more serious than customs incidents and plague ships to deal with for nigh on three or four years. A quiet time… a prosperous time." "Isn't it your job to provide just that?" said Jean.

"You seem a well-read man, Tannen. Surely your readings must have taught you that when men and women of arms have bled to secure a time of peace, the very people who most benefit from that peace are also the most likely to forget the bleeding."

"The Priori," said Locke. "That victory made them nervous, didn't it? People like victories. That's what makes generals popular… and dictators."

"Astute, Lamora. Just as it was in the interests of the merchant councils to send me out to deliver them from piracy," said Stragos, "it was in their interest to wring my navy dry soon afterward. Dividends of peace… pay off half the ships, put them up in ordinary, loose a few hundred trained sailors from the muster rolls and let the merchants snap them up… the taxes of Tal Verrar paid to train them, and the Priori and their partners were happy to steal them. So it has been, and so it is, with the Sea of Brass at peace, the Marrows squabbling inwardly, Lashain without a navy and Karthain far beyond the need even to consider one. This corner of the world is calm."

"If you and the Priori are so very unhappy with one another, why don't they just run you out of funds completely?" Locke settled back against his corner of the boat and let his left hand hang far over the gunwale, trailing in the warm water. "I'm sure they would if they could," said Stragos, "but the charters of the city guarantee me a certain minimal budget from general revenues. Though every finnicker and comptroller in the city is one of theirs, and they contrive some damned elaborate lies to trim even that. My own ledger-folk have their hands full chasing after them. But it's discretionary funds they won't cut loose. In a time of need they could swell my forces with gold and supplies at a moment's notice. In a time of peace, they begrudge me every last centdra. They have forgotten why the Archonate was instituted in the first place."

"It does occur to me," said Locke, "that your predecessor was supposed to sort of… dissolve the office when Camorr agreed to stop kicking your arse."

"A standing force is the only professional force, Lamora. There must be a continuity of experience and training in the ranks; a worthwhile army or navy cannot simply be conjured out of nothing. Tal Verrar might not have the luxury of three or four years to build a defence when the next crisis comes along. And the Priori, the ones who prattle the loudest about "opposing dictatorship" and "civic guarantees", would be the first to slip away like rats, loaded down with their fortunes, to take ship for whatever corner of the world would give them refuge. They would never stand or die with the city. And so the enmity between us is more than personal, for my part."

"While I" ve known too many grand merchants to dispute your general idea of their character," said Locke, "I" ve had a sudden, sharp realization about where this conversation has been going."

"As have I," said Jean, clearing his throat. "Seems to me that with your power on the wane, this would be a terribly convenient time for new trouble to surface somewhere out on the Sea of Brass, wouldn't it?"

"Very good," said Stragos. "Seven years ago, the pirates of the Ghost-winds rose up and gave the people of Tal Verrar reason to be glad of the navy I command. It would be convenient if they might be convinced to trouble us once again… and be crushed once again."

"Send us out to sea to find an excuse for you, that's what you said," said Locke. "Send us out to sea. Has your brain swelled against the inside of your skull? How the screaming fucking hell do you expect the two of us to raise a bloody pirate armada in a place we've never been and convince it to come merrily die at the hands of the navy that bent it over the table and fucked it in the arse last time?" "You convinced the nobles of Camorr to throw away a fortune on your schemes," said Stragos without a hint of anger. "They love their money, yet you shook it out of them like ripe fruit from a tree. You outwitted a Bondsmage. You outwitted Capa Barsavi to his very face. You evaded the trap that caughtyour Capa Barsavi and his entire court."

"Only some of us," whispered Locke. "Only some of us got away, arsehole."

"I need more than agents. I need provocateurs. You two fell into my hands at an ideal time. Your task, your mission, will be to raise hell on the Sea of Brass. I want ships sacked from here to Nicora. I want the Priori pounding on my door, pleading with me to take more gold, more ships, more responsibility. I want commerce south of Tal Verrar to set full sail and run for port. I want underwriters soiling their breeches. I know I might not get all that, but by the gods I'll take whatever you can give me. Raise me a pirate scare the likes of which we haven't had in years." "You are cracked," said Jean.

"We can rob nobles. We can do second-storey work. We can slide down chimneys and slip locks and rob coaches and break vaults and do a fine spread of card tricks," said Locke. "I could cut your balls off, if you had any, and replace them with marbles, and you wouldn't notice for a week. But I hate to tell you that the one class of criminal we really haven't associated with, ever, is fucking pirates!"

"We're at a bit of a loss when it comes to the particulars of making their acquaintance,"added Jean.

"In this, as in so much, I'm well ahead of you," said Stragos. "You should have no trouble making the acquaintance of the Ghostwind pirates because you yourselves will become perfectly respectable pirates. Captain and first mate of a pirate sloop, as a matter of fact."

3

"You are beyond mad," said Locke after several moments of silent, furious thought. "Full-on barking madness is a state of rational bliss to which you may not aspire. Men living in gutters and drinking their own piss would shun your company. You are a prancing lunatic."

"That's not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from a man who genuinely wants his antidote."

"Well, what a magnificent choice you" ve given us… death by slow poison or death by insane misadventure!"

"Come now," said Stragos. "That's also not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear from a man with your proven ability for slipping out of extremely complicated situations."

"I'm getting a bit annoyed," said Locke, "with those who praise our previous escapades as an excuse for forcing us into even riskier ones. Look, if you want us to run a job, give us one within our field of experience. Isn't it broad enough for you? All we're saying is that we don't know the first bloody thing about wind, weather, ships, pirates, the Sea of Brass, the Ghostwind Isles, sails, ropes, er… weather, ships—"

"Our sole experience with ships," said Jean, "consists of getting on, getting seasick and getting off."

"I" ve thought of that," said Stragos. "The captain of a criminal crew must have, above all other things, charisma. Leadership skills. A sense of decision. Rogues must be ruled. I believe you can do that, Lamora… by faking it, if necessary. That makes you the best possible choice in some respects. You can fake confidence when a sincere man might be inclined to panic. And your friend Jean can enforce your leadership; a good infighter is someone to be respected on a ship."

"Sure, great," said Locke. "I'm charming, Jean's tough. That just leaves all the other things I named—"

"As for the nautical arts, I will provide you with an experienced sailing master. A man who can train you in the essentials and make the proper decisions for you once you're at sea, all the while pretending the orders come from you. Don't you see? All I'm doing is asking you to play a role… he'll provide the knowledge to make that role convincing."

"Sweet Venaportha," said Locke. "You really intend for us to go out there, and you genuinely wish us to succeed?" "Absolutely," said Stragos.

"And the poison," said Jean, "you'll just put enough antidote in our hands to allow us to roam the Sea of Brass, as we will?"

"Hardly. You'll need to call at Tal Verrar once every two months. My alchemist tells me that sixty-two to sixty-five days is really as far as you should push it."

"Now wait just a damn minute," said Locke. "It's not enough that we'll be clueless sailors masquerading as hardened pirates, trusting another man to make us look competent. Or that we're going to be out risking gods know what at sea, with our plans for Requin postponed. Now you expect us to be tied to mother's apron strings every two months?"

"It's two or three weeks to the Ghostwinds, and the same time back. You'll have ample time to do your business each trip, for however many months it takes. How closely you wish to shave your schedule is, of course, your own concern. Surely you see that it has to be this way" "No." Locke laughed. "Frankly, I don't!"

"I'll want progress reports. I may have new orders and information for you. You may have new requests or suggestions. It makes a great deal of sense to stay in regular contact."

"And what if we chance across one of those patches of… damn, Jean, what are they called? No wind whatsoever?" "Doldrums," said Jean.

"Exactly," said Locke. "Even we know that you can't presume a constant speed with wind and sails; you get what the gods send you. We could be stuck on a flat ocean fifty miles from Tal Verrar, on day sixty-three, dying for no reason at all."

"Remotely possible, but unlikely. I'm well aware that there's a great element of risk in the task I'm handing you; the possibility of a vast return compels me to play the odds. Now… speak no more of this for the time being. Here's what I" ve brought you out to see."

There was a golden ripple on the black water ahead, and faint golden lines that seemed to sway in the air above it. As they drew closer, Locke saw that a wide, dark shape covered the artificial river completely, from one bank to the other — a building of some sort… and the golden lines appeared to be cracks in curtains that hung down to the water. The boat reached this barrier and pushed through with little trouble; Locke shoved heavy, damp canvas away from his face, and as it fell aside the boat burst into broad daylight.

They were inside a walled and roofed garden, at least forty feet high, filled with willow, witchwood, olive, citrus and amberthorn trees. Black, brown and grey trunks stood in close-packed ranks, their vine-tangled branches reaching up in vast constellations of bright leaves that entwined above the river like a second roof.

As for the actual roof, it was scintillant, sky-blue and bright as noon, with wisps of white clouds drifting past half-visible between the branches. The sun burned painfully bright on Locke's right as he turned around to stare straight ahead, and it sent rays of golden light down through the silhouetted leaves… though surely it was still the middle of the night outside. "This is alchemy, or sorcery, or both," said Jean.

"Some alchemy," said Stragos in a soft, enthusiastic voice. "The ceiling is glass, the clouds are smoke, the sun is a burning vessel of alchemical oils and mirrors."

"Bright enough to keep this forest alive under a roof? Damn," said Locke.

"It may indeed be bright enough, Lamora," said the Archon, "but if you'll look closely, you'll see that nothing under this roof besides ourselves is alive?

As Locke and Jean glanced around in disbelief, Stragos steered the boat up against one of the garden's riverbanks. The waterway narrowed there to a mere ten feet, to allow room for the trees and vines and bushes on either side. Stragos reached out to grasp a trunk and halt the boat, and he pointed into the air as he spoke.

"A clockwork garden for my clockwork river. There's not a real plant in here. It's wood and clay and wire and silk; paint and dye and alchemy. All of it engineered to my design; it took the artificers and their assistants six years to construct it all. My little glen of mechanisms."

Incredulously, Locke realized that the Archon was telling the truth. Other than the movement of white smoke clouds far overhead, the place was unnaturally still, almost eerie. And the air in the enclosed garden was inert, smelling of stale water and canvas. It should have been bursting with forest scents, with the rich odours of dirt and flowering and decay.

"Do I still strike you as a man farting in an enclosed room, Lamora? In here, I do command the wind…"

Stragos raised his right arm high above his head and a rustling noise filled the artificial garden. A current of air plucked at Locke's scalp, and steadily rose until there was a firm breeze against his face. The leaves and branches around them swayed gently.

"And the rain," cried Stragos. His voice echoed off the water and was lost in the depths of the suddenly Uvely forest. A moment later a faint, warm mist began to descend, a ticklish haze of water that swirled in ghostly curves throughout the imaginary greenery and enveloped their boat. Then drops began to fall with a soft pitter-patter, rippling the surface of the clockwork river. Locke and Jean huddled beneath their coats as Stragos laughed.

"I can do more," said Stragos. "Perhaps I can even call up a storm!" A stronger breath of air began to beat the rain and mist against them; the little river churned as a counter-current surged from somewhere ahead of them. Little whitecaps burst beneath the boat as though the water was boiling; Stragos clung to his chosen tree-trunk with both hands as the boat rocked nauseatingly. The raindrops grew heavier and harder; Locke had to shield his eyes to see. Clouds of thick, dark mist boiled overhead, dimming the artificial sun. The forest had come to life, flailing at the misty air with branches and leaves as though the faux greenery was at war with unseen ghosts.

"But only after a fashion," said Stragos, and without any apparent further signals from him the rain faded away. Gradually, the flailing of the forest died down to a soft rustling, and then to stillness; the surging currents of the river beneath them subsided, and in minutes the mechanical garden was restored to relative peace. Fingers of fading mist swirled around the trees, the sun peeked out from behind the thinning "clouds" and the enclosure echoed with the not-unpleasant sound of water dripping from a thousand branches and fronds and trunks.

Locke shook himself and pushed his wet hair back out of his eyes. "It's… it's gods-damned singular, Archon. I'll give it that. I" ve never even imagined anything like this." "A bottled garden with bottled weather," mused Jean. "Why?" Locke asked the question for both of them.

"As a reminder." Stragos released his hold on the tree-trunk and let the boat drift gently into the middle of the stream once again. "Of what the hands and minds of human beings can achieve. Of what this city, alone in all the world, is capable of producing. I told you my Mon Magisteria is a repository of artificial things. Think of them as the fruits of order… order I must secure and safeguard."

"How the hell does interfering with Tal Verrar's ocean commerce secure and safeguard order?"

"Short-term sacrifice for long-term gain. There is something latent in this city that will flower, Lamora. Something that will bloom. Can you imagine the wonders the Therin Throne might have produced given centuries of peace, had it not been shattered into all our warring, scrabbling city-states? Something is preparing to emerge out of all our misfortune at last, and it will be here. The alchemists and artificers of Tal Verrar are peerless, and the scholars of the Therin Collegium are just a few days away … it must be here!"

"Maxilan, darling." Locke raised one eyebrow and smiled. "I knew you were driven, but I had no idea you could smoulder. Come, take me now! Jean won't mind; he'll avert his eyes like a gentleman."

"Mock me as you will, Lamora, but hear the words I speak. Hear and comprehend, damn you. What you just witnessed," said Stragos, "required sixty men and women to achieve. Spotters watching for my signals. Alchemists to tend the smoke-pots and hidden crews to work the bellows and fans that produce the wind. There were several dozen merely pulling strings, as it were — the branches of my artificial trees are threaded with metal wire, like puppets, so that they may be shaken more convincingly. A small army of trained workers, straining to produce a five-minute spectacle for three men in a boat. And even that was not possible with the art and artifice of previous centuries.

"What more might we achieve, given time? What if thirty people could produce the same result? Or ten? Or one? What if better devices could give stronger winds, more driving rain, a harder current? What if our mechanisms of control grew so subtle and so powerful that they ceased to be a spectacle at all? What if we could harness them to change anything, control anything, even ourselves? Our bodies? Our souls} We cower in the ruins of the Eldren world, and in the shadow of the Magi of Karthain. But common men and women could equal their power. Given centuries, given the good grace of the gods, common men and women could eclipse their power."

"And all of these grandiose notions," said Jean, "somehow require the two of us to go out and pretend to be pirates on your behalf?"

"Tal Verrar will never be strong so long as its fate is vouchsafed by those who would squeeze gold from it like milk from a cow's udders, then flee for the horizon at the first sign of danger. I need more power, and to speak plainly, I must seize or trick it out of my enemies, with the will of the people behind me. Your mission, if successful, would turn a key in the lock of a door that bars the way to greater things." Stragos chuckled and spread his hands. "You are thieves. I am offering you a chance to help steal history itself."

"Which is of little comfort," said Locke, "compared to money in a counting house and a roof over one's head." "You hate the Magi of Karthain," said Stragos flatly. "I suppose I do," said Locke.

"The last Emperor of the Therin Throne tried to fight them with magic; sorcery against sorcery. He died for his failure. Karthain can never be conquered by the arts it commands; they have ensured that no power in our world will ever have sorcerers numerous or powerful enough to match them. They must be fought with this." He set down his oar and spread his hands. "Machines. Artifice. Alchemy and engineering; the fruits of the mind."

"All of this," said Locke, "this whole ridiculous scheme… a more powerful Tal Verrar, conquering this corner of the world… all to hurt Karthain? I can't say I find the idea unpleasant, but why? What did they do to you, to make you imagine this?"

"Do either of you know," said Stragos, "of the ancient art of illu-sionism? Have you ever read about it in books of history?" "A little," said Locke. "Not very much."

"Once upon a time the performance of illusions — imaginary magic, not real sorcery at all, just clever tricks — was widespread, popular and lucrative. Commoners paid to see it on street corners; nobles of the Therin Throne paid to see it in their courts. But that culture is dead. The art no longer exists, except as trifles for card-sharps. The Bondsmagi haunt our city-states like wolves, ready to crush the slightest hint of competition. No sensible person would ever stand up in public and declare themselves to be capable of magic. Fear killed the entire tradition, hundreds of years ago.

"The Bondsmagi distort our world with their very presence. They rule us in many ways that have nothing to do with politics; the fact that we can hire them to do our bidding is immaterial. That little guild looms over everything we plan, everything we dream. Fear of the Magi poisons our people to the very marrow of their ambitions. It prevents them from imagining a larger destiny… from the hope of reforging the empire we once had. I know that you consider what I" ve done to you unforgivable. But believe it or not, I admire you for standing up to the Bondsmagi. They turned you over to me as a means of punishment. Instead, I ask you to help me strike at them."

"Grand abstracts," said Jean. "You make it sound like this is some sort of incredible privilege for us, being pressed into service without our consent."

"I don't need an excuse to hate the Bondsmagi," said Locke. "Not to hate them, nor to fight them. I" ve taunted them to their faces, more or less. Jean and I both. But you have to be some kind of madman to think they'll ever let you build anything openly powerful enough to knock them down."

"I don't expect to live to see it," said Stragos. "I only expect to plant the seed. Look at the world around you, Lamora. Examine the clues they" ve given us. Alchemy is revered in every corner of our world, is it not? It lights our rooms, salves our injuries, preserves our food… enhances our cider." He favoured Locke and Jean with a self-satisfied smile. "Alchemy is a low-grade form of magic, but the Bondsmagi have never once tried to curtail or control it." "Because they just don't give a damn," said Locke.

"Wrong," said Stragos. "Because it's so necessary to so many things. It would be like trying to deny us the right to water, or fire. It would push us too far. No matter the cost, no matter the carnage, it would force us to fight back against them for the sake of our very existence. And they know it. Their power has limits. Someday we'll surpass those limits, if only we're given a chance."

"That's a fine bedtime story," said Locke. "If you wrote a book on that subject, I'd pay for ten copies to be scribed. But here and now you're interfering with our lives. You're tearing us away from something we've worked long and hard to achieve."

"I am prepared to expand on my earlier terms," said Stragos, "and offer a financial reward for the successful completion of your task." "How much?" said Locke and Jean simultaneously.

"No promises," said Stragos. "Your reward will be proportional to your achievement. I shall make you as happy as you make me. Is that understood?"

Locke stared at Stragos for several seconds, scratching his neck. Stragos was using a confidence trick: an appeal to high ideals followed by an appeal to greed. And this was a classic fuck-the-agent situation: Stragos had no compulsion whatsoever to follow through on his promise, and nothing to lose by making it, and no reason at all to let him and Jean live once their task was finished. He made eye contact with Jean and stroked his chin several times, a simple hand-signal: Lying.

Jean sighed and tapped his fingers a few times against the gunwale on his side of the boat. He seemed to share Locke's thought that elaborate signals would best be avoided with Stragos just a few feet away. His answer was equally simple: Agreed.

"That's good news," said Locke, conjuring a note of guarded optimism in his voice. The knowledge that he and Jean were of one mind always gave him renewed energy for false-facing. "A pile of solari when this is all over would go a long way toward mitigating our distaste for the circumstances of our employment."

"Good. My sole concern is that the mission may benefit from more enthusiasm on your part." "This mission, to be frank, is going to need all the help it can get."

"Don't dwell on the matter, Lamora. And look out behind — we're coming to the far side of my little glen."

The boat was sliding toward another curtain-barrier of hanging canvas; by Locke's casual estimate, the entire artificial garden enclosure must have been about eighty yards long.

"Say farewell to the sun," said the Archon, and then they were slipping through the canvas, back out into the muggy black and silver night, with its flitting lantern beetles and genuine forest perfume. A guard dog barked nearby, growled and went silent in response to a hushed command. Locke rubbed his eyes as they slowly adjusted once again to the darkness. "You'll begin training this week," said Stragos.

"What do you mean, training? There's a pile of questions you haven't answered," said Locke. "Where's our ship? Where's our crew? How do we make ourselves known as pirates? There's a thousand damn details to go over—"

"All in good time," said Stragos. His voice had an air of unmistakable satisfaction now that Locke was speaking constructively of carrying out his plan. "I'm told you two frequently take meals at the Gilded Cloister. Spend a few days returning to a schedule of rising with the sun. On Throne's Day, have breakfast at the Cloister. Wait for Merrain to find you. She'll see you to your destination with her usual discretion, and you'll begin your lessons. They'll take up most of your days, so don't make any plans."

"Damn it," said Jean, "why not let us finish our affair with Requin? It won't take more than a few weeks. Then we can do whatever you like, without distraction."

"I" ve thought about it," said Stragos, "but no. Postpone it. I want you to have something to look forward to after you complete my mission. And I don't have a few weeks to wait. I need you at sea in a month. Six weeks at the very latest."

"A month to go from gratefully ignorant landlubbers to fucking professional pirates?" said Jean. "Gods." "It will be a busy month," said Stragos. Locke groaned.

"Are you up for the task? Or shall I simply deny you your antidote and give you a prison cell in which to observe the results?"

"Just see to it that that fucking antidote is ready and waiting each time we come back," said Locke. "And give a serious ponder to just how much money would best send us away happy when this affair is concluded. I'm guessing that you're likely to be the underestimating type in that regard, so I'd think big.""

"Rewards proportional to results, Lamora. That and your lives. When the red flag is seen again in my city's waters and the Priori are begging me to save them, you may turn your thoughts to the matter of reward. Then and no sooner. Understood?"

Lying, Locke signalled to Jean, sure it was unnecessary but equally sure Jean would appreciate a bit of cheek. "Your will, then, I suppose. If the gods are kind we'll poke a stick into whatever hornet's nest is left to be stirred up down in the Ghostwinds. After all, we have no choice, do we?" "As it should be," said Stragos.

"You know, Locke," said Jean in a lightly conversational tone of voice, "I like to imagine that there are thieves out there who only ever get caught up in perfectly ordinary, uncomplicated escapades. We should consider finding some and asking them what their secret is, one of these days."

"It's probably as simple as staying the hell away from arseholes like this," said Locke, gesturing at the Archon.

4

A squad of Eyes was waiting beside the boathouse when the little craft completed its circuit of the artificial river.

"Here," said Stragos after one of his soldiers took the oar from him. He removed two glass vials from his pockets and held one out to each Camorri thief. "Your first stay of execution. The poison's had time to work its way into you. I don't want to have to worry about you for the next few weeks."

Locke and Jean complied, each gagging as they drank "Tastes like chalk," said Locke, wiping his mouth.

"If only it were that inexpensive," said the Archon. "Now give the vials back. Caps, too."

Locke sighed. "I suppose it was too much to hope you" d forget that part."

The two thieves were being hauled back toward the Mon Magisteria as Stragos lashed the boat to the piling once again.

He stood up, stretched and felt the old familiar creaks, the twinges in his hips and knees and wrists. Damn rheumatism… by rights he was still outrunning his age, still ahead of most men nearing threescore years, but he knew deep in his heart that there would never be any way of running fast enough. Sooner or later, the Lady of the Long Silence would call a dance with Maxilan Stragos, whether or not his work here was done.

Merrain was waiting in the shadows of the unlit side of the boathouse, still and quiet as a hunting spider until she stepped out beside him. Long practice enabled him to avoid flinching.

"My thanks for saving those two, Merrain. You" ve been very useful to me, these past few weeks."

"Just as I was instructed to be," she said. "But are you sure they really suit the needs of this plan of yours?"

"They" re at every disadvantage in this city, my dear." Stragos squinted at the blurry forms of Locke, Jean and their escorts as they disappeared into the garden. "The Bondsmagi sewed them up for us, and we have them second-guessing their every step. I don't believe those two are used to being controlled. Out on their own, I know they'll perform as required." "Your reports give you that much confidence?"

"Not merely my reports," said Stragos. "Requin certainly hasn't killed them yet, has he?" "I suppose not."

"They'll serve," said Stragos. "I know their hearts. As the days go by, the resentment will fade and the novelty will gain on them. They'll be enjoying themselves soon enough. And when they start to enjoy themselves… I honestly think they can do it. If they live. It's for damn sure I" ve no other agents suitable to the task." "Then I may report to my masters that the plan is underway?" "Yes, I suppose this commits us. You may do just that." Stragos eyed the shadowed shape of the slender woman beside him and sighed. "Let them know that everything begins in a month or so. I hope for their sake they're ready for the consequences."

"Nobody's ready for the consequences," said Merrain. "It's going to mean more blood than anyone's seen in two hundred years. All we can do is hope that by setting things off we can ensure that others reap most of the trouble. By your leave, Archon, I'd like to go and compose my messages to them now."

"Of course," said Stragos. "Send my regards along with your report, and my prayers that we might continue to prosper… together."

1

"Oh, this is a wonderful spot to fling ourselves to our deaths from," said Locke.

Six months had passed since his return from Salon Corbeau; the suite of four exquisitely crafted chairs was safely locked away in a private storage room at the Villa Candessa. Tal Verrar's version of late winter held the region in the grip of temperatures so brisk that folk had to engage in actual labour to break a sweat.

About an hour's hard ride north of Tal Verrar, just past the village of Vo Sarmara and its surrounding fields, a scrubby forest of gnarled witchwood and amberthorn trees rose beside a wide, rocky vale. The walls of this vale were the greyish colour of corpse-flesh, giving the place the look of a giant wound in the earth. The thin olive-coloured grass abandoned the struggle for life about ten feet from the edge of the cliffs above this vale, where Locke and Jean stood contemplating the sheer hundred-foot drop to the gravel floor far below.

"I suppose we should" ve kept more in practice with this," said Jean, starting to shrug his way out of the half-dozen coils of rope draped from his right shoulder to his left hip. "But then, I don't recall many opportunities to put it to use during the past few years."

"Most places in Camorr we could just hand-over-hand it, up and down," said Locke. "I don't think you were even with us that night we used ropes to get up Lady de Marre's tower at that horrible old estate of hers… Calo and Galdo and I nearly got pecked to bloody shreds by pigeons working that one. Must" ve been five, six years ago."

"Oh, I was with you, remember? On the ground, keeping watch. I saw the bit with the pigeons. Hard to play sentry when you're pissing yourself laughing." "Wasn't funny at all from up top. Beaky little bastards were vicious!"

"The Death of a Thousand Pecks," said Jean. "You would have been legends, dying so gruesomely. I'd have written a book on the man— f eating pigeons of Camorr and joined the Therin Collegium. Gone respectable. Bug and I would" ve built a memorial statue to the Sanzas, with a nice plaque." "What about me?" "Footnote on the plaque. Space permitting."

"Hand over some rope or I'll show you the edge of the cliff, space permitting."

Jean tossed a coil to Locke, who plucked it out of the air and walked back toward the edge of the forest, about thirty feet from the cliff. The rope was tightly woven demi-silk, much lighter than hemp and much more expensive. At the rim of the forest, Locke selected a tall old witchwood about as broad around as Jean's shoulders. He pulled a goodly length of his line free, passed it around the tree-trunk and stared at the slightly frayed end for a few seconds, trying to rekindle his memories of knot-tying.

As his fingers slipped into hesitant motion, he took a quick glance around at the melancholy state of the world. A stiff wind was blowing from the north-west, and the sky was one vast cataract of wet-looking haze. Their hired carriage was parked at the far end of the woods, perhaps three hundred yards away. He and Jean had set the driver up with a clay jug of beer and a splendid basket lunch from the Villa Candessa, promising to be gone for a few hours at most.

"Jean," muttered Locke as the bigger man stepped up beside him, "this is a proper anchor-noose, right?"

"Certainly looks like it." Jean hefted the elaborate knot that secured the rope in a bight around the tree and nodded. He took the working end of the rope and added an additional half hitch for safety. "There. Just right."

He and Locke worked together for a few minutes, repeating the anchor-noose knot with three further lengths of rope until the old witchwood tree was thoroughly decorated with taut demi-silk. Their spare coils of rope were set aside. The two men then slipped out of their long frock coats and their vests, revealing heavy leather belts studded with iron rings at their waists.

The belts weren't quite like the custom climbing harnesses treasured by the more responsible burglars of Camorr; these were actually nautical in origin, used by those happy sailors whose ship-owners cared enough to spend a bit of money to preserve their health. The belts had been available on the cheap and had spared Locke and Jean the need to suss out a contact in Tal Verrar's underworld who could make a pair to order… but remember the transaction. There were a few things Requin would be better off not knowing until the chance finally came to spring the game on him.

"Right, then. Here's your descender."Jean passed Locke a fairly heavy bit of iron, a figure-eight with one side larger than the other and a thick bar right down the middle. He also kept one for himself; he'd had them knocked up by a blacksmith in Tal Verrar's Istrian Crescent a few weeks earlier. "Let's get you rigged-up first. Main line, then belay."

Locke clipped his descender into one of his harness rings and threaded it through with one of the demi-silk lines leading back to the tree. The other end of this line was left free and tossed toward the cliff. A second line was lashed tight to a harness ring above Locke's opposite hip. Many Camorri thieves on working jobs "danced naked", without the added safety of a belay line in case their primary rope broke, but for today's practice session Locke and Jean were in firm agreement that they were going to play it safe and boring.

It took a few minutes to rig Jean up in a similar fashion; soon enough they were each attached to the tree by two lines, like a pair of human puppets. The two thieves wore little save their tunics, breeches, field boots and leather gloves, though Jean did pause to slip his reading optics on.

"Now then," he said. "Looks like a fine day for abseiling. Care to do the honours before we kiss solid earth farewell?"

"Crooked Warden," said Locke, "men are stupid. Protect us from ourselves. If you can't, let it be quick and painless." "Well said." Jean took a deep breath. "Crazy part on three?" "On three."

Each of them took up their coiled main line and tossed the free end over the cliff; the two ropes went over and uncoiled with a soft hiss. "One," said Locke. "Two," said Jean.

"Three," they said together. Then they ran for the cliff and threw themselves off, whooping as they went.

For one brief moment Locke's stomach and the misty grey sky seemed to be turning a somersault in unison. Then his line was taut and the cliff-face was rushing toward him just a little too eagerly for his taste. Like a human pendulum, he swung in, raised his legs and hit the rock wall about eight feet beneath the rim, keeping his knees bent to absorb the shock of impact. That much, at least, he remembered very well. Jean hit with a heavier whoomp about two feet below him.

"Heh," said Locke, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, loud enough to match the whisper of the wind. "There's got to be an easier way to test whether or not we have an honest rope-weaver, Jean."

"Whew!" Jean shifted his feet slightly, keeping a hold on his line with both hands. The descenders made it easy for them to apply enough friction to the rope to slow or stop at will. The little devices were a marked improvement on what thed'r been taught as boys. While they could still no doubt slide down a rope using their own bodies for friction, as they once had, it was easy to abrade a certain protruding portion of the male anatomy with that approach if one was careless or unlucky.

For a few moments they simply hung there, feet against the cliffside, enjoying their new vantage point as the vaporous clouds rolled by overhead. The ropes waving in the air beneath them only hung down about half the distance to the ground, but they didn't intend to get there today anyway. There would be plenty of time to work up to longer drops in future practice sessions.

"You know," said Locke, "this is the only part of the plan, I must admit, that I wasn't terribly sure of. It's so much easier to contemplate abseiling from a height like this than it is to actually run off a cliff with just two lengths of rope between you and Aza Guilla."

"Ropes and cliffs are no problem," said Jean. "What we need to watch out for up here are your carnivorous pigeons." "Oh, bend over and bite your own arse."

"I'm serious. I'm terrified. I'll keep a sharp lookout lest the last thing we feel in this life should be that terrible swift pecking—"

"Jean, your belay line must be weighing you down. Here, let me cut it for you…"

They kicked and shoved good-naturedly against one another for a few minutes, Locke scrambling around and trying to use his agility to balance out Jean's far greater strength and mass. Strength and mass seemed to be winning the day, however, so in a fit of self-preservation he suggested they actually practise descending.

"Sure," said Jean, "let's go down five or six feet, nice and smooth, and stop on my mark, shall we?" Each of them gripped his taut main line and released a bit of tension on his descender. Slowly, smoothly, they slipped down a good two yards, and Jean cried, "Hold!"

"Not bad," said Locke. "The knack seems to come back quick, doesn't it?"

"I suppose. I was never really keen on this after I got back from my little holiday at Revelation House. This was more your thing, and the Sanzas", than mine. And, ah, Sabetha" s, of course."

"Yeah," said Locke, wistfully. "Yeah, she was so mad… so mad and so lovely. I used to love watching her climb. She didn't like ropes. She'd… take her boots off, and let her hair out, and wouldn't even wear gloves sometimes. Just her breeches and her blouse… and I would just—"

"Sit there hypnotized," said Jean. "Struck dumb. Hey, my eyes worked back then too, Locke."

"Heh. I suppose it must have been obvious. Gods." Locke stared at Jean and laughed nervously. "Gods, I'm actually bringing her up myself. I don't believe it." His expression turned shrewd. "Are we all right with each other, Jean? Back to being comfortable, I mean?"

"Hell, we're hanging together eighty feet above a messy death, aren't we? I don't do that with people I don't like." "That's good to hear." "And yeah, I'd say we're—" "Gentlemen! Hello down there!"

The voice was Verrari, with a rough rustic edge. Locke and Jean glanced up in surprise and saw a man standing at the edge of the cliff, arms akimbo, silhouetted against the churning sky. He wore a threadbare cloak with the hood thrown up. "Er, hello up there," said Locke. "Fine day for a bit of sport, ain't it?" "That's exactly what we thought," cried Jean.

"A fine day indeed, beggin" your pardons, sirs. And a fine set o" coats and vests you" ve gone and left up here. I like them very much, exceptin" that there ain't no purses in the pockets."

"Of course not, we're not stu— Hey, come on now. Kindly don't mess with our things," said Jean. As if by some unspoken signal, he and Locke reached out to brace themselves against the cliff, finding hand— and footholds as quickly as they could.

"Why not? They" re such fine things, sirs, I just can't help but feel sort of drawn to them, like."

"If you'll just wait right there," said Locke, preparing to begin climbing, "one of us should be up in a few minutes and I'm sure we can discuss this civilly."

"I'm also sort of drawn to the idea of keepin" you two down there, if it's all the same to you, gents." The man moved slightly and a hatchet appeared in his right hand. "It's a mighty fine pair of choppers you" ve left up here with your coats, too. Damned fine. Ain't never seen the like." "That's very polite of you to say," yelled Locke. "Oh, sweet jumping fuck," muttered Jean.

"I might point out, however," continued Locke, "that our man at the carriage is due to check on us soon, and he'll have his crossbow with him."

"Oh, you mean the unconscious fellow I, like, jacked over the head with a rock, sir? Sorry to report that he was drunk." "I don't believe you. We didn't give him that much beer!"

"Beggin" pardon, but he weren't all that much man, gents. Skinny fellow, if you savvy. As it is, he's sleepin" now. And he didn't have no crossbow anyway. I checked." "Well, I hope you don't blame us for trying," said Locke.

"I don't, not one little bit. Good try. Very creditable, like. But I'm sort of interested, if you don't mind, in the wheres-abouts of your purses."

"Safely down here with us," said Locke. "We might be convinced to surrender them, but you'll have to help haul us up if you want them."

"Now, on that subject," said the stranger, "you an" I have a sort of difference in outlook, like. Since I know you" ve got "em, now, I think it's easier to just chop you down and collect "em at my ease."

"Unless you're a much better rock climber than you look," said Jean, "it's one hell of a way down and back for the sake of our little purses!"

"And they are little," said Locke. "Our rock-climbing purses. Specially made not to weigh us down. Hardly hold anything!"

"I think we probably got different ideas of what anythin" is. And I wouldn't have to climb," said the stranger. "There's easier ways down to that valley floor, if you know where to go."

"Ah… don't be foolish," said Jean. "These ropes are demi-silk. It'll take you some time to cut through them. Longer than it will take for us to climb back up, surely" "Probably," said the man in the cloak. "But I'm still up here if you do, ain't I? I can just crack you over the edge and make your skulls into soup bowls, like. See if I don't!"

"But if we stay down here, we'll die anyway, so we might as well come up and die fighting," said Locke.

"Well, have it your way, sir. Whole conversation's gettin" sort of circular, if you don't mind me sayin", so I'm just gonna start cuttin" rope now. Me, I'd stay put and go quiet, was I you."

"Yeah, well, you're a miserable cur," shouted Locke. "Any child of three could murder helpless men hanging over a cliff. Time was when a bandit would have the balls to fight us face to face and earn his pay!"

"What do I rightly look like, sir, an honest tradesmen? Guild tats on my arms?" He knelt down and began to chop at something, steadily, with Jean's hatchet. "Splattin" you against those rocks below seems a fine way of earnin" my pay. Even finer if you're gonna speak so unkind."

"You're a wretch," cried Locke. "A cringing dog, a scrub, damned not just for avarice but for cowardice! The gods spit on those without honour, you know! It'll be a cold hell, and a dark one, for you!"

"I'm chock full of honour, sir. Got lots of it. Keep it right here between my empty stomach and my puckered white arse, which you may kiss, by the way."

"Fine, fine," said Locke. "I merely wanted to see if you could be goaded to misjudgement. I applaud your restraint! But surely there's more profit to be had in hoisting us up and holding us for ransom!" "We're important people," said Jean.

"With rich, important friends. Why not just hold us prisoner and send a letter with a ransom demand?" "Well," said the man, "for one thing, I can't read nor write." "We" d be happy to write the demand for you!"

"Can't rightly see how that" d work. You could just write anythin" you like, couldn't you? Ask for constables and soldiers instead of gold, if you take my meanin". I said I can't read, not that I got worm piss for brains."

"Whoa! Hold it! Stop cutting!" Jean heaved himself up another foot and braced his rope within the descender to hold him. "Stop cutting! I have a serious question!" "What's that, then?" "Where the hell did you come from?"

"Roundabouts, here and there, by way of my mother's womb, original like," said the man, who continued chopping.

"No, I mean, do you always watch these cliffs for climbers? Seems bloody unlikely thed'r be common enough to skulk in ambush for."

"Oh, they isn't, sir. Ain't never seen any, before you two. Was so curious I just had to come down and take a peek, and ain't I glad I did?" Chop, chop, chop. "No, mostly I hide in the woods, sometimes the hills. Watch the roads." "All by yourself?" "I'd be cuttin" you down faster if I wasn't by myself, wouldn't I?" "So you watch the roads. Looking to rob what, carriages?" "Mostly." "You have a bow or a crossbow?"

"Sadly, no. Think maybe I might buy a piece if I can get enough for your things."

"You hide in the woods, all by yourself, and try to ambush carriages without a real weapon?"

"Well," said the man a bit hesitantly, "has been awhile since I got one. But today's my lucky day, ain't it?"

"I should say so. Crooked Warden, you must be the worst highwayman under the sun." "What did you say?"

"He said," said Locke, "that in his highly educated opinion you're the—" "No, the other part."

"He mentioned the Crooked Warden," said Locke. "Does that mean something to you? We're members of the same fraternity, friend! The Benefactor, the Thiefwatcher, the Nameless Thirteenth, patron of you and me and all who take the twisty path through life. We're actually consecrated servants of the Crooked Warden! There's no need for animosity, and no need for you to cut us down!"

"Oh yes there is," said the man vehemently, "now I'm definitely cuttin" you down." "What? Why?"

"Bloody fuckin" heretics, you are! There ain't no Thirteenth! Ain't naught but the Twelve, that's truth! Yeah, I been to Verrar a couple times, met up with lads and lasses from the cuttin" crews what tried to tell me "bout this Thirteenth. I don't hold with it. Ain't right like I was raised. So down you go, boys!" The man began hacking at the demi-silk ropes with a vengeance. "Shit. Want to try and snag him in the belay lines?" Jean swung over beside Locke and spoke with soft urgency. Locke nodded. The two thieves took hold of die ends of their belay lines, stared upward and, at Jean's whispered signal, yanked them downward.

It was hardly an efficient trap; the lines were slack and coiled up above the cliffedge. Their tormentor looked down at his feet, hopped up and stepped away as seven or eight feet of each belay line slipped over the cliff's edge.

"Ha! You'll have to get up earlier than that, gents, if you don't mind my sayin" so!" Whistling tunelessly, he vanished out of sight and continued chopping. A moment later he gave a cry of triumph and Locke's coiled belay line flew over the edge of the cliff. Locke averted his face as the rope fell just past him; it was soon dangling in thin air from his waistbelt, its frayed far end still too many feet above the ground for safety.

"Shit," said Locke. "Right, Jean. Here's what we do. He should cut my main line next. Let's hook arms. I'll slide down your main line, knot what's left of mine to the bottom, and that should probably get us within twenty feet or so of the ground. If I haul up my belay line and knot that on the end of the other two, we can make it all the way down."

"Depends on how quickly that arsehole cuts. You think you can tie knots fast enough?"

"I think I" ve got no choice. My hands feel up to the task, at least. Even if I just get one line lashed, twenty feet's a happier fall than eighty."

At that moment, there was a faint rumble of diunder overhead. Locke and Jean looked up at just the right moment to feel the first few drops of rain on their faces.

"It's possible," said Locke, "that this would be really fucking amusing right now, were it anyone but us down on these ropes."

"At the moment, I think I'd take my chances with your pigeons if I could," said Jean. "Damn, I'm sorry for leaving the Wicked Sisters up there, Locke."

"Why in Venaportha's name would you have brought them down? There's nothing to apologize for."

"Aldiough," said Jean, "maybe there is one other thing I could try. You carrying sleeve-steel?"

"Yeah, one, but it's in my boot." The rain was beating down fairly hard now, soaking through their tunics and wetting their lines. Their light dress and die stiff breeze made it feel colder than it really was. "Yourself?"

"Got mine right here." Locke saw a flash of bright metal in Jean's right hand. "Yours balanced for throwing, Locke?" "Shit, no. Sorry."

"No worries. Hold it in reserve, then. And give us a good silent prayer."Jean paused to pluck off his optics and tuck them into his tunic collar, then raised his voice. "Hey! Sheep-lover! A word if you please!"

"I sort of thought we was done talkin"," came the man's voice from above the cliff's edge.

"No doubt! I'll wager using so many words in so short a time makes your brain feel like a squeezed lemon, doesn't it? You wouldn't have the wit to find the lucking ground if I threw you out of a bloody window! Are you listening? You" d have to take your shoes and breeches off to count to twenty-one! You" d have to look up to see the underside of cockroach shit!"

"Does it help, yellin" at me like that? Seems like you should be prayin" to your useless Thirteenth or somethin", but what would I know? I ain't one of you big-time Verrari felantozzers or whatever, am I?"

"You want to know why you shouldn't kill us? You want to know why you shouldn't let us hit that valley floor?" Jean hollered at the top of his lungs, while bracing his feet more firmly against the cliffside and pulling back his right arm. Thunder echoed overhead. "See this, you idiot? See what I" ve got in my hands? Something you'll see only once in a lifetime! Something you'll never forget!"

A few seconds later, the man's head and torso appeared over the edge of the cliff. Jean let out a cry as he flung his knife with all of his strength. They cry became triumphant as he saw the blurred shape of his weapon strike home in their tormentor's face… and changed yet again to a frustrated groan as he saw the knife bounce back and fall away into thin air. It had struck hilt-first. "Fucking rain!" yelled Jean.

The bandit was in serious pain, at least. He moaned and clutched his face, teetering forward. A nice hard smack in the eye? Jean fervently hoped so — perhaps he still had a few seconds to try again. "Locke, your knife, quickly!"

Locke was reaching into his right boot when the man thrust his arms out for balance, lost it and toppled screaming over the edge of the cliff. He got one hand around Locke's main line a second later and fell directly into the crook of Locke's waist and rope, where they met at the iron descender on his belt. The shock knocked Locke's legs away from the cliff and the breath from his lungs, and for a second he and the bandit were in free fall, flailing and screaming in a tangle of arms and legs, with no proper pressure on the line in the descender.

Straining himself to the utmost, Locke curled his left hand around the free side of the line and tugged hard, putting enough tension on the rope to snap them to a halt. They swung into the cliff-face together, the bandit taking the brunt of the impact, and dangled there in a struggling mess of limbs while Locke fought to breathe and make sense of the world. The bandit kicked and screamed.

"Stop that, you fucking moron!" They appeared to have fallen about fifteen feet; Jean slipped rapidly down beside them, alighted on the cliff and reached out with one hand to grab the bandit by the hair. With the hood thrown back, Locke could see that the fellow was grizzled like an underfed hound, perhaps forty, with long, greasy hair and a grey beard as scrubby as the grass on the cliff's edge. His left eye was swelling shut. "Stop kicking, you idiot! Hold still!" "Oh, gods, please don't drop me! Please don't kill me, sir!"

"Why thtfuck not?" Locke groaned, dug his heels into the cliff and managed to reach the edge of his right boot with his right hand. A moment later he had his stiletto out at the bandit's throat, and the man's panicked kicking became a terrified quivering.

"See this?" Locke hissed. The bandit nodded. "This is a knife. They have these, wherever the fuck you came from?" The man nodded again. "So you know I could just stick you right now and let you fall, right?" "Please, please don't—"

"Shut up and listen. This single line that you and I are dangling from right now. Single, solitary, alone! This wouldn't be the line you were just chopping at up there, would it?" The man nodded vigorously, his good eye wide.

"Isn't that splendid? Well, if the shock of your fall didn't break it, we're probably safe for a little while longer." White light flashed somewhere above them and thunder rolled, louder than before. "Though I have been much more comfortable. So don't kick. Don't flail. Don't struggle. And don't do anything fucking stupid. Savvy?" "Oh, no, sir, oh please—" "Shut up already."

"Lo… er, Leocanto," said Jean. "I'm thinking this fellow deserves some flying lessons." "I'm thinking the same thing," said Locke, "but thieves prosper, right, Jerome? Help me haul this stupid bastard back up there somehow." "Oh, thank you, thank—" "Know why I'm doing this, you witless woodland clown?" "No, but I—" "Shut it. What's your name?" "Trav!" "Travwhat?" "Never had no after-name, sir. Trav of Vo Sarmara is all." "And you're a thief? A highwayman?" "Yes, yes I am—" "Nothing else? Do any honest work?" "Er, no, not for some time now—"

"Good. Then we are brothers of a sort. Look, my smelly friend, the thing you have to understand is that there is a Thirteenth. He does have a priesthood, and I'm one of his priests, savvy?" "Ifyousayso—"

"No, shut up. I don't want you to agree with me, I want you to use your misplaced acorn of a brain before the squirrel comes looking for it again. I have a blade at your throat, we're seventy feet above the ground, it's pissing a nice, hard rain and you just tried to murder me. By all rights, I ought to give you a red smile from ear to ear and let you drop. Would you agree with that?" "Oh, probably, sir, gods, I'm sorry—"

"Hush now, sweet moron. So you" d admit that I must have a pretty powerful reason for not satisfying myself with your death?" "I, uh, I suppose so!"

"I'm a divine of the Crooked Warden, like I said. Sworn to the service and the mandates of the god of our kind. Seems kind of a waste to spit in the face of the god that looks out for you and yours, doesn't it? Especially since I'm not so sure I" ve been doing right by Him recently." "Uh—"

"I should kill you. Instead, I'm going to try to save your life. All I want you to do is think about this. Do I still seem like a heretic to you?" "Uh… oh, gods, sir, I can't think straight—"

"Well, nothing unusual there, I'd wager. Remember what I said. Don't flail, don't kick, don't scream. And if you try to fight, even the tiniest bit, our arrangement's off. Wrap your arms around my chest and shut up. We're a good, long way from sitting pretty."

2

At Locke's urging, Jean went up first, hand-over-hand on the slick cliff-face at about half his usual speed. Up top, he rapidly unknotted his own belay line from his belt and passed it down to Locke and his shaken passenger. Next he took his harness off and slid his main line along the cliff-edge until it too was beside the dangling men. They certainly didn't look comfortable, but with all three good lines in their reach they were at least a bit safer.

Jean found his frock coat on the ground and threw it on, grateful for the added coverage even if it was as sopping wet as the rest of him was. He thought quickly. Trav looked like a fairly meatless fellow and Locke was lightly built… surely they were no more than three hundred pounds together. Jean was sure he could hoist nearly as much to his chest, perhaps even above his head. But in the rain, with so much at stake?

His thoughts turned to the carriage, nearly a quarter-mile distant through the woods. A horse would be a vast improvement on even a strong man, but the time it would require, and the trouble inherent in unhooking, calming and leading a beast whose master had been clubbed unconscious… "Fuck it," he said, and went back to the cliff's edge. "Leocanto!" "Still here, as you might have guessed."

"Can the two of you make one of my ropes good and fast to your waistbelt?" There was a brief muttered conversation between Locke and Trav. "We'll manage," Locke yelled. "What do you have in mind?"

"Have the idiot hold tight to you. Brace your arms and legs against the cliff once you" ve lashed yourselves to one of my lines. I'll start hauling on it with all I" ve got, but I'm sure your assistance won't hurt."

"Right. You heard the man, Trav. Let's tie a knot. Mind where you put your hands."

When Locke looked up and gave Jean their private hand signal for proceed, Jean nodded. The secured rope was Jean's former belay line; he seized the working end just before the coil that lay on the wet ground and frowned. The sludge underfoot would make things even more interesting than they already were, but there was nothing else for it. He formed a bight in the rope, stepped into it and let it slide tight around his waist. He then leaned back, away from the cliff, with one hand on the rope before him and one hand behind, and cleared his throat.

"Tired of dangling, or shall I let you have a few more minutes down there?"

"Jerome, if I have to cradle Trav here for one second longer than I absolutely must, I'm going to—"

"Climb away, then!" Jean dug his heels in, allowed himself to lean even farther back and began to strain at the rope. Gods damn it, he was a powerful man, unusually strong, but why did moments always come along to remind him that he could be even stronger? He" d been slacking; no other word for it. He should find some crates, fill them with rocks and heave them up a few dozen times a day, as he had in his youth… damn, would the rope ever move?

There. At last, after a long uncomfortable interval of motionless heaving in the rain, Jean took a slow step back. And then another… and another. Haltingly, with an itching fire steadily rising in the muscles of his thighs, he did his best impression of a plough-horse, pushing deep furrows into the gritty grey mud. Finally, a pair of hands appeared at the edge of the cliff and in a torrent of shouts and curses, Trav hoisted himself up over the top and rolled onto his back, gasping. Immediately the strain on Jean slackened; he maintained his previous level of effort and just a moment later Locke.popped over the edge. He crawled to his feet, stepped over beside Trav and kicked the would-be bandit in the stomach.

"You fucking jackass! Of all the stupid damn… How difficult would it have been to say, "I'll lower a rope, you tie your purses onto it and send them up or I won't let you back up?" You don't tell your bloody victims you're just going to kill them outright! You come on reasonable first, and when you have the money you run!" "Oh… ow! Gods, please. Ow! You said you… wouldn't kill me!"

"And I meant it. I'm not going to kill you, you cabbage-brained twit, I'm just going to kick you until it stops feeling good!" "Ow! Agggh! Please! Aaaaow!" "I have to say, it's still pretty fascinating." "Aiiiah! Ow!" i Still enjoying myself.". "Oooof! Agh!"

Locke finally ceased pummelling the unfortunate Verrari, unbuckled his harness belt and dropped it in the mud. Jean, breathing heavily, came up beside him and handed him his soaked coat.

"Thank you, Jerome." Having his coat back, sopping or no, seemed to salve some of Locke's wounded dignity. "As for you. Trav — Trav of Vo Sarmara, you said?" "Yes! Oh, please, don't kick me again—"

"Look here, Trav. Here's what you're going to do. First, tell no one about this. Second, don't fucking go anywhere near Tal Verrar. Got it?" "Wasn't plannin" to, sir."

"Good. Here." Locke reached down into his left boot and drew out a very slender purse. He tossed it down beside Trav, where it landed with a jingling plop. "Should be ten volani in there. A healthy bit of silver. And you can… wait a minute, are you absolutely sure our driver's still alive?"

"Oh, gods, yes! Honest truth, Master Leocanto, sir, he was breathin" and moanin" after I thumped him, he surely was."

"So much the better for you, then. You can have the silver in that purse. When Jerome and I have left, you can come back and take whatever we leave. My vest and some of this rope, for sure. And listen to me very carefully. I saved your life today when I could have killed you in a heartbeat. Sound about right to you?" "Yes, yes you did, and I'm so very—"

"Yes, shut up. Someday, Trav of Vo Sarmara, I may find myself back in these parts and I may need something. Information. A guide. A bodyguard. Thirteen help me if it's you I have to turn to, but if anyone ever comes to you and whispers the name of Leocanto Kosta, you jump at their word, you hear?" "Yes!" "Your oath before the gods?"

"Upon my lips and upon my heart, before the gods, or strike me dead and find me wantin" on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence."

"Good enough. Remember. Now fuck off in the direction of your choice, so long as it isn't back toward our carriage."

Jean and Locke watched him scamper away for a minute or two, until his cloaked figure had faded from view behind the shifting grey curtains of the downpour.

"Well," said Jean, "I think that's enough practice for one day, don't you?"

"Absolutely. The actual Sinspire job'll be a bloody ballroom dance compared to this. What say we just grab the two spare coils of rope f and make for the carriage? Let Trav spend the rest of the afternoon out here untying knots."

"A lovely plan." Jean inspected his Wicked Sisters, recovered from the edge of the cliff, and gave them a possessive pat on their blades before slipping them into his coat pocket. "There, darlings. That ass might have dulled you a bit, but I'll soon have you sharpened up again."

"I hardly credit it," said Locke. "Nearly murdered by some halfwit country mudsucker. You know, I do believe that's the first time since Vel Virazzo that anyone's actually tried to kill either of us."

"Sounds about right. Eighteen months?" Jean slipped one wet coil of rope around his shoulder and passed the other to Locke. Together, they turned and began to trudge back through the forest. "Nice to know that some things never really change, isn't it?"

1

"Whoever put those assassins there obviously knew we used that path to get back to the Savrola," said Locke.

"Which doesn't mean all that much — we've used the docks often. Anyone could have seen us and set them there to wait."Jean sipped his coffee and ran one hand idly over the battered leather cover of the small book he'd brought to breakfast. "Maybe for several nights. It wouldn't require any special knowledge or resources."

The Gilded Cloister was even quieter than usual at the seventh hour of the morning this Throne's Day. Most of the revellers and businessfolk who provided its custom would have been up late on the Golden Steps and would not rise for several hours. By unspoken consent, Locke and Jean's breakfast this morning was designed for nervous nibbling: cold filets of pickled shark meat with lemon, black bread and butter, some sort of brownish fish broiled in orange juice, and coffee — the largest ceramic pot the waitress could find to bring to the table. Both thieves were still having trouble adjusting to the sudden turnaround in their nights and days.

"Unless the Bondsmagi tipped another party off to our presence here in Tal Verrar," said Locke. "They might even be helping them."

"If the Bondsmagi had been helping those two on the docks, do you really think we" d have survived? Come on. Both of us knew they were probably going to come after us for what we did to the Falconer, and if they just wanted us dead, we" d be smoked meat. Stragos is right about one thing — they must mean to toy with us. So I still say it's more likely that some third party took offence at something we've done as Kosta and de Ferra. That makes Durenna, Corvaleur and Lord Landreval the obvious suspects." "Landreval" s been gone for months." "That doesn't rule him out completely. The lovely ladies, then." "I just… I honestly believe thed'r come after us themselves — Durenna has a reputation with a sword, and I hear that Corvaleur's been in a few duels. Maybe thed'r hire some help, but they're hands-on sorts."

"Did we bilk anyone important at Blind Alliances? Or some other game when we were playing our way up through the floors? Step on someone's toe? Fart noisily?"

"I can't imagine that we" d have missed someone disgruntled enough to hire assassins. Nobody likes to lose at cards, to be sure, but do any really sore losers stick out in memory?"

Jean scowled and sipped his coffee. "Until we know more, this speculation is useless. Everyone in the city is a suspect. Hell, everyone in the world."

"So in truth," said.Locke, "all we really know is that whoever it is wanted us dead. Not scared off, not brought in for a little chat. Plain old dead. Maybe if we can ponder that, we might come up with a few—"

Locke stopped speaking the instant he saw their waitress approaching their booth… then looked more closely and saw that it wasn't their waitress at all. The woman wearing the leather apron and red cap was Merrain. "Ah," said Jean. "Time to settle the bill."

Merrain nodded and handed Locke a wooden tablet with two small pieces of paper pinned to it. One was indeed the bill; the other had a single line written on it in flowing script: Remember the first place I took you the night we met? Don't waste time.

"Well," said Locke, passing the note to Jean, "we" d love to stay, but the quality of the service has sharply declined. Don't expect a gratuity." He counted copper coins onto the wooden tablet, then stood up. "Same old place as usual, Jerome."

Merrain collected the wooden tablet and the money, bowed and vanished in the direction of the kitchens.

"I hope she doesn't take offence about the tip," said Jean when they were out on the street. Locke glanced around in every direction and noticed that Jean was doing likewise. Locke's sleeve-stilettos were a comforting weight inside each arm of his coat, and he had no doubt that Jean was ready to produce the Wicked Sisters with a twitch of his wrists.

"Gods," Locke muttered. "We should be back in our beds, sleeping the day away. Have we ever been less in control of our lives than we are at this moment? We can't run away from the Archon and his poison, which means we can't just disengage from the Sinspire game. Gods know we can't even see the Bondsmagi lurking, and we've suddenly got assassins coming out of our arseholes. Know something? I'd lay even odds that between the people following us and the people hunting us, we've become this city's principal means of employment. Tal Verrar's entire economy is now based on fucking with w."

It was a short walk, if a nervous one, to the crossroads just north of the Gilded Cloister. Cargo wagons clattered across the cobbles and tradesfolk walked placidly to their jobs. As far as they knew, Locke thought, the Savrola was the quietest, best-guarded neighbourhood in the city, a place where nothing worse than the occasional drunk foreigner ever disturbed the calm.

Locke and Jean turned left at the intersection, then approached the door of the first disused shop on their right. While Jean kept a watch on the street behind them, Locke stepped up to the door and rapped sharply, three times. It opened immediately and a stout young man in a brown leather coat beckoned them in.

"Stay away from the window," he said once he'd closed and bolted the door behind them. The window was covered with tightly drawn sailcloth curtains, but Locke agreed that there was no need to tempt fate. The only light in the room came from the sunrise, filtered soft pink through the curtains, enabling Locke to see two pairs of men waiting at the rear of the shop. Each pair consisted of one heavy, broad-shouldered man and one smaller man, and all four of the strangers were wearing identical grey cloaks and broad-brimmed grey hats.

"Get dressed," said the man in the leather coat, pointing to a pile of clothing on a small table. Locke and Jean were soon outfitted in their own matching grey cloaks and hats. "New summer fashion for Tal Verrar?" said Locke.

"A little game for anyone trying to follow you," said the man. He snapped his fingers and one set of grey-clad strangers moved to stand right behind the door. "I'll go out first. "Vbu stand behind these two, follow them out, then enter the third carriage. Understood?"

"What carri—" Locke started to say, but he cut himself off as he heard the clatter of hoofs and wheels in the street immediately outside. Shadows passed before the window and after a few seconds the man in the brown coat unbolted the door. "Third carriage. Move fast," he said without turning around, and then he threw the door open and was out into the street.

At the kerb just outside the disused shop three identical carriages were lined up. Each was black lacquered wood with no identifying crests or banners, each had heavy drapes drawn over its windows and each was pulled by two black horses. Even their drivers all looked vaguely similar and wore the same reddish uniforms under leather overcoats.

The first pair of grey strangers stepped out through the door and hurried to the first carriage in line. Locke and Jean left the disused shop a second later, hurrying to the rear carriage. Locke caught a glimpse of the last team of grey strangers all but running to the door of the. middle carriage behind them. Jean worked the latch on the rear carriage's door, held it open for Locke and flung himself inside afterward.

"Welcome aboard, gentlemen." Merrain lounged in the right forward corner of the compartment, her waitress's clothing discarded. She was now dressed as though for a ride in an open saddle, in field boots, black breeches, a red silk shirt and a leather vest. Locke and Jean settled beside one another in the seat across from her. Jean's slamming of the door threw them into semi-darkness, and the carriage lurched into motion.

"Where the hell are we going?" Locke began to shrug off his grey cloak as he spoke.

"Leave that on, Master Kosta. You'll need it when we get out again. First we'll all tour the Savrola for a bit. Then we'll split — one carriage to the Golden Steps, one to the northern edge of the Great Gallery and us to the docks to catch a boat." "A boat to where?" "Don't be impatient. Sit back and enjoy the ride."

That was difficult, to say the least, in the hot and stuffy compartment. Locke felt sweat running down his brow and he grumpily removed his hat and held it in his lap. He and Jean attempted to pelt Merrain with questions, but she answered with nothing but non-committal "hmmms" until they gave up. Tedious minutes passed. Locke felt the carriage rattling around several corners, then down a series of inclines that had to be the ramp from the upper heights of the Savrola to the sea-level docks. "We're almost there," said Merrain after another few minutes had passed in uncomfortable, jouncing silence. "Hats back on. When the carriage stops, go straight to the boat. Take your seat at the rear and for the gods" sakes, if you see anything dangerous, duck."

True to her word, the carriage rattled to a halt just a few heartbeats later. Locke planted his hat over his hair once again, fumbled for the door mechanism and squinted as it opened into bright morning light. "Out," said Merrain. "Don't waste time."

They were down on the interior docks at the very north-eastern tip of the Savrola, with a sheer wall of black Elderglass behind them and several dozen anchored ships on the gleaming, choppy water before them. One boat was lashed to the nearest pier, a sleek gig about forty feet long with a raised and enclosed gallery at the stern. Two lines of rowers, five to a side, filled most of the rest of its space.

Locke hopped down from the carriage and led the way toward the boat, past a pair of alert men wearing cloaks as heavy as his own, quite inappropriate for the weather. They were standing at near-attention, not lounging, and Locke caught a glimpse of a sword-hilt barely hidden beneath one cloak.

He all but scampered up the flimsy ramp to the boat, hopped down into it and threw himself onto the bench at the rear of the passenger gallery. The gallery, fortunately, was only enclosed on three sides; a decent forward view of their next little voyage would be vastly preferable to another trip inside a dark box. Jean was close behind him, but Merrain turned right, climbed through the mass of rowers and seated herself in the coxswain's position at the bow.

The soldiers on the dock rapidly pulled back the ramp, unlashed the boat and gave it a good push away from the dock with their legs. "Pull," said Merrain, and the rowers exploded into action. Soon the boat was creaking to their steady rhythm and knifing across the little waves of Tal Verrar's harbour.

Locke took the opportunity to study the men and women at the oars — they were all leanly muscled, all with hair neatly trimmed short, most with fairly visible scars. Not one of them looked to be younger than their mid-thirties. Veteran soldiers, then. Possibly even Eyes without their masks and cloaks.

"I have to say, Stragos's people put on a good production," said Jean. He then raised his voice: "Hey! Merrain! Can we take these ridiculous clothes off yet?" She turned only long enough to nod and then returned her attention to the waters of the harbour. Locke and Jean eagerly removed their hats and cloaks and piled the clothing on the deck at their feet.

The ride across the water took about a third of an hour, as near as Locke could tell. He would have preferred to be free to study the harbour in all directions, but what he could see out through the open front of the gallery revealed enough. First they headed south-west, following the curve of the inner docks, past the Great Gallery and the Golden Steps. Then they turned south, putting the open sea on their right, and sped toward a huge crescent island of a like size with the one on which the Sinspire sat.

Tal Verrar's south-western crescent wasn't tiered. It was more like a naturally irregular hillside, studded with a number of stone towers and battlements. The huge stone quays and long wooden docks at its northwestern tip comprised the Silver Marina, where commercial vessels could put in for repairs or refitting. But past that, past the bobbing shapes of old galleons waiting for new masts or sails, lay a series of tall, grey walls that formed enclosed bays. The tops of these walls supported round towers, where the dark shapes of catapults and patrolling soldiers could be seen. The bow of their boat was soon pointed at the nearest of these huge stone enclosures.

Til be damned," said Jean. "I think they're taking us into the Sword Marina."

2

The vast stone walls of the artificial bay were gated with wood. As the boat approached, shouts rang out from the battlements above and the clanking of heavy chains echoed off stone and water. A crack appeared in the middle of the gate, and then the two doors slowly swung inward, sweeping a small wave before them. As the boat passed through the gate Locke tried to estimate the size of everything he was seeing; the opening itself had to be seventy or eighty feet wide, and the timbers of the doors looked to be as thick as an average man's torso.

Merrain called instructions to the rowers and they brought the boat in carefully, coasting gently up to a small wooden dock where a single man waited to receive them. The rowers had placed the boat at an angle, so that the end of the dock barely scraped the hull of the boat between the rowers and the passenger gallery.

"Your stop, gentlemen," called Merrain. "No time to tie up, I'm afraid. Be nimble or get wet."

"You're the soul of kindness, madam," said Locke. "I" ve shed any lingering regret about failing to leave a tip for you." He moved out of the gallery and to the gunwale on his right hand. There the stranger waited with one arm held out to assist him. Locke sprang up to the dock easily enough with the man's help, and the two of them in turn yanked Jean to safety.

Merrain's rowers backed water immediately; Locke watched as the gig made sternway, aligned itself with the gate and then sped back out of the little bay at high speed. Chains rattled once again and water surged as the gates drew closed. Locke glanced up and saw that teams of men were turning huge capstans, one on either side of the bay doors.

"Welcome," said the man who'd helped them out of the boat. "Welcome to the most foolish damn venture I ever hear of, much less got pressed into. Can't imagine whose wife you must" ve fucked to get assigned to this here suicide mission, sirs."

The man could have been anywhere between fifty and sixty; he had a chest like a tree stump and a belly that hung over his belt as though he was trying to smuggle a sack of grain beneath his tunic. Yet his arms and neck were almost scrawny in their wiriness, seamed with jutting veins and the scars of hard living. He had a round face, a woolish white beard and a greasy streak of white hair that fell straight off the back of his head like a waterfall. His dark eyes were nestled in pockets of wrinkles under permanent furrows.

"That might" ve been a pleasant diversion," said Jean, "if we" d known we were going to end up here anyway. Who might you be?"

"Name's Caldris," said the old man, "Ship" s master without a ship. You two must be Masters de Ferra and Kosta." "Must be," said Locke.

"Let me show you around," said Caldris. "Ain't much to see now, but you'll be seeing a lot of it."

He led the way up a set of rickety stairs at the rear of the dock, which opened onto a stone plaza that rose four or five feet above the water. The entire artificial bay, Locke saw, was a square roughly one hundred yards on a side. Walls enclosed it on three sides, and at the rear rose the steep glass hillside of the island. There were a number of structures built on platforms sticking out from that hillside: storage sheds, armouries and the like, he presumed.

The gleaming expanse of water beside the plaza, now sealed off from the harbour once again by the wooden gates, was large enough to float several ships of war, and Locke was surprised to see that there was only one craft tied up. A one-masted dinghy, barely fourteen feet long, rocked gently at the plaza's side. "Quite a bay for such a small boat," he said.

"Eh? Well, the ignorant need room in which to risk their lives without bothering anybody else for a while," said Caldris. "This here's our own private pissing-pond. Never you mind the soldiers on the walls; they'll ignore us. Unless we drown. Then they'll probably laugh." "Just what is it," said Locke, "that you think we're doing here, Caldris?"

"I" ve got a month or so in which to turn two ignorant straight-legged fumblethumb landlubbers into something resembling phoney sea-officers. All gods as my witness, sirs, I suspect this is all gonna end in screaming and drowning."

"I might have taken offence at that if I didn't know that every name you just called us was true," said Locke. "We told Stragos we didn't know the first damn thing about sailing." "The Protector seems mighty set on having you out to sea regardless." "How long have you been in his navy?" asked Jean.

"Been at sea forty-five years, maybe. In the Verrari navy even before there was Archons; been in the Thousand-Day War, the old wars against Jerem, the war against the Ghostwinds Armada… seen a lot of shit, gentlemen. Thought I had it sewn up — been master on Archon's vessels for twenty years. Good pay. Even got a house coming, or so I thought. Before this shit. No offence." "None taken," said Locke. "This some sort of punishment detail?"

"Oh, it's punishment, Kosta. It's punishment all right. Just weren't no crime done to earn it. Archon sort of volunteered me. Fuck me, but that's what all my loyalty bought. That and a taste of the Archon's wine, so I can't just quit or run away on you. Poisoned wine. The waiting sort of poison. I take you to sea, outlive all this nonsense, I get the antidote. Maybe my house, if I'm lucky." "The Archon gave you poisoned wine?" said Locke.

"Didn't know it was poisoned, obviously. What was I supposed to do," Caldris spat, "not fuckin" drink it?"

"Of course not," said Locke. "We're passengers in the same boat, friend. Except it was cider with us. We had a hell of a thirst." "Oh, really?" Caldris gaped. "Ha! Fuck me raw! Here I thought I was the biggest damn fool on the Sea of Brass. Here I thought I was the damnedest halfwit of a blind, uselsss… old… ah…"

He soon noticed the glare Locke and Jean were giving him in unison, and he coughed loudly. "Which is to say, sirs, that misery does love company, and I can see that we're all going to be real enthusiastic about this here do-or-die mission."

"Right. So, ah, tell us," said Jean. "Exactly how are we going to get on with this?"

"Well, first I reckon we talk, second I reckon we sail. I got just a few things to say before we tempt the gods, so open your ears. First, it takes five years or so to make a landsman into a halfway decent sailor. Ten to fifteen to make a halfway decent sea-officer. So fuckin" attend this: I ain't making no halfway decent sea-officers of you. I'm making shams. I'm making it so you're not embarrassed to talk rope and canvas around real sailors, and that's about it. Maybe, just maybe, that's what I can do to you in a month. So you can pretend to give orders while taking "em from me. Taking "em good.""

"Fair enough," said Locke. "The more you handle, the more comfortable we'll be, honest."

"I just don't want you to decide you're heroes who" ve learned the full business, so's you start changing sails and trim and courses without my leave. Do that and we're all gonna die, fast as a one-copper fuck in a one-whore cathouse. I hope that's clear."

"Not to get ahead of ourselves," said Jean, "but where the hell is this ship on which we would never, ever dare do anything like that?"

"It's around," said Caldris. "Getting a bit of finishing in another bay, just to help it hold together. For the time being, that there's the only vessel you're fit to board." He pointed at the dinghy. "That's what I'll learn you on." "What does that little thing have to do with a real ship?" Locke said.

"That little thing is what I learned on, Kosta. That little thing is where any real sea-officer starts. That's how you cop to the basics — hull, wind and water. Know "em on a boat and you can think it out on a ship. So, off with your coats and vests and fancy shit. Leave anything you mind getting wet as I'm making no promises. Boots as well. You'll do this barefoot."

Once Locke and Jean had stripped down to their tunics and breeches, Caldris led them over to a large covered basket that sat on the stones near the docked dinghy. He undid the cover, reached in and removed a live kitten. "Hello, you monstrous little necessity." "Mrrrrwwwwww," said the monstrous little necessity.

"Kosta." Caldris shoved the squirming kitten into Locke's arms. "Look after her for a few minutes."

"Urn… why do you keep a kitten in that basket?" The kitten, dissatisfied with Locke's arms, decided to wrap her paws around his neck and experiment on it with her claws.

"When you go to sea, there's two necessities, for luck. First, you're courting an awful fate if you take a ship to sea without at least one woman officer. It's the law of the Lord of the Grasping Waters. His mandate. He's got a fixation for the daughters of the land; he'll smash any ship that puts to sea without at least one aboard. Plus, it's plain common sense. They" re good officers. Decent plain sailors, but finer officers than you or me. Just the way the gods made "em.

"Second, it's powerful bad luck to put out without cats on board. Not only as they kill the rats, but as they're the proudest creatures anywhere, wet or dry. Iono admires the little fuckers. Got a ship with women and cats aboard, you'll have the finest luck you can hope for. Now, our little boat's so small I reckon we're fine without no woman. Fishers and harbour boats go out all the time, no worries. But with the pair of you aboard, I'll be damned if I'm not bringing a cat. A little one suits a little vessel."

"So… we have to tend this kitten while we're out there risking our fives?"

"I'll throw you overboard before I'll lose her, Kosta." Caldris chuckled. "You think I'm lying, you just test me. But keep your breeches on; she'll be in the covered basket."

Speaking of the basket seemed to recall it to his mind. He reached into it again and drew out a small loaf of bread and a silver knife. Locke saw that the loaf had many small marks upon it, about the size of the muzzle of the little creature trying to slip out of his arms. Caldris didn't seem to care. "Master de Ferra, hold out your right hand and don't whine."

Jean extended his right hand toward Caldris. Without hesitation, the sailing master slashed the knife across Jean's palm. The big man said nothing, and Caldris grunted as though pleasantly surprised. He turned Jean's palm upside-down and smeared the bread with the blood trickling from the cut.

"Now you, Master Kosta. Keep that kitten still. Vile luck to cut her by accident. Plus she's armed, fore and aft."

A moment later, Caldris had made a shallow, stinging cut across Locke's right palm and was pressing the loaf of bread up against it as though to stanch the wound. When he decided that Locke had bled sufficiently, he smiled and moved to the edge of the stone plaza, overlooking the water.

"I know you both been passengers on ships," he said, "but passengers don't signify. Passengers ain't involved. Now you're gonna be involved, proper, so I got to make things right for us first."

He cleared his throat, knelt at the edge of the water and held up his arms. In one hand he held the loaf of bread; in the other, the silver knife. "Iono! Iono Stormbringer! Lord of the Grasping Waters! Your servant Caldris bal Comar calls. Long you been pleased to show your servant mercy, and your servant kneels to show his devotion. Surely you know a mighty fuckin" mess waits over the horizon for him."

He tossed the bloody knife into the bay, and said: "This is the blood of landsmen. All blood is water. All blood is yours. This is a knife of silver, metal of the sky, sky that touches water. Your servant gives you blood and silver to show his devotion."

He took the loaf of bread in both hands, tore it in half and threw both halves into the water. "This is the bread of landsmen, that landsmen need to live! At sea, all fife is yours. At sea, yours is the only mercy. Give your servant strong winds and open waters, Lord. Show him mercy in his passage. Show him the might of your will within the waves and send him safe home again. Hail Iono! Lord of the Grasping Waters!"

Caldris rose from his knees, groaning, and wiped a few smears of blood on his tunic. "Right. If that can't help, we never had a fuckin" chance."

"Beg pardon," said Jean, "but it seems to me you could possibly have mentioned us along with yourself—"

"Don't think nothing of it, de Ferra. I prosper, you prosper. I cop it, you're screwed. Praying for my health works to your full advantage. Now, put the cat in the basket, Kosta, and let's do some business."

A few minutes later, Caldris had Locke and Jean seated beside one another at the rear of the dinghy, which was still lashed firmly to several iron rings set into the stone of the plaza. The covered basket was sitting on the tiny deck of the dinghy at Locke's feet, occasionally emitting bumping and scratching noises.

"Right," said Caldris, "far as the basics go, a boat is just a little ship and a ship is just a bigger boat. Hull goes in the water, mast points toward the sky." "Of course," said Locke, as Jean nodded vigorously.

"The nose of your boat is called the bow, the arse is called the stern. Ain't no right and left at sea. Right is starboard, left is larboard. Say right or left and you're liable to get whipped. And remember, when you're directing someone else, it's the ship's starboard and larboard you're talking about, not your own."

"Look, little as we know, Caldris, I daresay we know that much," said Locke.

"Well, far be it from me to correct the young master," said Caldris, "but as this venture is somewhat in the way of completely fuckin" mad, and since all our lives are looking mighty cheap, I'm gonna start by presuming that you don't know water from weasel piss. Is that suitable by you, gentlemen?"

Locke opened his mouth to say something ill-advised, but Caldris went on.

"Now, unrack the oars. Slide "em in the rowlocks. Kosta, you're starboard oar. De Ferra, you're larboard." Caldris unlashed the dinghy from the iron rings, threw the ropes into the bottom of the boat and hopped down into it, landing just before the mast. He settled down onto his backside and grinned as the boat swayed. "I" ve locked the rudder tight for now. You two will do all our steering, gods help us.

"De Ferra, push us off from the quay. That's right. Nice and easy. Can't fly sails straight from the dockside; got to get some sea room first. Plus there's no breeze behind these walls for us to use anyway. Row gently. Pay attention as I move around… look how I'm making us wobble. Don't like that, do you? You're turning green, Kosta." "Hardly," muttered Locke.

"This is important. What I'm trying to tell you about now is called trim. Weight needs to be distributed sensible in a boat or a ship. I move to starboard, we heel over on Kosta's side. I move to larboard, we heel over even worse on de Ferra's side. Can't have that. That's why stowing cargo proper is so important on a ship. Gotta have balance fore and aft, starboard and larboard. Can't have the bow in the air or the stern r i higher than the mast. Looks silly, then you sink and die. That's basically what I mean when I says "trim". Now, time to learn how to row." "We already know how to—"

"I don't care what you think you know, Kosta. Until further notice, we're gonna presume that you're too dumb to count to one."

Locke would later swear that they must have spent two or three hours rowing around in circles on that artificial bay, with Caldris crying out, "Hard a-larboard! Back water! Hard a-starboard!" and a dozen other commands, seemingly at random. The sailing master constantly shifted his weight, left and right, forward and centre, to force them to fight for stability. To make things even more interesting, there was an obvious difference between the power of Jean's strokes and the power of Locke's, and they had to concentrate to avoid constantly turning to starboard. They were at it so long that Locke started in surprise when Caldris finally called for a halt to their labour.

"Vast rowing, you fuckin" toddlers." Caldris stretched and yawned. The sun was approaching the centre of the sky. Locke's arms felt wrung-out, his tunic was soaked through with sweat and he fervently wished that he'd had less coffee and more actual food for breakfast. "Better than you was two hours ago, I'll give you that. That and not much else. You gotta know your starboard and larboard, fore and aft, boats and oars like you know the width of your own cocks. Ain't no such thing as a calm or convenient emergency out on the blue."

The sailing master produced lunch from a leather sack at the bow of the dinghy, and they floated relaxingly in the middle of the enclosed square bay while they ate. The men shared black bread and hard cheese, while the kitten was let out to make quick work of a pat of butter in a stone crock. The skin that Caldris passed around was full of" pinkwater", warm rainwater mixed with just enough cheap red wine to partly conceal its stale, leathery taste. Caldris took only a few sips, but the two thieves rapidly finished it off.

"So, our ship is waiting for us somewhere around here," said Locke when his thirst was temporarily beaten down, "but where are we going to get a crew?"

"A fine question, Kosta. I wish I knew the answer. The Archon said the matter is being attended to, that's all." "I suspected you" d say something like that."

"No sense in dwelling on what's beyond our power at the moment," said Caldris. The sailing master lifted the kitten, who was still licking her greasy nose and paws, and stuck her back into the basket with surprising tenderness. "So, you" ve done some rowing. I'll get those men up top to open the gate, take the rudder and we're gonna head out and see if we can catch enough breeze to hoist some canvas. You two have any money in the things you left ashore?" "Some," said Locke. "Maybe twenty volani. Why?" "Then I'll bet you twenty volani that you two are gonna capsize us at least once before the sun goes down." "I thought you were here to teach us how to do things the right way?" "I am. And I damn well will! It's just that I know first-time sailors too well. Make the bet and the money's as good as mine. Hell, I'll pay up a full solari against your twenty silvers if I'm wrong." "I'm in," said Locke. "Jerome?"

"We've got the kitten and a blood blessing on our side," said Jean. "Underestimate us at your peril, Sailing Master."

3

It had been refreshing, at first, to work for a while in completely soaked tunic and breeches. After thed'r righted the dinghy and rescued the kitten, of course.

But now the sun was lowering in the west, casting a golden halo around the dark outlines of the battlements and towers above the Sword Marina, and the gentle harbour breeze had begun to chill Locke despite the fingering heat of the summer air.

He and Jean were rowing the dinghy toward the open gate to their private bay; Caldris had been happy to earn his twenty volani, but not happy enough that he was willing to trust them with the sails again.

"Vast rowing," said Caldris as they finally drifted near the edge of the stone plaza. Caldris tended to the business of tying them up again, while Locke stowed his oar and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Every muscle in his back slid painfully against those surrounding it, as though — someone had thrown grit in between them. He had a headache from the glare of sun on water, and the old wound in his left shoulder was demanding attention above and beyond his other aches.

Locke and Jean clambered stiffly out of the boat and stretched while Caldris, clearly amused, uncovered the basket and plucked the bedraggled kitten out of it. "There, there," he said, allowing it to nestle within his crossed arms. "The young masters didn't mean anything by that soaking they gave you. They got it just as bad." "Mrrrrrrrrreeeeew," it said.

"I fancy that means "fuck you"," said Caldris, "but at least we've got our lives. So what do you think, sirs? An educational day?"

"I hope we've shown some aptitude, at least," groaned Locke, kneading a knot in the small of his back.

"Baby steps, Kosta. As far as sailors go, you haven't even learned to suck milk from a tit yet. But now you know starboard from larboard, and I'm twenty volani richer."

"Indeed," sighed Locke as he fetched his coat, vest, neck-cloths and shoes from the ground. He tossed a small leather purse to the sailing master, who dangled it in front of the kitten and cooed as though to a small child.

Locke happened to glance over at the gate while he was throwing his coat on over his damp tunic, and he saw Merrain's gig slip into the artificial bay. She was seated at the bow again, looking as though they had parted ten minutes rather than ten hours before.

"Your ride back to civilization, gents." Caldris raised Locke's coin-purse in a salute. "See you bright and early tomorrow. Only gets worse from here, so mind yourselves. Enjoy those nice beds while they're still available."

Merrain was completely unwilling to answer questions as the team of ten soldiers rowed them back to the docks beneath the Savrola, which suited Locke's mood. He and Jean commiserated over their aches and pains while lounging, as best the space allowed, in the rear gallery. "I could sleep for about three days, I think," said Locke.

"Let's order a big dinner when we get back, and some baths to take the knots out. After that, I'll race you to unconsciousness."

"Can't," Locke sighed. "Can't. I have to go and see Requin tonight. By now, he probably knows Stragos pulled us in again a few nights ago. I need to talk to him before he gets annoyed. And I need to give him the chairs. And I need to somehow tell him about all of this, and convince him not to strangle us with our own intestines if we leave for a few months."

"Gods," said Jean. "I" ve been trying not to think about that. You just barely convinced him that we've been assigned to the Sinspire to go after his vault; what can you say that will make this whole out-to-sea thing plausible?"

"I have no idea." Locke massaged the aching vicinity of his old shoulder wound. "Hopefully the chairs will put him in a forgiving mood. If not, you'll get the bill for cleaning my brains off his plaza stones."

When the rowers finally pulled the boat up alongside the Savrola docks, where a carriage was waiting with several guards, Merrain left the bow and made her way back to where Locke and Jean were sitting.

"Seventh hour of the morning tomorrow," she said, Til have a carriage at the Villa Candessa. We'll vary your movement for a few mornings for safety's sake. Stay at your inn this evening."

"Out of the question," said Locke. "I have business on the Golden Steps tonight." "Cancel it." "Go to hell. How do you propose to stop me?"

"You might be surprised." Merrain rubbed her temples as though she felt a headache coming on, then sighed. "You're sure you can't cancel it?"

"If I cancel my business tonight, you-know-who at the Sinspire is likely to cancel us," said Locke.

"If you're worried about Requin," she said, "I could simply arrange for quarters to be found in the Sword Marina. He" d never be able to reach you there; you" d be safe until your training was finished."

"Jerome and I have sunk two years in this bloody city into our plans for Requin," said Locke. "We intend to finish them. Tonight is critical."

"On your head be it, then. I can send a carriage with some of my men. Can it wait two hours?"

"If that's what it takes, fine." Locke smiled. "In fact, send two. One for me, one for cargo." "Don't push your—"

"Excuse me," said Locke, "but is the money coming out of your pocket? You want to protect me, surround me with your agents, fine — I accept. Just send two carriages. I'll be on my best behaviour." "So be it," she said. "Two hours. No sooner."

4

The western horizon had swallowed the sun and the two moons visible in the cloudless sky were soft red, like silver coins dipped in wine. The driver of the carriage rapped three times on the roof to announce their arrival at the Sinspire, and Locke moved the window curtain back over the corner he'd been peeking out of.

It had taken time for the pair of carriages to thread their way out of the Savrola, across the Great Gallery and through the bustling traffic of the Golden Steps. Locke had found himself alternately stifling yawns and cursing the bumpy ride. His companion, a slender swordswoman with a well-used rapier resting across her legs, had steadfastly ignored him from her position on the opposite seat.

Now, as the carriage jostled to a halt, she preceded him out through the door, tucking her weapon under a long blue coat that hung to her calves. After she'd scanned the warm night for trouble, she beckoned wordlessly for Locke to follow.

As per Locke's instructions, the carriage-driver had turned onto the cobbled drive that led to a courtyard behind the Sinspire. Here, a pair of converted stone houses held the tower's primary kitchens and food-storage areas. By the light of red and gold lanterns bobbing on unseen lines, Sinspire attendants were coming and going in squads — carrying forth elaborate meals and returning with empty platters. The smell of richly seasoned meat filled the air.

Locke's bodyguard continued to look around, as did the two soldiers atop the carriage, each dressed in nondescript coachman's uniforms. The second carriage, the one carrying Locke's suite of chairs, rattled to a halt behind the first. Its team of grey horses stamped their feet and snorted, as though the scent of the kitchens was not to their taste. A heavyset Sinspire attendant with thinning hair hurried over to Locke and bowed.

"Master Kosta," he said, "apologies, sir, but this is the service courtyard. We simply cannot receive you in the accustomed style here; the front doors are far more suited to—"

"I'm in the right place." Locke put one hand on the attendant's shoulder and slipped five silver volani into the man's vest pocket, letting the coins clink against one another as they slipped from his hand. "Find Selendri, as quickly as you can." "Find… uh… well—" "Selendri. She stands out in a crowd. Fetch her now." "Uh… yes, sir. Of course!"

Locke spent the next five minutes pacing in front of his carriage while the swordswoman tried to look casual and keep him within a few steps at the same time. Surely nobody would be foolish enough to try anything, he thought — not with five people at his beck and call, not here in the very heart of Requin's domain. Nonetheless, he was relieved to finally see Selendri step out through the service door, wearing a flame-coloured evening gown that made the brass of her artificial hand look molten where it reflected orange. "Kosta," she said. "To what do I owe the distraction?" "I need to see Requin." "Ah, but does Requin need to see^yow?"

"Very much," said Locke. "Please. I do need to see him in person. And I'm going to need some of your stronger attendants — I" ve brought gifts that need careful handling." "Gifts?"

Locke showed her to the second carriage and opened the door. She spared a quick glance at Locke's bodyguard, then stroked her brass hand with her flesh hand while she pondered the contents of the compartment.

"Are you entirely sure that such obvious bribery is the solution to your problems, Master Kosta?"

"It's not like that, Selendri. It's rather a long story. In fact, he'd be doing me a favour if he'd accept them. He has a tower to decorate. All I have is a rented suite and a storage room."

"Interesting." She closed the door to the second carriage, turned away and began walking back toward the tower. "I can't wait to hear this. You'll come up with me. Your attendants stay here, of course."

The swordswoman looked as diough she might utter a protest, so Locke shook his head firmly and pointed sternly at the first carriage. The glare she returned made him glad that she was bound by orders to protect him.

Once inside the Sinspire, Selendri gave whispered instructions to the heavyset attendant, then led Locke through the usual busy crowds, up to the service area on the third floor. Soon enough they were locked away inside the darkness of the climbing closet, slowly rising to the ninth floor. Locke was surprised to feel her actually turn toward him.

"Interesting bodyguard you" ve found for yourself, Master Kosta. I didn't know you rated an Eye of the Archon."

"Er, neither did 1.1 suspected, but I didn't know. What makes you so sure?" "Tattoo on the back of her left hand. A lidless eye in the centre of a rose. She's probably not used to going about in common clothes; she should have worn gloves."

"You must have sharp eyes. Eye. Sorry. You know what I mean. I saw it, but I didn't give it much thought."

"Most people aren't familiar with the sigil." She turned away from him once again. "I used to have one just like it on my own left hand." "I… well. That's… I had no idea."

"The things you don't know, Master Kosta. The things you simply do not know…" Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own strat peti for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time thed'r been this close. Did everyone in this damn city have a little game?

"Selendri," he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, "I have never desired anything more than to be a friend to you." "As you're a friend to Jerome de Ferra?"

"If you knew what he'd done to me, you" d understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt your secrets, I think I'll just keep a few of my own."

"Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be a great deal more final than your opinion of me."

Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and opened to the light of Requin's office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri led Locke across the floor; Requin's optics were tucked into the collar of his black tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment. "Kosta," he said. "This is timely. I need some explanation from you."

"And you're certainly going to get it," said Locke. Shit, he thought, / hope he hasn't found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is. "May I sit?" "Grab your own chair."

Locke selected one from against the wall and set it before Requin's desk. He surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down. Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then stared at Locke. "You" ve had some sun," he said. "Today," said Locke. "Jerome and I were sailing in the harbour." "Pleasant exercise?" "Not particularly."

"A pity. But it seems you were on the harbour several nights ago. You were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited so long to bring the events of that visit to my attention?"

"Ah." Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn't know there was any relevant link between Jean, himself and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin wasn't all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. "I presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us here for a conversation."

"You should make a little list, Kosta, titled People it's Safe for Me to Antagonize. My name will not appear on it."

"Sorry. It wasn't exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that does have something to do with Stragos's plans."

At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.

"Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta's chairs brought up from the courtyard."

"Bring them in," said Requin. "Selendri mentioned these. What's this, then?"

"I know it's going to look more crass than it really is," said Locke, "but you" d be doing me a favour, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands." "Take them off your… oh my."

A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke's chairs before him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.

"Talathri Baroque," he said. "Surely, it's Talathri Baroque… you there — put those in the centre of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed."

Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin's floor and then retreated back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over its lacquered surface.

"Reproduction…" he said slowly. "Beyond any doubt… but absolutely beautiful." He returned his attention to Locke. "I wasn't aware that you were familiar with the styles I collect." "I'm not," said Locke. "Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before! now. A few months ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was… strained, so I agreed to accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They" ve been in storage ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the things you keep up here in your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I'm glad they suit. Like I said, you're the one doing me a favour if you take them."

"Astonishing," said Requin. "I" ve always thought about having a suite of furniture crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with."

"They" re wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair as far as I'm concerned. Just be careful with them. For some reason, they're shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to sit in, but don't abuse them."

"This is… most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you." Requin returned, with obvious reluctance, to the chair behind his desk. "This doesn't slip you out of your need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation." The smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.

"Of course not. But concerning that… look, Stragos has a jar of fire-oil up his arse about something. He's sending Jerome and me away for a bit, on business."

"Away?" The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered in a flat, dangerous whisper. Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.

"To sea," said Locke. "To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand." "Strange. I don't recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal."

"It relates to that." But how? "We're… after something." Shit. Not nearly good enough. "Someorae, actually. Have you ever… ah, ever—" "Ever what}" "Ever heard of… a man named… Calo… Callas?" "No. Why?"

"He's, ah… well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you" d have heard about him. I don't know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall tale. You're sure you don't recall hearing the name before?" "Certain. Selendri?" "The name means nothing," she said.

"Who is he supposed to be, then?" Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.

"He's…" What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we're here to break the vault? Oh… Crooked Warden, of course! "… a lockbreaker. Stragos's spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he's the best, or he was, back in his day. An artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault." "What's a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?"

"Hiding, I imagine." Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. "Stragos says that the artificers have tried to kill him several times. He's their antithesis. If he's real, he's the gods-damned anti-artificer."

"Strange that I" ve never heard of him," said Requin, "or been asked to find and remove him."

"If you were the artificers," said Locke, "would you want to spread knowledge of his capabilities to someone in a position to make the best possible use of them?" "Hmmm."

"Hell." Locke scratched his chin and feigned distracted consideration. "Maybe someone did ask you to find him and remove him. Just not by that name, and not with that description of his skills, you know?" "But why, of all the Archon's agents, would you and Jerome—" "Who else is guaranteed to come back or die trying?" "The alleged poison. Ah."

"We have two months, maybe less." Locke sighed. "Stragos warned " us not to dally. We're not back by then, we get to find out how skilled his personal alchemist is." "The service of the Archon seems a complicated fife, Leocanto."

"Fucking tell me about it. I liked him much better when he was just our unknown paymaster." Locke rolled his shoulders and felt some of his sore back muscles protest. "We leave inside the month. That's what the day-sailing is about. We'll slip in with the crew of an independent trader once we've had some training, so we don't stand out as the land-huggers we are. No more late nights gaming for us until we get back." "You expect to succeed?" "No, but one way or another, I'm damn well coming back. Maybe Jerome can even have an "accident" on the voyage. Anyhow, we'll be storing our wardrobes at the Villa Candessa. And we'll be leaving every centira we currently have on your ledgers right where they are. My money and Jerome's. Hostage against my return, as it were."

"And if you do return," said Selendri, "you might bring back a man who can genuinely aid the Archon's design."

"if he's there," said Locke, "I'll be bringing him straight back here first. I expect you'll want to have a frank discussion with him about the health benefits of accepting a counter-offer." "Assuredly," said Requin.

"This Callas," said Locke, letting excitement rise in his voice, "he could be our key to getting Stragos over the coals. He could be an even better turncoat than I am."

"Why, Master Kosta," said Selendri, "I doubt that anyone could be a more enthusiastic turncoat than you."

"You know damn well what I'm enthusiastic about," said Locke. "But that's that. Stragos hasn't told us anything else so far. I just wanted to get rid of those damn chairs and let you know we" d be leaving for a while. I assure you, I'll be back. If it's in my power at all, I'll be back." "Such assurances," mused Requin. "Such earnest assurances."

"If I wanted to cut and run," said Locke, "I would have done it already. Why come and tell you all this first?"

"Obvious," said Requin, smiling gently. "If this is a ploy, it could buy you a two-month head start during which I wouldn't think to go looking for you."

"Ah. An excellent point," said Locke. "Except that I'd expect to start dying horribly around then, head start or no." "So you claim."

"Look. I'm deceiving the Archon of Tal Verrar on your behalf. I'm deceiving Jerome gods-damned de Ferra. I need allies if I'm going to get out of this shit; I don't care if you two trust me, I have to trust you. I am showing you my hand. No bluff. Now, again, you tell me how we proceed."

Requin casually riffled the edges of the parchment pile on his desk, then matched gazes with Locke. "I expect to hear the Archon's further plans for you immediately. No delays. Make me wonder where you are again and I'll have you fetched. With finality." "Understood." Locke made a show of swallowing and wringing his hands together. "I'm sure we'll be seeing him again before we leave. I'll be here the night after any meeting, no later."

"Good." Requin pointed in the direction of the climbing closet. "Leave. Find this Calo Callas, if he exists, and bring him to me. But I don't want dear Jerome slipping over a rail while you're out at sea. Understand? Until Stragos is in hand, that privilege is mine to deny." "I—"

"No "accidents" for Master de Ferra. You satisfy that grudge on my sufferance. That's the bargain." "If you put it that way, understood, of course."

"Stragos has his promised antidote." Requin took up a quill and returned his attention to his parchments. "I want my own assurance of your enthusiastic return to my fair city. You want to slaughter your calf, you tend him for a few months first. Tend him very well? "Of… of course." "Selendri will show you out."

5

"Honestly, it could have gone much worse," said Jean as he and Locke pulled at their oars the next morning. They were out in the main harbour, clipping over the gentle swells near the Merchants" Crescent. The sun had not yet reached its noon height, but the day was already hotter than its predecessor. The two thieves were sweat-drenched.

"Sudden miserable death would indeed have been much worse," said Locke. He stifled a groan; today, the exercise was troubling not only his back and shoulder but the old wounds that covered a substantial portion of his left arm. "But I think that's the last dregs of Requin's patience. Any more strangeness or complication… well, hopefully, this is as odd as Stragos's plans are going to get." "Can't move the boat by flapping your mouths," yelled Caldris.

"Unless you want to chain us to these oars and beat a drum," said Locke, "we converse as we please. And unless you wish us to drop dead, you should consider an early lunch."

"Oh dear! Does the splendid young gentleman not find the working life agreeable?" Caldris was sitting in the bow with his legs stretched out toward the mast. On his stomach, the kitten was curled into a dark ball of sleeping contentment. "The first mate here wants me to remind you that where we're going, the sea don't wait on your pleasure. You might be up twenty hours straight. You might be up forty. You might be on deck. You might be working a pump. Time comes to do what's necessary, you'll fucking well do it, and you'll do it until you drop. So we're gonna row, every day, until your expectations are right where they should be. And today we're gonna take a late lunch, not an early one. Hard a-larboard!"

6

"Excellent work, Master Kosta. Fascinating and bloody unorthodox. By your reckoning, we're somewhere near the latitudes of the Kingdom of the Seven Marrows. A touch on the warm side for Vintila, don't you think?"

Locke slipped the backstaff, a four-foot pole with an awkward arrangement of vanes and calipers on the forward end, off his shoulder and sighed. "Can you not see the sun-shadow on your horizon vane?" "Yes, but—"

"I admit, the device ain't exactly as precise as an arrow-shot, but even a land-sucker should be able to do better than that. Do it again, just like I showed you. Horizon and sun-shadow. And be grateful you're using a Verrari quadrant; the old cross-staffs made you look right at the sun instead of away from it."

"Beg pardon," said Jean, "but I'd always heard this device referred to as a Camorri quadrant—"

"Bullshit," said Caldris. "This here's a Verrari quadrant. Verrari invented it, twenty years back."

"That claim," said Locke, "must take some of the sting out of getting the shit walloped out of you in the Thousand-Day War, eh?"

"You sweet on Camorri, Kosta?" Caldris put a hand on the backstaff. Locke realized with a start that his anger wasn't bantering. "I thought you was Talishani. You got a reason to fuckin" speak up for Camorr?" "No, I was just—" "Just what, now?"

"Forgive me." Locke realized his mistake. "I didn't think. It's not just history to you, is it?"

"All thousand days and then some," said Caldris. "I was there all the fuckin" way." "My apologies. I suppose you lost friends." i…„!.

"You damn well suppose right." Caldris snorted. "Lost a ship from under me. Lucky not to be devilfish food. Bad times." He removed his hand from Locke's backstaff and composed himself. "I know you didn't mean anything, Kosta. I'm… sorry, too. Those of us who bled in that fight didn't exactly think we was losing it when the Priori gave in. Partly why we had such hopes for the first Archon." "Leocanto and I have no reason to love Camorr," said Jean.

"Good." Caldris clapped Locke on the back and seemed to relax. "Good. Keep it that way, eh? Now! We're lost at sea, Master Kosta! Find our latitude!"

It was the fourth day of their training with the Verrari sailing master; after their customary morning of torture at the oars, Caldris had led them out to the seaward side of the Silver Marina. Perhaps five hundred yards out from the glass island, still well within the sweep of calmed sea provided by the city's encircling reefs, there was a flat-topped stone platform in forty or fifty feet of translucent blue-green water. Caldris had called it the Lubbers" Castle; it was a training platform for would-be Verrari naval and merchant sailors.

Their dinghy was lashed to the side of the platform, which was perhaps thirty feet on a side. Spread across the stones at their feet were an array of navigational devices: backstaffs, cross-staffs, hourglasses, charts and compasses, a Determiner's Box and a set of unfathomable peg-boards that Caldris claimed were used for tracking course changes. The kitten was sleeping on an astrolabe, covering up the symbols etched into its brass surface.

"Friend Jerome was tolerably good at this," said Caldris. "But he's not to be the captain; you are."

"And I thought you were to handle all the important tasks, on pain of gruesome death, as you" ve only mentioned tenscore times."

"I am. You're mad if you think that's changed. But I need you to understand just enough not to gawk with your thumb up your arse when I say this or do that. Just know which end to hold, and be able to read a latitude that doesn't put us off by half the fucking world." "Sun-shadow and horizon," muttered Locke.

"Indeed. Later on tonight, we'll use the old-style staff for the only thing it's still good for — taking your reading from the stars." "But it's just past noon!"

"Right," said Caldris. "We're in for a good long haul today. There's books and charts and maths to do, and more sailing and rowing, then f more books and charts. Late to bed, you'll be. Better get comfortable with this here Lubbers" Castle." Caldris spat on the stones. "Now fetch that fucking latitude!"

7

"What's it mean if we broach?" said Jean.

It was late in the evening of their ninth day with Caldris, and Jean was soaking in a huge brass tub. Despite the warmth of their enclosed chambers at the Villa Candessa, he'd demanded hot water, and it was still sending up wisps of curling steam after three-quarters of an hour. On a little table beside the tub was an open bottle of Austershalin brandy (the 554, the cheapest readily available) and both of the Wicked Sisters.

The shutters and curtains of the suite's windows were all drawn tight, the door was bolted and Locke had wedged a chair up beneath its handle. That might provide a few seconds" additional warning if someone tried to enter by force. Locke lay on his bed, letting two glasses of brandy loosen the knots in his muscles. His knives were set out on the nightstand, not three feet from his hands. "Ah, gods," he said. "I know this. It's… something… bad?"

"To meet strong winds and seas abeam," said Jean, "taking them on the side, rather than cutting through them with the bow." "And that's bad."

"Powerful bad." Jean was paging through a tattered copy of Indrovo Lencallis's Wise Mariner's Practical Lexicon, With Numerous Enlightening Examples from Honest History. "Come on, you're the captain of the ship. I'm just your skull-cracker."

"I know. Give me another." Locke's own copy of the book was currently resting underneath his knives and his glass of brandy.

"Hmmm."Jean flipped pages. "Caldris says to put us on a beam reach. What the hell's he talking about?"

"Wind coming in perpendicular to the keel," muttered Locke. "Hitting us straight on the side." "And now he wants a broad reach."

"Right." Locke paused to sip his brandy. "Wind neither blowing right up our arse nor straight on the side. Coming from one of the rear quarters, at forty-five degrees or so to the keel."

"Good enough."Jean flipped pages again. "Box the compass. What's the sixth point?" "Hard east. Gods, this is just like dinner with Chains back home." "Right on both counts. South a point." "Um, east by south." "Right. South another point." "South-east-east?" "And another point."

"Ah, gods." Locke downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp. "Southeast by go-fuck-yourself. That's enough for tonight." "But—"

"I am the captain of the bloody ship," said Locke, rolling over onto his stomach. "My orders are to drink your brandy and go to bed." He reached out, pulled a pillow completely over his head and was fast asleep in moments. Even in his dreams he was tying knots, bracing sails and finding latitudes.

8

"I was not aware," said Locke the next morning, "that I had joined your navy. I thought the whole idea was to run away from it." "A means to an end, Master Kosta."

The Archon had been waiting for them in their private bay within the Sword Marina. One of his personal boats (Locke remembered it from the glass caverns beneath the Mon Magisteria) was tied up behind their dinghy. Merrain and half a dozen Eyes had been in attendance. Now Merrain was helping Locke try on the uniform of a Verrari naval officer.

The tunic and breeches were the same dark blue as the doublets of the Eyes. The coat, however, was brownish-red, with stiff black leather sewn along the forearms in approximation of bracers. The single neckcloth was dark blue, and gleaming brass devices in the shape of roses over crossed swords were pinned to his upper arms just below the shoulders.

"I don't have many fair-haired officers in my service," said Stragos, "but the uniform is a good fit. I'll have two more made by the end of the week." Stragos reached out and adjusted some of Locke's details — tightening his neck-cloth, shifting the hang of the empty scabbard at his belt. "After that, you'll wear it for a few hours each day. Get used to it. One of my Eyes will instruct you in how to carry yourself, and the courtesies and salutes we use." "I still don't understand why—"

"I know." Stragos turned to Caldris, who, in his master's presence, has lost his customary vulgar impishness. "How are they doing in their training, Sailing Master?"

"The Protector is already well aware," said Caldris slowly, "of my general opinion concerning this here mission." "That's not what I asked."

"They are… less hopeless than they were, Protector. Somewhat less hopeless."

"That will do, then. You still have nearly three weeks to mould them. I daresay they already look better acquainted with hard work under the sun." "Where's our ship, Stragos?" asked Locke. "Waiting." "And where's our crew?" "In hand." "And why the hell am I wearing this uniform?"

"Because it pleases me to make you a captain in my navy. That's what's meant by the twin roses-over-swords. You'll be a captain for one night only. Learn to look comfortable in the uniform. Then learn to be patient waiting for your orders."

Locke scowled, then placed his right hand on his scabbard and crossed his left arm, with a clenched fist, across his chest. He bowed from the waist at the precise angle he'd seen Stragos's Eyes use on several occasions. "Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar."

"Very good," said Stragos. "But you're an officer, not a common soldier or sailor. You bow at a shallower angle."

He turned and walked toward his boat. The Eyes formed ranks and marched after him, and Merrain began pulling the uniform hurriedly off Locke.

"I return you gentlemen to Caldris's care," said the Archon as he stepped down into the boat. "Use your days well."

"And just when in the name of the gods do we get to learn how this all fits together?" "All in good time, Kosta."

9

Two mornings later, when the gates swung wide to admit Merrain's boat to the private bay in the Sword Marina, Locke and Jean were surprised to discover that their dinghy had been joined during the night by an actual ship.

A soft, warm rain was falling, not a proper squall from the Sea of Brass but an annoyance blowing in from the mainland. Caldris waited on the stone plaza in a light oilcloak, with rivulets of water streaming from his unprotected hair and beard. He grinned when the boat delivered Locke and Jean, lightly clad and bootless.

"Look you both," Caldris yelled. "Here she is in person. The ship we're damn likely to die on!" He clapped Locke on the back and laughed. "She's styled the Red Messenger."

"Is she now?" The vessel was quiet and still, sails furled, lamps unlit. There was something unfathomably melancholy about a ship in such a condition, Locke thought. "One of the Archon's, I presume?"

"No. It seems the gods have favoured the Protector with a chance to be bloody economical with this mission. You know what stiletto wasps are?" "Only too well"

"Some idiot tried to put into port with a hive in his hold, not too long ago. Gods know what he was planning with it. That got him executed, and the ship was ruled droits of the Archonate. That nest of little monsters got burned."

"Oh," said Locke, sniggering. "I'm very sure it was. Thorough and incorruptible, the fine customs officers of Tal Verrar."

"Archon had it careened," continued Caldris. "Needed new sails, some shoring-up, fresh lines, bit of caulking. All the insides got smoked with brimstone, and she's been renamed and rechristened. Still plenty cheap, compared to offering up one of his own." "How old is she?"

"Twenty years, near as I can tell. Hard years, likely, but she'll hold for a few more. Assuming we bring her back. Now show me what you" ve learned. What do you think she is?"

Locke studied the vessel, which had two masts, a very slightly raised stern deck and a single boat stored upside-down at its waist. "Is she a caulotteV "No," said Caldris, "she's more properly a vestrel, what you" d also call a brig, a very wee one. I can see why you" d say caulotte. But let me tell you why you're off on the particulars…"

Caldris launched into a number of highly technical explanations, pointing out things about leeward main braces and cross-jacks, which Locke only half-understood in the manner of a visitor to a foreign city listening to eager directions from a fast native talker.

"… She's eighty-eight feet stem to stern, not counting the bowsprit, of course," finished Caldris.

"I hadn't truly realized before now," said Locke. "Gods, I'm actually to command this ship."

"Ha! No. You are to feign command of this ship. Don't get blurry-eyed on me, now. All you do is tell the crew what my proper orders are. Now hurry aboard."

Caldris led them up a ramp and onto the deck of the Red Messenger, and while Locke gazed around, absorbing every visible detail, a gnawing unease was growing in his stomach. He" d taken all the minutiae of shipboard life for granted on his single previous (and bed-ridden) voyage, but now every knot and ring-bolt, every block and tackle, every shroud and line and pin and mechanism might hold the key to saving his life… or foiling his impersonation utterly.

"Damn," he muttered to Jean. "Maybe ten years ago I might have been dumb enough to think this was going to be easy."

"It's not getting any easier," said Jean, squeezing Locke on his uninjured shoulder. "But we're not yet out of time to learn."

They paced the full length of the ship in the warm drizzle, with Caldris alternately pointing things out and demanding answers to difficult questions. They finished their tour at the Red Messenger's waist, and Caldris leaned back against the ship's boat to rest.

"Well," he said, "you do learn fast, for lubbers. I can give you that much. Notwithstanding, I" ve taken shits with more sea-wisdom than the pair of you combined."

"Come ashore and let us try to teach you our profession sometime, goat-face."

"Ha! Master de Ferra, you'll fit in just fine in that wise. Maybe you'll never truly know shit from staysails, but you" ve got the manner of a grand first mate. Now, up the ropes. We're visiting the maintop this morning while this fine weather holds." "The maintop?" Locke stared up the mainmast, dwindling into the greyness above, and squinted as rain fell directly into his face. "It's bloody raining!"

"It has been known to rain at sea. Ain't nobody passed you the word?" Caldris stepped over to the starboard main shrouds; they passed down just the opposite side of the deck railing and were secured by deadeyes to the outer hull itself. Grunting, the sailing master hoisted himself up onto the rail and beckoned for Locke and Jean to follow. "The poor bastards on your crew will be up there in all weather. I'm not taking you out to sea as virgins to the ropes, so get your arses up after me!"

They followed Caldris up into the rain, carefully stepping into the ratlines that crossed the shrouds to provide footholds. Locke had to admit that nearly two weeks of steady hard exercise had given him more wind for a task like this, and begun to mitigate the pain of his old wounds. Still, the strange and faintly yielding sensation of the rope ladder was like nothing familiar to him, and he was only too happy when a dark yardarm loomed out of the drizzle just above them. A few moments later, he scampered up to join Jean and Caldris on a circular platform that was blessedly firm.

"We're two-thirds up, maybe," said Caldris. "This yard carries the main course." Locke knew by now that he was referring to the ship's primary square sail, not a navigational plan. "Further up, you got your topsails and t" gallants. But this is fine enough for now. Gods, you think you got it bad today, can you imagine climbing up here with the ship bucking side to side like a bull making babies? Ha!"

"Can't be as bad," Jean whispered to Locke, "as some fucking idiot toppling off and landing on one of us." "Will I be expected," said Locke, "to come up here frequently?" "You got unusually sharp eyes?" "I don't think so."

"Hell with it, then. Nobody'll expect it. Captain's place is on deck. You want to see things from a distance, use a glass. You'll have top-eyes hugging the mast further up to do your spotting."

They took in the view for a few more minutes, and then thunder rumbled in the near distance and the rain stiffened.

"Down we go, I think." Caldris rose and prepared to slide over the side. "There's tempting the gods, and then there's tempting the gods."

Locke and Jean reached the deck again with no trouble, but when Caldris jumped down from the shrouds he was breathing raggedly. He groaned and massaged his upper left arm. "Damn. I'm too old for the tops. Thank the gods the master's place is on the decks, too." Thunder punctuated his words. "Come on, then. We'll use the main cabin. No sailing today; just books and charts. I know how much you love those."

10

By the end of their third week with Caldris, Locke and Jean had begun to nurture guarded hopes that their brush with the two dockside assassins would not be repeated. Merrain continued to escort them each morning, but they were given some freedom at night provided they went armed and ventured no farther than the interior waterfront of the Arsenate District. The taverns there were thick with the Archon's soldiers and sailors, and it would be a difficult place for someone to lurk unnoticed in ambush.

At the tenth hour of the evening on Duke's Day (which of course, Jean corrected himself, the Verrari called Councils" Day), Jean found Locke staring down a bottle of fortified wine at a back table in the Sign of the Thousand Days. The place was spacious and cheerfully lit, noisy with the bustle of healthy business. It was a naval bar — all the best tables, under hanging reproductions of old Verrari battle pennants, were filled with officers whose social status was clear whether or not they were wearing their colours. Common sailors drank and gamed at the penumbra of tables surrounding them, and the few outsiders congregated at the little tables around Locke.

"I thought I might find you here," said Jean, taking the seat across from Locke. "What do you think you're doing?"

Tm working. Isn't it obvious?" Locke seized the wine bottle by its neck and gestured toward Jean. "This is my hammer." He then rapped his knuckles against the wooden tabletop. "And this is my anvil. I am beating my brains into a more pleasant shape." "What's the occasion?"

"I just wanted half a night to be something other than the captain of a phantom fucking sailing expedition." He spoke in a controlled whisper, and it was plain to Jean that he was not yet drunk, but more possessed of an earnest desire to be so. "My head is full of little ships, all going round and round gleefully making up new names for the things on their decks!" He paused to take a sip, then offered the bottle to Jean, who shook his head. "I suppose you" ve been diligently studying your Lexicon."

"Partly." Jean turned himself and his chair a bit toward the wall, to allow him to keep an unobtrusive eye on most of the tavern. "I" ve also penned some polite little lies to Durenna and Corvaleur; they" ve been sending notes to the Villa Candessa, asking when we'll come back to the gaming tables so they can have another go at butchering us."

"I do so hate to disappoint the ladies," said Locke, "but tonight I'm on leave from everything. No "Spire, no Archon, no Durenna, no Lexicon, no navigational tables. Just simple arithmetic. Drink plus drinker equals drunk. Join me. Just for an hour or two. You know you could use it."

"I do. But Caldris grows more demanding with every passing day; I fear we'll need clear heads on the morrow more than we'll need clouded ones tonight."

"Caldris's lessons aren't clearing our heads. Quite the opposite. We're taking five years of teaching in a month. It's all jumbling up inside me. You know, before I stepped in here tonight I bought half a peppered melon. The stall-woman asked which of her melons I wished cut, the one on the left or the right. I replied, "The larboard!" My own throat has turned traitorously nautical on me."

"It is something like a madman's private language, isn't it?" Jean slipped his optics out of his coat pocket and onto the end of his nose so he could examine the faint etching on Locke's wine bottle. An indifferent Anscalani vintage, a blunt instrument among wines. "So intricate in its convolutions. Say you have a rope lying on the deck. On Penance Day it's just a rope lying on the deck; after the third hour of the afternoon on Idler's Day it's a half-stroke babble-gibbet, and then at midnight on Throne's Day it becomes a rope again, unless it's raining."

"Unless it's raining, yes, in which case you take your clothes off and dance naked round the mizzenmast. Gods, yes. I swear, Je… Jerome, the next person who tells me something like, "Squiggle-fuck the right-wise cock-swatter with a starboard jib," is going to get a knife in the throat. Even if it's Caldris. No more nautical terms tonight." "You seem to be three sheets to the wind."

"Oh, that's your death warrant signed, then, four-eyes." Locke peered down into the depths of his bottle, like a hawk eyeing a mouse in a field far below. "There's altogether too much of this stuff not yet in me. Get a glass and join in. I want to be a barking public embarrassment as soon as possible."

There was a commotion at the door, followed by a general stilling of conversation and a rise in murmuring that Jean recognized from long experience as very, very dangerous. He looked up warily and saw that a party of half a dozen men had just set foot inside the tavern. Two of them wore the partial uniforms of constables, under cloaks, without their usual armour or weapons. Their companions were dressed in plain clothing, but their bulk and manner told Jean that they were all prime examples of that creature commonly known as the city watchman.

One of them, either fearless or possessed of the sensibilities of a dull stone, stepped up to the bar and called for service. His companions, wiser and therefore more nervous, began to whisper back and forth. Every eye in the tavern was upon them.

There was a scraping sound as a tough-looking woman at one of the officers" tables pushed her chair back and slowly stood up. Within seconds, all of her companions, uniformed or otherwise, were standing beside her. The motion spread across the bar in a wave, first the other officers and then the common sailors, once they saw that the weight of numbers would be eight-to-one in their favour. Soon enough, four dozen men and women were on their feet, saying nothing, simply staring at the six men by the door. The tiny knot of folk around Locke and Jean stayed planted in their seats; at the very least, if they remained where they were, they would be far out of the main line of trouble.

"Sirs," said the oldest barkeeper on duty as his two younger associates reached surreptitiously beneath the counter for what had to be weapons. "You" ve come a long way now, haven't you?"

"What do you mean?" If the constable at the bar wasn't feigning puzzlement, thought Jean, he was dimmer than a snuffed candle. "Came from the Golden Steps, is all. Fresh off duty. Got a thirst and a fair bit of coin to fill it."

"Perhaps," said the barkeep, "another tavern would be more to your taste this evening."

"What?" The man seemed at last to become aware of the fact that he was the focal point of a waiting mob's attention. As always, thought Jean, there were two sorts in a city watch — the ones that had eyes for trouble in the backs of their heads, and the ones that used their skulls to store sawdust. "I said—" the barkeep began, clearly losing patience.

"Hold," said the constable. He put both hands up toward the patrons of the tavern. "I see what's what. I already had a few tonight. You got to forgive me, I don't mean nothing. Aren't we all Verrari here? We just want a drink, is all."

"Lots of places have drinks," said the barkeep. "Lots of more suitable places." "We don't want no trouble for anyone."

"Wouldn't be any trouble for us? said a burly man in naval tunic and breeches. His table-mates shared an evil chuckle. "Find the fucking door." "Council dogs," muttered another officer. "Oathless gold-sniffers."

"Hold on," said the constable, shaking off the grasp of a friend who was trying to pull him to the door. "Hold on, I said we didn't mean nothing. Dammit, I meant it! Peace. We'll be on our way. Have a round on me, all of you. Everyone!" He shook out his purse with trembling hands. Copper and silver coins rattled onto the wooden bar. "Barkeep, a round of good Verrari dark for anyone who wants it, and keep what's left."

The barkeeper flicked his gaze from the unfortunate constable to the burly naval officer who'd spoken earlier. Jean guessed the man was one of the senior officers present, and the barkeep was looking to him for a judgment.

"Grovelling suits you," the officer said with a crooked grin. "We won't touch a drink with you, but we'll be happy to spend your money once you're out that door for good."

"Of course. Peace, friends, we didn't mean nothing." The man looked as though he might babble on, but two of his comrades grabbed him by the arms and dragged him back through the door. There was a general outburst of laughter and applause when the last of the constables had vanished into the night.

"Now that's how the navy adds money to its budget," yelled the burly officer. His table-mates laughed, and he grabbed his glass and held it up toward the rest of the tavern. "The Archon! Confusion to his enemies at home and abroad."

"The Archon," chorused the other officers and sailors. Soon enough, they were all settling down into good humour once again, and the eldest barkeep was counting the constable's money while his assistants set out rows of wooden cups beside a tapped cask of dark ale. Jean frowned, calculating in his head. Drinks for roughly fifty people, even plain dark ale, would set the constable back at least a quarter of his monthly pay. He" d known many men who'd have chanced a chase and a beating before parting with that much hard-earned coin.

"Poor drunk idiot," he sighed, glancing at Locke. "Still want to make yourself a barking public embarrassment? Seems they" ve already got one in these parts." "Maybe I'll just hold fast after this bottle," said Locke. "Hold fast is a nautical—" "I know," said Locke. "I'll kill myself later."

The two younger barkeeps circulated with large trays, passing out wooden cups of dark ale, first to the officers, who were mostly indifferent, and then to the ordinary sailors, who received them with enthusiasm. As an afterthought, one of them eventually made his way to the corner where Locke and Jean and the other civilians sat.

"Sip of the dark stuff, sirs?" He set cups down before Locke and Jean and, with dexterity approaching that of a juggler, dashed salt into them from a little glass shaker. "Courtesy of the man with more gold than brains." Jean slid a copper onto his tray to be sociable, and the man nodded his appreciation before moving on to the next table. "Sip of the dark stuff, madam?"

"Clearly, we need to come here more often," said Locke, though neither he nor Jean touched their windfall ale. Locke, it seemed, was content to drink his wine, and Jean, consumed by thoughts of what Caldris might challenge them with the next day, felt no urge to drink at all. They passed a few minutes in quiet conversation, until Locke finally stared down at his cup of ale and sighed.

"Salted dark ale just isn't the thing to follow punched-up wine," he mused aloud. A moment later, Jean saw the woman seated behind him turn and tap him on the shoulder.

"Did I hear you right, sir?" She looked to be a few years younger than Locke and Jean, vaguely pretty, with bright scarlet forearm tattoos and a deep suntan that marked her as a dockworker of some sort. "Salted dark not to your taste? I don't mean to be bold, but I" ve just run dry over here—"

"Oh. Oh!" Locke turned, smiling, and passed his cup of ale to her over his shoulder. "By all means, help yourself. My compliments."

"Mine as well," said Jean, passing it over. "It deserves to be appreciated." "It will be. Thank you kindly, sirs." Locke and Jean settled back into their conference of whispers.

"A week," said Locke. "Maybe two, and then Stragos wants us gone. No more theoretical madness. We'll be living it, out there on the gods-damned ocean."

"All the more reason I'm glad you" ve decided not to get too bent around the bottle this evening."

"A little self-pity goes a long way these days," said Locke. "And brings back memories of a time I'd rather forget."

"There's no need for you to keep apologizing for… that. Not to yourself and certainly not to me."

"Really?" Locke ran one finger up and down the side of the half-empty bottle. "Seems I can see a different story in your eyes whenever I make the acquaintance of more than a glass or two. Outside a Carousel Hazard table, of course." "Now, hold on—"

"It wasn't meant as an unkindness," Locke said hurriedly. "It's just the truth, is all. And I can't say you're wrong to feel that way. You… what is it?"

Jean had looked up, distracted by a wheezing sound that was rising behind Locke. The dockworker had half-risen out of her chair and was clutching at her throat, fighting for breath. Jean immediately stood up, stepped around Locke and took her by the shoulders.

"Easy, madam, easy. A little too much salt in the ale, eh?" He spun her around and gave her several firm slaps on the back with the heel of his right hand. To his alarm, she continued choking — in fact, she was sucking in absolutely nothing now with each futile attempt at a breath. She turned and clutched at him with desperate strength; her eyes were wide with terror and the redness of her face had nothing to do with her suntan.

Jean glanced down at the three empty ale-cups on the table before her and a sudden realization settled in his gut like a cold weight. He grabbed Locke with his left hand and all but heaved him out of his chair.

"Back against the wall," he hissed. "Guard yourself!" Then he raised his voice and shouted across the tavern: "Help! This woman needs help!"

There was a general tumult; officers and sailors alike came to their feet, straining to see what was happening. Elbowing through the mass of patrons and suddenly empty chairs came an older woman in a black coat, with her stormcloud-coloured hair drawn into a long, tight tail with silver rings. "Move! I'm a ship's leech!"

She seized the dockworker from Jean's arms and gave her three sharp blows against her back, using the bottom edge of her clenched fist.

"Already tried," cried Jean. The choking woman was flailing against him and the leech alike, shoving at them as though they were the cause of her troubles. Her cheeks were wine-purple. The leech managed to snake a hand around the dockworker's neck and clutch at her windpipe.

"Dear gods," the woman said, "her throat's swelled up hard as a stone. Hold her to the table. Hold her down with all your strength!"

Jean shoved the dockworker down on her tabletop, scattering the empty ale-cups. A crowd was forming around them; Locke was looking at it uneasily, with his back to the wall as Jean had insisted. Looking frantically around, Jean could see the older barkeeper, and one of his assistants… but one was missing. Where the hell was the one who'd served them those cups of ale? "Knife," the leech shouted at the crowd. "Sharp knife! Now!"

Locke conjured a stiletto out of his left sleeve and passed it over. The leech glanced at it and nodded — one edge was visibly dull, but the other, as Jean knew, was like a scalpel. The leech held it in a fencer's grip and used her other hand to force the dock-worker's head back sharply.

"Press her down with everything you" ve got," she said to Jean. Even with the full advantage of leverage and mass, Jean was hard-put to keep the thrashing young woman's upper arms still. The leech leaned sharply against one of her legs, and a quick-witted sailor stepped up behind her to grab the other. "A thrash will kill her."

As Jean watched in horrified fascination, the leech pressed the stiletto down on the woman's throat. Her corded neck muscles stood out like those of a stone statue and her windpipe looked as prominent as a tree-trunk. With gentleness that Jean found awe-inspiring, given the situation, the leech cut a delicate slice across the windpipe just above the point where it vanished beneath the woman's collarbones. Bright-red blood bubbled from the cut, then ran in wide streams down the sides of the woman's neck. Her eyes were rolling back in her head, and her struggles had become alarmingly faint. "Parchment," the leech shouted, "find me parchment!"

To the barkeeper's consternation, several sailors immediately began ransacking the bar, looking for anything resembling parchment. f Another officer shoved her way through the crowd, plucking a letter from within her coat. The leech snatched it, rolled it into a tight, thin tube and then shoved it through the slit in the dockworker's throat, past the bubbling blood. Jean was only partially aware that his jaw was hanging open.

The leech then began pounding on the dockworker's chest, muttering a series of ear-scalding oaths. But the dockworker was limp; her face was a ghastly shade of plum, and the only movement visible was that of the blood streaming out around the parchment tube. The leech ceased her struggles after a few moments and sat down against the edge of Locke and Jean's tables, gasping. She wiped her bloody hands against the front of her coat.

"Useless," she said to the utterly silent crowd. "Her warm humours are totally stifled. I can do nothing else."

"Why, you" ve killed her," shouted the eldest barkeeper. "You cut her fucking throat right where we could all see it!"

"Her jaw and throat are clenched tight as iron," said the leech, rising in anger. "I did the only thing I possibly could to help her!" "But you cut her—"

The burly senior officer that Jean had seen earlier now stepped up to the bar, with a cadre of fellow officers at his back. Even across the room, Jean could see a rose-over-swords somewhere on every coat or tunic.

"Jevaun," he said, "are you questioning Scholar Almaldi's competence?" "No, but you saw—" "Are you questioning her intentions? "Ah, sir, please—"

"Are you naming a physiker of the Archon's warrant," the officer continued in a merciless voice, "our sister-officer, a murderer? Before witnesses?"

The colour drained from the barkeeper's face so quickly Jean almost wanted to look behind the bar, to see if it had pooled there. "No, sir," he said with great haste. "I say nothing of the sort. I apologize." "Not to me."

The barkeeper turned to Almaldi and cleared his throat. "I beg your absolute pardon, Scholar." He looked down at his feet. "I'm… I" ve not seen much blood. I spoke in wretched ignorance. Forgive me." "Of course," said the leech coldly as she shrugged out of her coat, perhaps finally realizing how badly she'd bloodied it. "What the hell was this woman drinking?" "Just the dark ale," said Jean. "The salted Verrari dark." And it was meant for us, he thought. His stomach twisted.

His words caused a new eruption of anger throughout the crowd, most of whom had, of course, recently been drinking the very same ale. Jevaun put up his arms and waved for silence.

"It was good, clean ale from the cask! It was tasted before it was drawn and served! I would serve it to my grandchildren!" He took an empty wooden cup, held it up to the crowd and drew a full draught of dark beer from the cask. "This I will declare to witnesses! This is a house of honest quality! If there is some mischief afoot, it was nothing of my doing!" He drained the cup in several deep gulps and held it up to the crowd. Their murmuring continued, but their angry advance on the bar was halted.

"It's possible she had a reaction," said Almaldi. "An allergy of some sort. If so, it would be the first I" ve ever seen of anything like it." She raised her voice. "Who else feels poorly? Sore necks? Trouble breathing?"

Sailors and officers looked at one another, shaking their heads. Jean offered a silent prayer of thanks that nobody appeared to have seen the dockworker taking the fatal cups of ale from himself and Locke.

"Where the hell is your other assistant?" Jean shouted to Jevaun. "I counted two before the ale was served. Now you have only one!"

The eldest barkeeper whipped his head from side to side, scanning the crowd. He turned to his remaining assistant with a horrified look on his face. "I'm sure Freyald is just scared shitless by the commotion, right? Find him. Find him!"

Jean's words had had precisely the effect he'd desired: sailors and officers alike scattered angrily, looking for the missing barkeeper. Jean could hear the muffled trilling of watch whistles somewhere outside. Soon enough constables would be here in force, sailors" bar or no. He nudged Locke and gestured at the back door of the tavern, through which several others, plainly expecting much complication, had already slipped out.

"Sirs," said Scholar Almaldi as Locke and Jean moved past her. She wiped Locke's stiletto clean on the sleeve of her already-ruined coat and passed it back to him. He nodded as he took it. "Scholar," he said, "you were superb."

"And yet completely inadequate," she said, running her bloodstained fingers carelessly through her hair. "I'll see someone dead for this."

Us, if we linger here much longer, thought Jean. He had a nasty suspicion that the hands of the city watch would offer no safety if he and Locke vanished into them.

Further arguments were erupting throughout the room by the time Jean finally managed to use his bulk to knock a path for him and Locke to the tavern's rear entrance. It led to an unlit alley, running away in either direction. Clouds had settled across the black sky, blotting out the moons, and Jean slipped a hatchet reflexively into his right hand before he'd taken three steps into the night. His trained ears told him the watch-whistles were about a block to the west and moving fast.

"Freyald," said Locke as they moved through the darkness together. "That rat-bastard barkeep. That ale was aimed at us, sure as a crossbow quarrel."

"That was my conclusion," said Jean. He led Locke across a narrow street, over a rough stone wall and into a silent courtyard that appeared to border on warehouses. Jean crouched behind a partially shattered crate, and his adjusting eyes saw the black shape of Locke flatten against a nearby barrel.

"Things are worse," said Locke. "Worse than we thought. What are the odds that half a dozen city watch wouldn't know which bars were safe for off-duty hours? What are the odds that they would come to the wrong fucking neighbourhood}"

"Or drop that much pay on drinks for a bar full of the Archon's people? They were just cover. Probably they didn't even know what they were covering for."

"It still means," whispered Locke, "that whoever's after us can pull strings in the city watch." "It means Priori," said Jean. "Them or someone close to them. But why?"

There was the sudden scuff of leather on stone behind them; Locke and Jean fell silent in unison. Jean turned in time to see a large, dark shape hop the wall behind them, and the slap of heels on cobbles told him that a man of some weight had just landed.

In one smooth motion, Jean slipped out of his coat, swung it in a high arc and brought it down over the man's upper body. While the shadowy shape struggled with the coat, Jean leapt up and cracked the top of his opponent's head with the blunt end of his hatchet. He followed this with a punch to the solar plexus, folding the man in half. It was child's play after that to guide the man face-first to the ground with a shove on the back.

Locke shook a tiny alchemical lamp, little more than a thumb-sized vial, to life. He shielded the wan glow against his body and let the light fall in only one direction, on the man Jean had subdued. Jean obligingly took back his coat, revealing a tall, well-muscled fellow with a shaven head. He was dressed nondescriptly in the fashion of a coachman or servant, and he threw a gloved hand across his face as he moaned in pain. Jean set the blade of his hatchet just beneath the man's jaw.

"M-master de… de Ferra, no, please," the man whispered. "Sweet gods. I'm with Merrain. I'm to… look after you."

Locke seized the man's left hand and peeled his leather glove off. By the pale lamplight, Jean saw a tattoo on the back of the stranger's hand, an open eye in the centre of a rose. Locke sighed and whispered, "He's an Eye."

"He's a bloody fool," said Jean, glancing around them before setting his hatchet down quietly. He rolled the man onto his back. "Easy, friend. I pulled the blow to your head, but not to your stomach. Just lay there and breathe for a few minutes."

"I" ve been hit before," huffed the stranger, and Jean could see that tears of pain gleamed on his cheeks. "Gods. I marvel at the thought that you need protecting at all."

"We clearly do," said Locke. "I saw you in the Thousand Days, didn't I?"

"Yes. And I saw you give up your glasses of ale to that poor woman. Oh, fuck, my stomach is like to burst."

"It will pass," said Jean. "Did you see where that missing barkeep went?"

"I saw him enter the kitchen, and I never looked for him to come back. Didn't have any reason to at the time."

"Shit." Locke scowled. "Knowing Merrain, does she have soldiers nearby against need?"

"Four in an old warehouse just a block south." The Eye gasped several times before continuing. "I was to take you there in case of trouble."

"This qualifies," said Locke. "When you can move, take us to them. We need to reach the Sword Marina in one piece. And then I'll need you to carry a message to her. Can you reach her tonight?"

"Within the hour," the man said, rubbing his stomach and staring up at the starless sky.

"Tell her we wish to take her up on her earlier offer of… room and board." Jean rubbed his beard thoughtfully, then nodded.

Til send a note to Requin," said Locke. "I'll tell him we're leaving in a day or two. We won't be around much longer than that, in truth. I'm no longer confident we can walk the streets. We can demand an escort to fetch our things from the Villa Candessa tomorrow, close our suite, put most of our clothes into storage. Then we'll hide in the Sword Marina." "We have orders to guard your lives," said the Eye.

T know," said Locke. "About the only thing we're sure of is that for the time being, your master means to use us, not kill us. So we'll rely on his hospitality" Locke passed the soldier's glove back to him. "For now."

11

Two carriages of Eyes, dressed in plain fashion, accompanied Locke and Jean when they packed their personal effects at the Villa Candessa the next morning.

"We're heartily sorry to see you go," said the chief steward as Locke scratched Leocanto Kosta's signature onto a last few scraps of parchment. "You" ve been superb guests; we hope that you'll consider us again the next time you visit Tal Verrar."

Locke had no doubt the inn had been glad of their business; at five silvers a day for a year and a half, plus the price of additional services, he and Jean had left behind a pile of solari large enough to purchase a decent-sized house of their own, and hire capable staff.

"Pressing matters compel our presence elsewhere," muttered Locke coldly. He rebuked himself in his thoughts a moment later — it wasn't the steward's fault they were being chased from comfort by Stragos, Bondsmagi and bloody mysterious assassins. "Here," he said, fishing three solari out of his coat and setting them down on the desk. "See that this is split evenly and passed out to everyone on staff." He turned his palm up and with a minor bit of legerdemain conjured another gold coin. "And this for yourself, to express our compliments for your hospitality." "Return any time," said the steward, bowing deeply.

"We shall," said Locke. "Before we go, I'd like to arrange to have some of our wardrobe stored indefinitely. You can be certain we'll be back to claim it."

While the steward happily scrawled the necessary orders on a parchment, Locke borrowed a square of the Villa Candessa's pale-blue formal stationery. On this he wrote: I depart immediately by the means previously discussed. Rely upon my return. I remain deeply grateful for the forbearance you have shown me.

Locke watched the steward seal it with the house's black wax and said: "See that this is delivered without fail to the Master of the Sinspire. If not personally, then only to his major-domo, Selendri. They will want it immediately."

Locke suppressed a smile at the slight widening of the steward's eyes. The suggestion that Requin had a vested personal interest in the contents of the note would do much to speed it safely on its way. Nonetheless, Locke still planned to send another copy later through one of Stragos's agents. No sense in taking chances.

"So much for those fine beds," said Jean as he carried their two trunks of remaining possessions out to the waiting carriages. They had kept only their implements of thieving — lockpicks, weapons, alchemical dyes, disguise items — plus a few hundred solari in cold metal and a few sets of tunics and breeches to take to sea. "So much for Jerome de Ferra's money"

"So much for Durenna and Corvaleur," said Locke with a tight smile. "So much for looking over our shoulders everywhere we go. Because, in truth, we're stepping into a cage. But just for a few days."

"No," said Jean thoughtfully as he stepped up into a carriage door held open by a bodyguard. "No, the cage goes on much farther than that. It goes wherever we go."

12

Their training with Caldris, which resumed that afternoon, only grew more arduous. The sailing master walked them from end to end of the ship, drilling them in the operation of everything from the capstan to the cooking box. With the help of a pair of Eyes, they unlashed the ship's boat, hoisted it over the side and retrieved it. They pulled the gratings from the main-deck cargo hatches and practised sending barrels up and down with various arrangements of block and tackle. Everywhere they went, Caldris had them tying knots and naming obscure devices.

Locke and Jean were given the stern cabin of the Red Messenger for their living quarters. At sea, Jean's compartment would be separated from Locke's by a thin wall of stiffened canvas — and Caldris's equally tiny "cabin" would be just across the passage — but for now they made the space into tolerably comfortable bachelor accommodations. The necessity of their enclosure seemed to impress upon them both the utter seriousness of their situation, and they redoubled their efforts, learning confusing new things with speed they had not required since they had last been under the tutelage of Father Chains. Locke found himself falling asleep with his copy of the Lexicon for a pillow nearly every night.

Mornings they sailed their dinghy west of the city, within the glass reefs but with increasing confidence that only somewhat eclipsed actual skill. Afternoons, Caldris would call out items and locations on the deck of the ship and expect them to run to each place he named.

"Binnacle," the sailing master cried, and Locke and Jean raced together for the small wooden box just beside the ship's wheel that held a compass and several other navigational aids. No sooner had they touched it than Caldris cried, "Taffrail," which was easy enough — the stern rail at the very end of the ship. Next, Caldris shouted, "Craplines!" Locke and Jean ran past the bemused kitten, who lounged on the sunlit quarterdeck licking her paws. They were grimacing as they ran, for the craplines were what thed'r be bracing themselves against when they crawled out onto the bowsprit to relieve themselves into the sea. More commodious methods of shitting were for rich passengers on larger vessels.

"Mizzenmast," bellowed Caldris, and Locke and Jean both fetched up short, breathing heavily.

"Ship doesn't bloody have one," said Locke. "Just foremast and mainmast!"

"Oh, clever you! You" ve undone my subtle ruse, Master Kosta. Get your bloody uniform and we'll let you act the peacock for a few hours."

The three men worked together across the days to define a system of hand and verbal signals, with Locke and Jean making a few sensible adaptations from their existing private language.

"Privacy on a ship at sea is about as real as fucking fairy piss," Caldris grumbled one afternoon. "I might not be able to give you clear spoken instructions with gods-know-who watching and listening. We'll work with lots of nudges and whispers. If you know something complicated is coming up, best thing to say is just—"

"Let's see if you know your business, Caldris!" Locke found that the Verrari naval uniform was a great aid when it came to conjuring an authoritative voice.

"Right. That or something like it. And if one of the sailors cops technical and wants your opinion on something you don't know—"

"Come now, imaginary seaman, surely I don't have to spell it out for you like a child?" "Right, good. Give me another one."

"Gods damn you, I know this ship's lines like the back of my hand!" Locke looked down his nose at Caldris, which was only possible because his leather boots added an inch and a half to his height. "And I know what she's capable of. Trust my judgment or feel free to start swimming."

"Yes. A fine job, Master Kosta!" The sailing master squinted at Locke and scratched his beard. "Where does Master Kosta go when you do that? What exactly is it you do for a living, Leocanto?" "I do this, I suppose. I'm a professional pretender. I… act." "On the stage?"

"Once upon a time. Jerome and I both. Now I suppose we make this ship our stage."

"Indeed you do." Caldris moved to the wheel (which was actually a pair of wheels, joined by a mechanism below the deck, to allow more than one sailor to exert their strength against it in hard weather), evading a brief attack on his bare feet by the kitten. "Places!"

Locke and Jean hurried to the quarterdeck to stand near him, ostensibly aloof and concentrating on their own tasks while remaining close enough to pick up on a whisper or a prompting gesture.

"Imagine us beating to windward with the breeze coming in across the larboard bow," said Caldris. It was necessary to imagine, for in the enclosed little bay not the slightest breeze stirred. "The time has come for us to tack. Just sound off the steps. I need to know you" ve got them down."

Locke pictured the operation in his head. No square-rigged ship could sail straight into the wind. To move in a desired direction against the breeze required sailing at something like a forty-five-degree angle to it, and switching over at intervals to present different sides of the bow to the wind. It was in effect a series of zigzags, tack after tack, arduously clawing in a desired direction. Each changeover, from larboard tack to starboard tack or vice versa, was a delicate operation with many opportunities for disaster.

"Master Caldris," he bellowed, "we shall put the ship about. The wheel is yours." "Very good, sir." "Master de Ferra!"

Jean gave three short blasts on the whistle he wore, as Locke did, around his neck. "All hands! All hands ready to put the ship about!"

"Master Caldris," said Locke, "neatness counts. Seize your wheel. Put your helm down."

Locke waited a few seconds for dramatic effect, then yelled: "Helm a-lee!"

Caldris mimed hauling the wheel in the direction of the ship's lee side, in this case the starboard, which would tilt the rudder in the opposite direction. Locke conjured a vivid mental picture of the sudden press of water against it, forcing the ship into a turn to larboard. They would be coming into the eye of the wind, feeling its full force; an error at this point could "lock them in irons", stalling all progress, stealing power from rudder and sails alike. They would be helpless for minutes, or worse — an error like that in heavy weather could flip them, and ships were not acrobats.

"Imaginary sailors! Tacks and sheets!" Jean waved his arms and hollered his instructions to the invisible deck hands. "Smartly now, you slothful dogs!"

"Master de Ferra," called Locke, "that imaginary sailor is not minding his duty!"

"I'll fuckin" kill you later, you cabbage-brained pig-rapist! Seize your rope and wait for my word!"

"Master Caldris!" Locke whirled toward the sailing master, who was nonchalantly sipping from a leather skin of pinkwater. "Hard over!"

"Aye, sir." He belched and set the skin down on the deck at his feet. "By your word, hard over." "Up mainsail," cried Locke.

"Bowlines off! Braces off!" Jean blew another blast on his whistle. "Yards around for the starboard tack!"

In Locke's mind, the ship's bow was now tilting past the heart of the wind; the larboard bow would become their lee and the wind would blow in across the starboard side of the ship. The yards would be rapidly re-braced for the sails to take advantage of the wind's new aspect, and Caldris would be frantically reversing his wheel's turn. The Red Messenger would need to stabilize her new course; if she were pushed too far to larboard, they might find themselves moving in the opposite of their intended direction, with the sails braced improperly to boot. They would be lucky to be merely embarrassed by such a fiasco. "Hard over," he yelled again. "Aye, sir," cried Caldris. "Heard the captain fine the first time."

"Lines on! Braces on!" Jean blew his whistle yet again. "Haul off all, you fuckin" maggots!"

"We're now on the starboard tack, Captain," said Caldris. "Surprisingly, we didn't lose her in stays and we'll all live to see another hour."

"Aye, no bloody thanks to this useless cur of an imaginary sailor!" Locke mimed grabbing a man and forcing him to the deck. "What's your gods-damned problem, you work-shirking little orlop worm?"

"First mate de Ferra beats me cruelly," cried Jean in a squeaky voice. "He is a monstrous bad fellow, who makes me wish I'd taken priest's orders and never set foot aboard!"

"Of course he does! It's what I pay him for." Locke mimed hefting a blade. "For your crimes, I swear you'll die on this very deck unless you can answer two bloody questions! First — where the hell is my non-imaginary crew? And second, why in the name of all the gods am I supposed to practise wearing this damned uniform?"

He was startled out of his act by the sound of applause from behind him. He whirled to see Merrain standing just beside the entry port at the ship's rail; she'd come up the ramp in absolute silence.

"Oh, wonderful!" She smiled at the three men on deck, stooped down and plucked up the kitten, who'd moved immediately to attack Merrain's fine leather boots. "Very convincing. But your poor invisible sailor doesn't have the answers you seek." "Are you here to name someone who does?"

"On the morrow," she said, "the Archon orders you to take the sails of one of his private boats. He wishes to see a demonstration of your skills before you receive your final orders for sea. He and I will be your passengers. If you can keep our heads above water, he'll show you where your crew is. And why we've had you practising with that uniform."

1

There was one guard pacing the dock at the base of the lonely island. His lamp cast soft yellow light rippling across the black water as Locke threw him a rope from within the little launch. Rather than tying them up, the guard thrust his lantern down toward Locke, Jean and Caldris, and said, "This dock is strictly off… oh, gods. My apologies, sir."

Locke grinned, feeling the authority of the full Verrari captain's uniform enfold him like nothing so much as a warm blanket. He grabbed a piling and heaved himself up onto the dock, while the guard saluted him awkwardly with his lantern-hand crossed over his chest.

"Gods defend the Archon of Tal Verrar," said Locke. "Carry on. It's your job to challenge strange boats at night, soldier."

While the soldier tied the launch to a piling, Locke reached down and helped Jean up. Moving gracefully in the now-familiar costume, Locke then stepped around behind the dock guard, unfurled a leather crimper's hood from within his jacket, slammed it down over the soldier's head and cinched the drawstring tight.

"Gods know there's none stranger than ours that you're ever likely to see."

Jean held the soldier by his arms while the drugs inside the hood did their job. He lacked the constitution of the last man Locke had tried to knock out with such a hood, and sagged after just a few seconds of muffled struggle. When Locke and Jean tied him firmly to the piling at the far corner of the dock and stuffed a rag in his mouth, he was sleeping peacefully.

Caldris clambered out of the boat, picked up the guard's lantern and began pacing with it in his place.

Locke stared up at the stone tower that was their objective: seven storeys tall, its battlements were orange-lit by alchemical navigation beacons warning ships away. Ordinarily there would be guards up there as well, watching the waters and the dock, but the hand of Stragos was at already at wort Nothing moved atop the tower.

"Come on, then," Locke whispered to Jean. "Let's get inside and do some recruiting."

2

"It's called Windward Rock," Stragos said. He pointed at the stone tower that jutted from the little island, perhaps a single arrow-flight from the line of hissing white surf that marked Tal Verrar's outer barrier of glass reefs. They floated at anchor in seventy feet of water, a good mile west of the Silver Marina. The warm morning sun was just rising over the city behind them, making tiers of soft light from its layers of foggy haze.

True to Merrain's word, Stragos had arrived at dawn in a thirty-foot launch of polished black wood, with comfortable leather seats at the stern and gold-gilded scrollwork on every surface. Locke and Jean were given the sails under Caldris's minimal supervision, while Merrain sat in the bow. Locke had wondered if she was ever comfortable anywhere else.

They had sailed north, then rounded the Silver Marina and turned west, chasing the last blue shadow of the night sky on the far horizon.

They rode on for a few minutes, until Merrain whistled for everyone's attention and pointed to her left, across the starboard bow. A tall, dark structure could be seen rising above the waves in the distance. Orange lights glowed at its peak.

Soon enough they had dropped anchor to regard the lonely tower. If Stragos had no praise for Locke and Jean's handling of the vessel, neither did he offer any criticism. "Windward Rock," said Jean. "I" ve heard of it. Some sort of fortress." "A prison, Master de Ferra." "Will we be visiting it this morning?"

"No," said Stragos. "You'll be returning and landing soon enough. For now, I just wanted you to see it… and I wanted to tell you a little story. I have in my service a particularly unreliable captain who has until now done a splendid job of concealing his shortcomings." "Words cannot express how truly sorry I am to hear that," said Locke.

"He will betray me," said Stragos. "His plans for months have been leading up to a grand and final betrayal. He will steal something of great value from me and turn it against me for all to see." "You should have been watching him more closely," Locke muttered. "I have been," said Stragos. "And I am right now. The captain I speak of is you."

3

The Windward Rock had only one set of doors, iron-bound, eleven feet tall, locked and guarded from the inside. A small panel in the wall beside them slid open as Locke and Jean approached, and a head silhouetted by lamp-light appeared behind it. The guardswoman's voice was devoid of banter: "Who passes?"

"An officer of Archon and Council," said Locke with ritual formality. "This man is my boatswain. These are my orders and papers."

He passed a set of documents rolled into a tight tube to the woman behind the door. She slid the panel closed over her watch-hole, and Locke and Jean waited in silence for several minutes, listening to the rushing passage of surf over the nearby reefs. Two moons were just coming up, gilding the southern horizon with silver, and the stars dusted the cloudless sky like confectioner's sugar thrown against a black canvas.

Finally, there was a metallic clatter and the heavy doors swung outward on creaking hinges. The guardswoman stepped out to meet them, saluting but not returning Locke's papers.

"My apologies for the delay, Captain Ravelle. Welcome to the Windward Rock."

Locke and Jean followed her into the tower's entrance hall, which was divided into two halves by a wall of black iron bars running from floor to ceiling across its breadth. On the far side of these bars, a man behind a wooden desk had control of whatever mechanism closed the gates — they clattered shut behind Locke and Jean after a few seconds.

The man, like the woman, wore the Archon's blue under ribbed black leather armour: bracers, vest and neck-guard. He was cleanshaven and handsome, and he waited behind the bars as the female guard approached to pass him Locke's papers.

"Captain Orrin Ravelle," she said. "And boatswain. Here with orders from the Archon."

The man studied Locke's papers at length before nodding and passing them back through the bars. "Of course. Good evening, Captain Ravelle. This man is your boatswain, Jerome Valora?" "Yes, Lieutenant."

"You're to view the prisoners in the second vault? Anyone in particular?" "Just a general viewing, Lieutenant."

"As you will." The man slid a key from around his neck, opened the only gate set into the wall of iron bars and stepped out toward them, smiling. "We're pleased to render any aid the Protector requires, sir."

"I very much doubt that," said Locke, letting a stiletto slip into his left hand. He reached out and gave the female guard a slash behind her right ear, across the unprotected skin between her leather neck-guard and her tightly coiffed hair. She cried out, whirled and had her black-ened-steel sabre out of its scabbard in an instant.

Jean was tackling the male guard before her blade was even out; the man uttered a surprised choking noise as Jean slammed him against the bars and gave him a sharp chop to the neck with the edge of his right hand. The leather armour robbed the blow of its lethal possibilities without dulling the shock of impact. Gasping, the guard was easily pinned from behind by Jean, who immobilized his arms and held him in a grip like iron.

Locke darted backwards out of the female guard's reach as she slashed with her blade. Her first attack was swift and nearly accurate. Her second was a bit slower, and Locke had no trouble avoiding it. She readied a third swing and misstepped, tripping over her own feet. Her mouth hung open in confusion. "You… fucker…" she muttered. "Poi… poi… son."

Locke winced as she toppled face-first to the stone floor; he'd meant to catch her, but the stuff on the blade had acted faster than he'd expected.

"You bastard," coughed the lieutenant, straining uselessly in Jean's hold, "you killed her!"

"Of course I didn't kill her, you twit. Honestly, you people… pull a blade anywhere around here and everyone assumes straight away that you" ve killed someone." Locke stepped up before the guard and showed him the stiletto. "Stuff on the edge is called Witfrost. You have a good, hard sleep all night, wake up around noon. At which time you'll feel like hell. Apologies. So do you want it in the neck or in the palm of your hand?" "You… you gods-damned traitor!"

"Neck it is." Locke gave the man his own shallow cut just behind his left ear and barely counted to eight before he was hanging in Jean's arms, limper than wet silk. Jean set the lieutenant down gently and plucked a small ring of iron keys from his belt. "Right," said Locke. "Let's pay a visit to the second vault."

4

"Ravelle didn't exist until a month ago," said Stragos. "Not until I had you to build the lie around. A dozen of my most trusted men and women will swear after the fact that he was real, that they shared assignments and meals with him, that they spoke of duties and trifles in his company.

"My finnickers have prepared orders, duty rosters, pay vouchers and other documents, and seeded them throughout my archives. Men using the name of Ravelle have rented rooms, purchased goods, ordered tailored uniforms delivered to the Sword Marina. By the time I'm dealing with the consequences of your betrayal, he'll seem real in fact and memory." "Consequences?" asked Locke.

"Ravelle is going to betray me just as Captain Bonaire betrayed me when she took my Basilisk out of the harbour seven years ago and raised a red banner. It's going to happen again… twice to the same Archon. I will be ridiculed in some quarters, for a time. Temporary loss for long-term gain." He winced. "Have you not considered the public reaction to what I'm arranging, Master Kosta? I certainly have."

"Gods, Maxilan," said Locke, toying absently with a knot on one of the lines bracing the vessel's relatively small mainsail. "Trapped out at sea, feigning mastery in a trade for which I'm barely competent, fighting for my fife with your fucking poison in my veins, I shall endeavour to keep you in my prayers for the sake of your hardship."

"Ravelle is an ass, too," said the Archon. "I" ve had that specifically written into his back history. Now, something you should know about Tal Verrar — the Priori's constables guard Highpoint Citadel Gaol in the Castellana. The majority of the city's prisoners go there. But while the Windward Rock is a much smaller affair, it's mine. Manned and provisioned only by my people."

The Archon smiled. "That's where Ravelle's treachery will reach the point of no return. That, Master Kosta, is where you'll get your crew."

5

True to Stragos's warning, there was an additional guard to be disarmed in the first cell level beneath the entrance hall, at the foot of a wide spiral staircase of black iron. The stone tower above was for guards and alchemical lights; the Windward Rock's true purpose was served by three ancient stone vaults that went down far beneath the sea, into the roots of the island.

The man saw them coming and took immediate alarm; no doubt Locke and Jean descending alone was a breach of procedure. Jean relieved him of his sword as he charged up the steps, kicked him in the face and pinned him, squirming, on his stomach. Jean's month of exercise at Caldris's whim seemed to have left his strength more bullish than ever, and Locke almost pitied the poor fellow struggling beneath him. Locke reached over, gave the guard a touch of Witfrost and whistled jauntily.

That was it for the night shift, a skeleton force with no cooks or other attendants. One guard at the docks, two in the entrance hall, one on the first cell level. The two on the roof, by Stragos's direct order, would have sipped drugged tea and fallen asleep with the pot between them. Thed'r be found by their morning relief with a plausible excuse for their incapacity — and another lovely layer of confusion would be thrown over the whole affair.

There were no boats kept at Windward Rock itself, so even if prisoners could conceivably escape from iron-barred cells set into the weeping walls of the old vaults and win free through the barred entrance hall and lone reinforced door, thed'r face a swim across a mile of open water (at least), watched with interest by many things in the depths eager for a meal.

Locke and Jean ignored the iron door leading to the cells of the first level, continuing down the spiralling staircase. The air was dank, smelling of salt and unwashed bodies. Past the iron door on the second level, they found themselves in a vault divided into four vast cells, long and low-ceilinged, two on each side with a fifteen-foot corridor down the middle.

Only one of these cells was actually occupied; several dozen men lay sleeping in the pale-green light of barred alchemical globes set high on the walls. The air in there was positively rank, dense with the odours of unclean bedding, urine and stale food. Faint tendrils of mist curled around the prisoners. A few wary pairs of eyes tracked Locke and Jean as they stepped up to the cell door.

Locke nodded to Jean, and the bigger man began to pound his fist against the bars of the door. The clamour was sharp, echoing intolerably from the dripping walls of the vault. Disturbed prisoners rose from their dirty pallets, swearing and hollering.

"Are you men comfortable in there?" Locke shouted to be heard above the din. Jean ceased his pounding.

"We" d be lots more comfortable with a nice sweet Verrari captain in here for us to fuck sideways," said a prisoner near the door.

"I have no patience to speak of," said Locke, pointing at the door he and Jean had come through. "If I walk out through that door, I won't be coming back."

"Piss off, then, and let us sleep," said a scarecrow of a man in a far corner of the cell.

"And if I won't be coming back," said Locke, "then none of you poor bastards will ever find out why vaults one and three have prisoners in every cell… while this one is completely empty save for yourselves." That got their attention. Locke smiled.

"That's better. My name is Orrin Ravelle. Until a few minutes ago, I was a captain in the navy of Tal Verrar. And the reason you're here is because I selected you. Every last one of you. /selected you, and then I forged the orders that got you assigned to an empty cell vault."

6

"I chose forty-four prisoners, originally," said Stragos. They stared at the Windward Rock in the fight of the morning sun. A boat of blue-coated soldiers was approaching it in the distance, presumably to relieve the current shift of guards. "I had the second cell vault cleared except for them. All the orders signed "Ravelle" are plausible, but upon scrutiny, the signs of forgery will become evident. I can use that later as a handy excuse to arrest several clerks whose loyalties aren't… straightforward enough for my taste." "Efficient," said Locke.

"Yes." Stragos continued, "These prisoners are all prime seamen, taken from ships that were impounded for various reasons. Some have been in custody for a few years. Many are actually former crewmen of your Red Messenger, lucky not to be executed along with their officers. Some of them might even have past experience at piracy." "Why keep prisoners at the Rock?" asked Jean, "In general, I mean?" "Oar fodder," answered Caldris. "Handy thing to keep on hand. War breaks out, they'll be offered full pardons if they agree to work as galley rowers for the duration. The Rock tends to have a couple of galleys" worth, most of the time."

"Caldris is entirely correct," said Stragos. "Now, as I said, some of those men have been in there for several years, but none of them have ever had to endure conditions like those of the past month. I have had them deprived of everything from clean bedding to regular meals. The guards have been cruel, disturbing their sleeping hours with loud noises and buckets of cold water. I daresay by now that there isn't a man among them who doesn't hate the Windward Rock, hate Tal Verrar and hate me. Personally."

Locke nodded slowly. "And that's why you expect them to greet Ravelle as their saviour."

7

"You're the one responsible for shoving us into this hell, you fuckin" Verrari arse-licker?"

One of the prisoners stepped up to the bars and clutched them; the depredations of the cell vault had yet to whittle away a build fright-eningly close to that of the heroic statuary of old. Locke guessed he was a recent arrival; his muscles looked carved from witchwood. His skin and hair were black enough to shrug off the pale-green light, as though in disdain.

"I'm the one responsible for moving you to this vault," said Locke. "I didn't lock you up in the first place. I didn't arrange for the treatment you" ve been receiving." " "Treatment's a fancy fuckin" word for it." "What's your name?" "Jabril." "Are you in charge?"

"Of what?" Some of the man's anger seemed to ebb, transmuting to tired resignation. "Nobody" s in fuckin" charge behind iron bars, Captain Ravelle. We piss where we sleep. We don't keep bloody muster rolls or duty shifts." "You men are all sailors," said Locke. "Was sailors," saidjabril.

"I know what you are. You wouldn't be here otherwise. Think about this — thieves get let out. They go to West Citadel, they work at hard labour, they slave until they rupture or get pardoned. But even they get to see the sky. Even their cells have windows. Debtors are free to go when their debts are paid. Prisoners of war go home when the war's over. But you poor bastards… you're penned up here against need. You're cattle. If there's a war, you'll be chained to oars, and if there's no war… well." "There's always war," said Jabril.

"Seven years since the last one," said Locke. He stepped up to the bars just across from Jabril and looked him in the eyes. "Maybe seven years again. Maybe never. You really want to grow old in this vault, Jabril?" "What's the bloody alternative… Captain?"

"Some of you came from a ship impounded recently," said Locke. "Your captain tried to smuggle in a nest of stiletto wasps."

"The Fortunate Venture, aye," said Jabril. "We was promised high heaps of gold for that job."

"Fucking things killed eight men on the voyage," said another prisoner. "We thought we" d inherit their shares."

"Turns out they was lucky," said Jabril. "They didn't have to take no share of this gods-damned place."

"The Fortunate Venture is riding at anchor in the Sword Marina," said Locke. "She's been rechristened the Red Messenger. Refurbished, resupplied, careened and smoked. She's been prettied up. The Archon means to take her into his service." "Good for the bloody Archon."

"I'm to command her," said Locke. "She's at my disposal. I have the keys, as it were." "What the fuck do you want, then?"

"It's half-past midnight," said Locke, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that echoed dramatically to the back of the cell. "Morning relief won't arrive for more than six hours. And every guard on the Windward Rock is… currently… unconscious."

The entire cell was full of wide eyes. Men heaved themselves up from their sleeping pallets and pressed closer to the bars, forming an unruly but attentive crowd. "I am leaving Tal Verrar tonight," said Locke. "This is the last time I will ever wear this uniform. I am quits with the Archon and everything he stands for. I mean to take the Red Messenger, and for that I need a crew."

The mass of prisoners exploded into a riot of shoving and jabbering. Hands thrust out at Locke through the bars and he stepped back. "I'm a topman," one of the prisoners yelled, "fine topman! Take me!" "Nine years at sea," hollered another,"… do anything!"

Jean stepped up and pounded on the cell door again, bellowing: "QUIIIIETTTT!"

Locke held up the ring of keys Jean had taken from the lieutenant in the entrance hall.

"I sail south on the Sea of Brass," he said. "I make for Port Prodigal. This is not subject to vote or negotiation. You sail with me, you sail under the red flag. You want off when we reach the Ghostwinds, you can have it. Until then, we're on the watch for money and plunder. No room for shirkers. The word is equal shares."

That would give them something to ponder, Locke thought. A freebooter captain more commonly took two to four shares from ten of any plunder got at sea. Just the thought of equal shares for all would quell a great many mutinous urges.

1 Equal shares," he repeated above another sudden outburst of babble. "But you make your decision here and now. Take oath to me as your captain and I will free you immediately. I have means to get you off this rock and over to the Red Messenger. We'll have hours of darkness to clear the harbour and be well away. If you don't want to come, fine. But no courtesies in that case. You'll stay here when we're gone. Maybe the morning relief will be impressed with your honesty… but I doubt it. Who among you will desist? None of the prisoners said anything. "Who among you will go free, and join my crew?"

Locke winced at the eruption of shouts and cheers, then allowed himself a wide, genuine grin.

"All gods as your witness!" he shouted. "Upon your lips and upon your hearts." "Our oath is made," said Jabril, while those around him nodded.

"Then stand upon it or pray to die, and be damned and found wanting on the scales of the Lady of the Long Silence." "So we stand," came a chorus of shouts. Locke passed the ring of keys over to Jean. The prisoners watched in an ecstasy of disbelief as he found the proper key, slid it into the lock and gave it a hard turn to the right.

8

"There is one problem," said Stragos. "Just one?" Locke rolled his eyes. "There are only forty left of the forty-four I selected." "How will that suit the needs of the ship?"

"We've got food and water for a hundred days with sixty," said Caldris. "And she can be handled well with half that number. Once we've got them sorted out, we'll do fine for hands at the lines."

"So you will," said Stragos. "The missing four are women. I had them placed in a separate cell. One of them developed a gaol-fever and soon they all had it. I had no choice but to move them to shore; they're too weak to lift their arms, let alone join this expedition."

"We're for sea with not a woman aboard," said Caldris. "Will not Merrain be coming with us, then?"

"I'm afraid," she said sweetly, "that my talents will be required elsewhere." "This is mad," cried Caldris. "We taunt the Father of Storms!" ^

"You can find women for your crew in Port Prodigal, perhaps even good officers." Stragos spread his hands. "Surely you'll be fine for the duration of a single voyage down."

"Would that it were mine to so declare," said Caldris, a haunted look in his eyes. "Master Kosta, this is a poor way to start. We must have cats. A basket of cats, for the Red Messenger. We need what luck we can steal. All gods as your witness, you must not fail to have cats aboard that ship before we put to sea." "Nor shall I," said Locke.

"Then it's settled," said Stragos. "Heed this now, Kosta. Concerning the… depth of your deception. In case you have any misgivings. None of the men you'll be taking from the Windward Rock have ever served in my navy, so they" ve little notion of what to expect from one of my officers. And soon enough you'll be Ravelle the pirate rather than Ravelle the naval captain, so you may tailor the impersonation as you see fit, and worry little over small details."

"That's good," said Locke. "I" ve got enough of those crammed into my head just now."

"I have one last stipulation," Stragos continued. "The men and women who serve at the Windward Rock, even those who are not party to this scheme, are among my finest and most loyal. I will provide means for you to disable them without rendering permanent harm. In no way are they to be otherwise injured, not by you nor your crew, and gods help you if you leave any dead." "Curious sentiments for a man who claims to be no stranger to risks."

"I would send them into battle at any time, Kosta, and lose them willingly. But none who wear my colours honestly are to die as part of this; that much my honour compels me to grant them. You are supposed to be professionals. Consider this a test of your professionalism."

"We're not bloody murderers," said Locke. "We kill for good reason, when we kill at all."

"So much the better," said Stragos. "That is all I have to say, then. This day is yours to do with as you see fit. Tomorrow evening, just before midnight, you'll land on the Windward Rock and start this business." "We need our antidote," said Locke. Jean and Caldris nodded.

"Of course. You three will get your last vials just before you leave. After that… I shall expect your first return within two months. And a report of your progress."

9

Locke and Jean managed a ragged muster of their new crew just inside the entrance hall. Jean had to demonstrate his physical strength to several men who attempted to vent their frustrations on the sleeping guards.

"I said you touch them at your peril," Locke snarled for the third time. "Let them be! If we leave them dead behind us, we'll lose all sympathy with anyone. Let them live, and Verrari will be laughing about this for months to come.

"Now," he said, "move out quietly to the dockside. Take your ease, stretch your legs, have a good long look at the sea and sky. I" ve a boat to fetch before we can be away. For the sake of us all, keep your mouths shut."

They mostly obeyed this admonition, breaking up into little whispering groups as they moved out of the tower. Locke noticed that some of the men hung back near the door, their hands on the stones, as though afraid to step out beneath the open sky. He couldn't say he blamed them after months or years in the vault.

"That's lovely," said Jabril, who fell into step beside Locke as they approached the dock where Caldris still paced with his lantern. "Fuckin" lovely. Almost as lovely as not having to smell us all at once." "You'll be crammed together again soon enough," said Locke. "Aye. Same but different."

"Jabril," said Locke, raising his voice, "in time, as we come to know one another's strengths, we can hold proper votes for some of the officers we'll need. For now, I'm naming you acting mate." "Mate of what?"

"Mate of whatever." Locke grinned and slapped him on the back. "I'm not in the navy any more, remember? You'll answer to Jerome. Keep the men in order. Take the weapons from that soldier tied to the dock, just in case we need to pull a little steel this evening. I don't expect a fight, but we should be ready."

"Good evening, Captain Ravelle," said Caldris. "I see you" ve fetched them out just as you planned."

"Aye," said Locke. "Jabril, this is Caldris, my sailing master. Caldris, Jabril is acting mate under Jerome. Listen to me!" Locke raised his voice without shouting, lest it echo across the water to unseen ears. "I came with a boat for six. I have a boat for forty nearby. I need two men to help me row. Won't be half an hour, and then we'll be away."

Two younger prisoners stepped forward, looking eager for anything that would relieve the tedium of what thed'r been through.

"Right," said Locke as he stepped down into their little boat, after Caldris and the two sailors. "Jerome, Jabril, keep order and quiet. Try to sort out those that can work right away from those that will need a few days to recover their strength."

Anchored half a mile out from the Windward Rock was a long launch, invisible in the moonlight until Caldris's lantern found it from about fifty yards away. Locke and Caldris worked quickly to rig the boat's small sail; then, slowly but surely, they steered their way back toward the Rock with the two ex-prisoners rowing the little boat beside them. Locke glanced around nervously, spotting a sail or two gleaming palely on the far horizons, but nothing closer.

"Listen well," he said when the launch was tied up below the dock and surrounded by his would-be crew. He was pleasantly surprised at how quickly thed'r settled down to the business at hand. Of course, that made sense — they were the crews of impounded ships, not hardcases imprisoned for individual crimes. It didn't make saints of them, but it was nice to have something unforeseen working in his favour for once.

"Able hands take the oars. Don't be shy if you're less than able for the time being; I know some of you have been down there too damn long. Just sit in the middle of the launch and take it easy. You can recover yourselves on the voyage out. We've plenty to eat."

That lent them some cheer. Once at sea, Locke knew, the state of their rations might easily approach that of the prison slop they were leaving behind, but for a fair few days thed'r have a supply of fresh meat and vegetables to look forward to.

In good order the former prisoners clambered aboard the launch; soon the gunwales were lined with those claiming to be able-bodied and oars were being slipped into their locks. Jabril took the bow, waving up at Locke and Caldris when all was in readiness.

"Right," said Locke. "The Messenger is anchored south of the Sword Marina on the seaward side, wanting nothing save her crew. One guard stands watch for the night, and I'll deal with him. Just follow us and go aboard once I" ve done that; the nets are lowered over the side and the defences are stowed."

Locke took the bow of the small boat and struck what he hoped was an appropriately regal posture. Jean and Caldris took the oars, and the last two prisoners sat at the stern, one of them holding Caldris's lantern.

"Say farewell to the Windward Rock, boys," said Locke. "And bid fuck-you to the Archon of Tal Verrar. We're bound for sea."

10

A shadow within shadows watched the two boats depart.

Merrain moved out of her position beside the tower and gave a small wave as the low, grey shapes diminished into the south. She loosed the black silk scarf that had covered her lower face and pushed back the hood of her black jacket; she had lain in the shadows beside the tower for nearly two hours, waiting patiently for Kosta and de Ferra to finish their business. Her own boat was stashed beneath a rocky overhang on the east side of the island, little more than a cockleshell of treated leather over a wood frame. Even in moonlight, it was all but invisible on the water. She padded quietly into the entrance hall of the prison, finding the two guards much where she expected, carelessly strewn about in the grip of Witfrost sleep. True to the Archon's wishes, Kosta and de Ferra had prevented anyone from harming them.

"Alas for that," she whispered, kneeling over the lieutenant and running a gloved finger across his cheeks. "You're a handsome one."

She sighed, slipped a knife from its sheath within her jacket and cut the man's throat with one quick slash. Moving back to avoid the growing pool of blood, she wiped the blade on the guard's breeches and contemplated the woman lying across the entrance hall.

The two atop the tower could live; it wouldn't be plausible for anyone to have climbed the stairs and gone for them. But she could do the one on the dock, the two here and the one who was supposed to be downstairs.

That would be enough, she reckoned — it wasn't that she desired Kosta and de Ferra to fail. But if they did return successful in their mission, what was to stop Stragos from assigning them another task? His poison made tools of them indefinitely. And if they could return victorious, well… men like that were better off dead if they couldn't be put to use on behalf of the interests she served.

Resolved, she set about finishing the job. The thought that for once it would be entirely painless was a comfort in her work.

11

"Captain Ravelle!"

The soldier was one of those hand-picked by the Archon to be in on some part of the deception. He feigned surprise as Locke appeared on the Red Messenger's deck, followed by Jean, Caldris and the two ex-prisoners. The launch full of men was just butting up against the ship's starboard side. "I didn't expect you back this evening, sir… Sir, what's going on?"

"I have reached a decision," said.Locke, approaching the soldier. "This ship is too fine a thing for the Archon to have. So I am relieving him of its care and taking it to sea." "Now hold on… hold on, sir, that's not funny."

"Depends on where you're standing," said Locke. He stepped up and delivered a feigned punch to the soldier's stomach. "Depends on if you're standing." By arrangement, the man did a very credible impression of having received a devastating blow and fell backwards to the deck, writhing. Locke grinned. Let his new crew whisper of that among themselves.

The crew in question had just started to come up the boarding nets on the starboard side. Locke relieved the soldier of his sword, buckler and knives, then joined Jean and Caldris at the rail to help the men up.

"What's to be done with the launch, Captain?" Jabril spoke as he came over the side.

"It's too damn big to carry with us on this little bitch," said Locke. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the "subdued" guard. "We'll set him adrift in it. Jerome!" "Aye, sir," said Jean.

"Get everyone up and muster all hands at the waist. Master Caldris! You know the vessel best for now; give us light."

Caldris fetched alchemical lamps from a locker near the wheel, and with Locke's help he hung them about the deck until they had more than enough soft, golden light to work by. Jean produced his little whistle and blew three short blasts. In moments, he had the crew herded into the middle of the ship's waist, before the mainmast. Before them all, Locke stood, stripped off his Verrari officer's coat and pitched it over the side. They applauded.

"Now we must have haste without carelessness," he said. "Those of you who do not believe yourselves fit for work, hands up! No shame, lads."

Locke counted nine hands. Most of the men who raised them were visibly aged or far too slender for good health, and Locke nodded. "We hold no grudge for your honesty. You'll take up your share of work once you're fit again. For now, find a spot on the main deck below, or beneath the forecastle. There's mats and canvas in the main hold. You may sleep or watch the fun as you see fit. Now, can anyone among you claim to be any sort of cook?" One of the men standing behind Jabril raised a hand.

"Good. When the anchor's up, get below and have a look at the stores. We've a brick firebox at the forecastle, plus an alchemical stone and a cauldron. We'll want a hell of a meal once we're out past the glass reefs, so show some initiative. And tap a cask of ale."

The men began cheering at that, and Jean blew his whistle to quiet them down.

"Come, now!" Locke pointed to the darkness of the Elderglass island looming behind them. "The Sword Marina's just the other side of that island, and we're not away yet. Jerome! Capstan bars and stand by to haul up anchor. Jabril! Fetch rope from Caldris and help me with this fellow."

Together, Locke and Jabril hoisted the "incapacitated" soldier to his feet. Locke tied a loose but very convincing knot around his hands with a scrap of rope provided by Caldris; once they were gone, the man could work himself free in minutes. "Don't kill me, Captain, please," the soldier muttered.

"I would never," said Locke. "I need you to carry a message to the Archon on my behalf. Tell him that he may kiss Orrin Ravelle's arse, that my commission is herewith resigned and that the only flag his pretty ship will fly from now on is red."

Locke and Jabril hoisted the man over the side of the entry port and dropped him the nine feet into the bottom of the launch. He yelped in (no doubt genuine) pain and rolled over, but seemed otherwise okay.

"Use those exact words," Locke cried, and Jabril laughed. "Now! Master Caldris, we shall make for sea!"

"Very good, Captain Ravelle." Caldris collared the four men nearest to him and began leading them below. Under his guidance, they would keep the anchor cable moving smoothly toward its tier on the orlop. "Jerome," said Locke, "hands to the capstan to raise anchor!"

Locke and Jabril joined all the remaining able-bodied members of the crew at the capstan, where the last of the heavy wooden bars were being slid into their apertures. Jean blew on his whistle and the men crammed together shoulder to shoulder on the bars.

"Raise anchor! Step-and-on! Step-and-on! Push it hard, she'll be up ere long!" Jean chanted at the top of his lungs, giving them a cadence to stamp and shove by. The men strained at the capstan, many of them weaker than they would have liked or admitted, but the mechanism began to turn and the smell of wet cable filled the air.

"Heave-and-up! Heave-and-up! Drop the anchor and we'll all be fucked!"

Soon enough they managed to heave the anchor up out of the water and Jean sent a party forward to the starboard bow to secure it. Most of the men stepped away from the capstan groaning and stretching, and Locke smiled. Even his old injuries still felt good after the exercise.

"Now," he shouted, "who among you sailed this ship when she was the Fortunate Venture} Step aside."

Fourteen men, including Jabril, separated themselves from the others. "And who among you were fair topmen?" That got him seven raised hands; good enough for the time being.

"Any of you not familiar with this ship nonetheless comfortable up above?"

Four more men stepped forward, and Locke nodded. "Good lads. You know where you'll be, then." He grabbed one of the non-topmen by the shoulder and steered him toward the bow. "For" ard watch. Let me know if anything untoward pops up in front of us." He grabbed another man and pointed to the mainmast. "Get a glass from Caldris; you'll be masthead watch for now. Don't look at me like that — you won't be fucking with the rigging. Just sit still and stay awake.

"Master Caldris," he bellowed, noting that the sailing master was back on deck, "south-east by east through the reef passage called Underglass!"

"Aye, sir, Underglass. I know the very one." Caldris, naturally, had plotted their course through the glass reefs in advance and carefully instructed Locke in the orders to give until they were out of sight of Tal Verrar. "South-east by east."

Jean gestured at the eleven men who'd volunteered for duty up on the heights of the yardarms, where the furled sails waited, hanging in the moonlight like the thin cocoons of vast insects. "Hands aloft to loose topsails and t" gallants! On the word, mind you!"

"Master Caldris," shouted Locke, unable to disguise his mirth, "now we shall see if you know your business!"

The Red Messenger moved south under topsails and topgallants, making fair use of the stiff breeze blowing west off the mainland. Her bow sliced smoothly through the calm, dark waters, and the deck beneath their feet heeled only the tiniest bit to starboard. It was a good start, thought Locke — a good start to a mad venture. When he had settled most of his crew in temporary positions, he stole a few minutes at the taffrail, watching the reflections of two moons in the gentle ripple of their wake.

"You're enjoying the hell out of yourself, Captain Ravelle." Jean stepped up to the taffrail beside him. The two thieves shook hands and grinned at one another.

"I suppose I am," Locke whispered. "I suppose this is the most lunatic thing we've ever done, and so we're entitled to bloody well enjoy ourselves." "Crew seems to have bought the act for now."

"Well, they're still fresh from the vault. Tired, underfed, excited. We'll see how sharp they are when they" ve had a few days of food and exercise. Gods, at least I didn't call anything by the wrong name." "Hard to believe we're actually doing this."

"I know. Barely feels real yet. Captain Ravelle. First Mate Valora. Hell, you" ve got it easy. I" ve got to get used to people calling me "Orrin". You get to stay a "Jerome"."

"I saw little sense in making things harder for myself. I" ve got you to do that for me." "Careful, now. I can order you whipped at the rail."

"Ha! A navy captain could, maybe. A pirate first mate doesn't have to stand for that." Jean sighed. "You think we'll ever see land again?"

"I damn well mean to," said Locke. "We've got pirates to piss off, a happy return to arrange, Stragos to humble, antidotes to find and Requin to rob blind. Two months at sea and I may even begin to have the faintest notion how."

They stared for a while at Tal Verrar sliding away behind them, at the aura of the Golden Steps and the torch-glow of the Sinspire slowly vanishing behind the darker mass of the city's south-western crescent. Then they were passing through the navigational channel in the glass reefs, away to the Sea of Brass, away to danger and piracy. Away to find war and bring it back for the Archon's convenience.

12

"Sail ahoy! Sail two points off the larboard bow!"

The cry filtered down from above on the third morning of their voyage south. Locke sat in his cabin, regarding his blurry reflection in the dented little mirror he'd packed in his chest. Before departure, he'd used a bit of alchemy from his disguise kit to restore his hair to its, natural colour, and now a fine shadow in much the same shade was appearing on his cheeks. He wasn't yet sure if he'd shave it, but with the shout from above his concern for his beard vanished. In a moment he was out of the cabin, up the awkward steps of the dim companionway and into the bright light of morning on the quarterdeck.

A haze of high white clouds veiled the blue sky, like wisps of tobacco smoke that had drifted far from the pipes of their progenitors. Thed'r had the wind on their larboard beam since reaching open sea, and the Red Messenger was heeled over slightly to starboard. The constant swaying and creaking and deck-slanting were utterly alien to Locke, who'd been confined to a cabin by infirmity on his last — and only previous — sea voyage. He flattered himself that the trained agility of a thief went some way toward feigning sea legs, but he avoided scampering around too much, just in case. At least he appeared to be immune to seasickness this time out, and for that he thanked the Crooked Warden fervently. Many aboard had not been so lucky. "What passes, Master Caldris?"

"Compliments of a fine morning, Captain, and the masthead watch says we got white canvas two points off the larboard bow."

Caldris had the wheel to himself that morning, and he drew light puffs from a cheap sheaf of cut-rate tobacco, which stank like sulphur. Locke wrinkled his nose.

Sighing inwardly and stepping with as much care as he could manage, Locke brought out his seeing-glass and hurried forward, up the forecastle and to the rail on the larboard bow. Yes, there it was — hull down, a minute speck of white, barely visible above the dark blue of the distant horizon. When he returned to the quarterdeck, Jabril and several other sailors were lounging around, waiting for his verdict.

"Do we give her the eyeball, Captain?" Jabril sounded merely expectant, but the men behind him looked downright eager.

"Looking for an early taste of those equal shares, eh?" Locke feigned deep consideration, turning toward Caldris long enough to catch the sailing master's private signal for an emphatic "no". As Locke had expected — and he could give legitimate reasons without prompting.

"Can't do it, lads. You know better than that. We've not yet begun to set our own ship to rights; little sense in taking a fight to someone else's. A quarter of us are still unfit for work, let alone battle. We've got fresh food, a clean ship and all the time in the world. Better chances will come. Hold course, Master Caldris." "Hold course, aye."

Jabril accepted this; Locke was discovering that the man had a solid core of sense and a fair knowledge of nearly every aspect of shipboard life, which made him Locke's superior in that wise. He was a fine mate, another bit of good fortune to be grateful for. The men behind Jabril, now… Locke instinctively knew they needed some occupying task to help mitigate their disappointment. "Streva," he said to the youngest, "heave the log aft. Mai, you mind the minute-glass. Report to Master Caldris. Jabril, you know how to use a recurved bow?" "Aye, Captain. Shortbow, recurved, longbow. Decent aim with any."

"I" ve got ten of them in a locker down in the aft hold. Should be easy to find. Couple hundred arrows, too. Rig up some archery butts with canvas and straw. Mount them at the bow so nobody gets an unpleasant surprise in the arse. Start sharpening up the lads in groups, every day when the weather allows. Time comes to finally pay a visit to another ship, I'll want good archers in the tops." "Fine idea, Captain."

That, at least, appeared to restore excitement to the sailors who were still milling near the quarterdeck. Most of them followed Jabril down a hatchway to the main deck. Their interest in the matter gave Locke a further thought. "Master Valora!"

Jean was with Mirlon, their cook, scrutinizing sometliing at the little brick firebox abutting the forecastle. He waved in acknowledgement of Locke's shout.

"By sunset I want to be certain that every man aboard knows where all the weapons lockers are. Make sure of it yourself."

Jean nodded and returned to whatever he was doing. By Locke's reckoning, the idea that Captain Ravelle wanted every man to be comfortable with the ship's weapons — aside from the bows, there were hatchets, sabres, clubs and a few polearms — would be far better for morale than the thought that he would prefer keeping them locked up or hidden. "Well done," said Caldris quietly.

Mai watched the last few grains in the minute-glass bolted to the mainmast run out, then turned aft and shouted, "Hold the line!" "Seven and a half knots," Streva hollered a moment later.

"Seven and a half," said Caldris. "Very well. We've been making that more or less steady since we left Verrar. A good run."

Locke snuck a glance at the pegs sunk into the holes on Caldris's navigational board, and the compass in the binnacle, which showed them on a heading just a hair's breadth west of due south.

"A fine pace if it holds," muttered Caldris around his cigar. "Puts us in the Ghostwinds maybe two weeks from today. Don't know about the captain, but getting a few days ahead of schedule makes me very bloody comfortable."

"And will it hold?" Locke spoke as softly as he could without whispering into the sailing master's ear.

"Good question. Summer's end's an odd time on the Sea of Brass; we got storms out there somewhere. I can feel it in my bones. They" re a ways off, but they're waiting." "Oh, splendid."

"We'll make do, Captain." Caldris briefly removed his cigar, spat something brown at the deck and replaced it between his teeth. "Fact is, we're doing just fine, thank the Lord of the Grasping Waters." "Kill "im, Jabril! Get "im right in the fuckin" "eart!"

Jabril stood amidships, facing a frock coat (donated from Locke's chest) nailed to a wide board and propped up against the mainmast, about thirty feet away. Both of his feet touched a crudely chalked line on the deck planks. In his right hand was a throwing knife, and in his left was a full wine bottle, by the rules of the game.

The sailor who'd been shouting encouragement burped loudly and started stomping the deck. The circle of men around Jabril picked up the rhythm and began clapping and chanting, slowly at first, then faster and faster: "Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop! Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop] Don't spill a drop!""

Jabril flexed for the crowd, wound up and flung the knife. It struck the coat dead centre, and up went a cheer that quickly turned to howls. Jabril had sloshed some of the wine out of the bottle. "Dammit!" he cried.

" "Wine-waster" shouted one of the men gathered around him, with the fervour of a priest decrying the worst sort of blasphemy. "Pay the penalty and put it where it belongs!"

"Hey, at least I hit the coat," said Jabril with a grin. "You nearly killed someone on the quarterdeck with your throw." "Pay the price! Pay the price! Pay the price!" chanted the crowd.

Jabril put the bottle to his lips, tipped it all the way up and began to guzzle it in one go. The chanting rose in volume and tempo as the amount of wine in the bottle sank. JabriFs neck and jaw muscles strained mightily, and he raised his free hand high into the air as he sucked the last of the dark-red stuff down. The crowd applauded. Jabril pulled the bottle from his lips, lowered! his head and sprayed a mouthful of wine all over the man closest to him. "Oh no," he cried, "I spilled a drop! Ah ha ha ha ha!"

"My turn," said the drenched sailor. "I'm gonna lose on purpose and spill a drop right back, mate!"

Locke and Caldris watched from the starboard rail of the quarterdeck. Caldris was taking a rare break from the wheel; Jean currently had it. They were sailing along in a calm, muggy dusk just pleasant enough for Caldris to separate himself from the ship's precious helm by half a dozen paces. "This was a good idea," said Locke.

"Poor bastards have been under the boot for so long, they deserve a good debauch." Caldris was smoking a pale-blue ceramic pipe, the finest and most delicate thing Locke had ever seen in his hands, and his face was lit by the soft glow of embers.

At Caldris's suggestion, Locke had had large quantities of wine and beer (the Red Messenger was amply provisioned with both, and for a crew twice this size) hauled up on deck, and he'd offered a choice of indulgences to every man on board. A double-ration of fresh roasted pork — courtesy of the small but well-larded pig thed'r brought with them — for those who would stay sober and on watch, and a drunken party for those who wouldn't. Caldris, Jean and Locke were sober, of course, along with four hands who'd chosen the pork.

"It's things like this that make a ship feel like home," said Caldris. "Help you forget what a load of tedious old shit life out here can be." "It's not so bad," said Locke, a bit wistfully.

"Aye, says the captain of the fuckin" ship, on a night sent by the gods." He drew smoke and blew it out over the rail. "Well, if we can arrange a few more nights like this, it'll be bloody grand. Quiet moments are worth more than whips and manacles for discipline, mark my words."

Locke gazed out across the black waves and was startled to see a pale white-green shape, glowing like an alchemical lantern, leap up from the waves and splash back down a few seconds later. The arc of its passage left an iridescent after-image when he blinked. "Gods," he said, "what the hell is that}"

There was a fountain of the things now, about a hundred yards from the ship. They flew silently after one another, appearing and disappearing above the surf, casting their ghostly light on black water that returned it like a mirror. "You really are new to these waters," said Caldris. "Those are flit-wraiths, Kosta. South of Tal Verrar, you see "em all about. Sometimes in great schools, or arches leapin" over the water. Over ships. They" ve been known to follow us about. But only after dark, mind you." "Are they some kind offish?"

"Nobody rightly knows," said Caldris. "Flit-wraiths can't be caught. They can't be touched, as I hear it. They fly right through nets, like they was ghosts. Maybe they are." "Eerie," said Locke.

"You get used to "em after a few years," said Caldris. He drew smoke from his pipe and the orange glow strengthened momentarily. "The Sea of Brass is a damned strange place, Kosta. Some say it's haunted by the Eldren. Most say it's just plain haunted. I" ve seen things. Saint Corella's Fire, burnin" blue and red up on the yardarms, scaring the piss outta the top-watch. I sailed over seas like glass and seen… a city, once. Down below, not kidding. Walls and towers, white stone. Plain as day, right beneath our hull. In waters that our charts put at a thousand fathoms. Real as my nose, it was, then gone."

"Heh," said Locke, smiling. "You're pretty good at this. You don't have to toy with me, Caldris."

"I'm not toying with you one bit, Kosta." Caldris frowned, and his face took on a sinister cast in the pipe-light. "I'm telling you what to expect. Flit-wraiths is just the beginning. Hell, flit-wraiths is almost friendly. There's things out there even I have trouble believing. And there's places no sensible ship's master will ever go. Places that are… wrong, somehow. Places that wait for you."

"Ah," said Locke, recalling his desperate early years in the old and rotten places of Camorr and a thousand looming, broken buildings that had seemed to wait in darkness to swallow small children. "Now there I grasp your meaning."

"The Ghostwind Isles," said Caldris, "well, they're the worst of all. In fact, there's only eight or nine islands human beings have actually set foot on and come back to tell about it. But gods know how many more are hiding down there, under the fogs, or what the fuck's on "em." He paused before continuing, "You ever hear of the three settlements of the Ghostwinds?" "I don't think so," said Locke.

"Well." Caldris took another long puff on his pipe. "Originally there was three. Settlers out of Tal Verrar touched there about a hundred years ago. Founded Port Prodigal, Montierre and Hope-of-Silver. Port Prodigal's still there, of course. Only one left. Montierre was doing well until the war against the Free Armada. Prodigal's tucked well back in a fine defensive position; Montierre wasn't. After we did for their fleet, we paid a visit. Burned their fishing boats, poisoned their wells, sank their docks. Torched everything standing, then torched the ashes. Might as well have just rubbed the name "Montierre" off the map. Place ain't worth resettling." "And Hope-of-Silver?"

"Hope-of-Silver," said Caldris, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Fifty years ago, Hope-of-Silver was larger than Port Prodigal. On a different island, farther west. Thriving. That silver wasn't just a hope. Three hundred families, give or take. Whatever happened, happened in one night. Those three hundred families, just… gone." "Gone?"

"Gone. Vanished. Not a body to be found. Not a bone for birds to pick at. Something came down from those hills, out of that fog above the jungle, and gods know what it was, but it took "em all." "Merciful hells."

"If only," said Caldris. "A ship or two poked around after it happened. They found one ship from Hope-of-Silver itself, drifting offshore, like it" d put out in a real hurry. On it, they found the only bodies left from the whole mess. A few sailors. All the way up the masts, up at the very tops." Caldris sighed. "Thed'r lashed themselves there to escape whatever thed'r seen… and they were all found dead by their own weapons. Even where they were, they killed themselves rather than face whatever was comin" for "em.

"So pay attention to this, Master Kosta." Caldris gestured at the circle of relaxed and rowdy sailors, drinking and throwing knives by the light of alchemical globes. "You sail a sea where shit like that happens, you can see the value of making your ship a happy home." "Need a word, Captain Ravelle."

A day had passed. The air was still warm and the sun still beat down with palpable force when not behind the clouds, but the seas were higher and the wind stiffer. The Red Messenger lacked the mass to knife deep into the turbulent waves without shuddering, and so the deck beneath Locke's feet became even less of a friend.

Jabril — recovered from his close engagement with a wine bottle — and a pair of older sailors approached Locke as he stood by the starboard rail late in the afternoon, holding tight and trying to look casual. Locke recognized the older sailors as men who'd declared themselves unfit at the start of the voyage; days of rest and large portions had done them good. Locke, in light of the ship's understrength complement, had recently authorized extra rations at every meal. The notion was popular. "What do you need, Jabril?" "Cats, Captain."

The bottom fell out of Locke's stomach. With heroic effort, he managed to look merely puzzled. "What about them?"

"We been down on the main deck," said one of the older sailors. "Sleeping, mostly. Ain't seen no cats yet. Usually the little buggers are crawlin" around, doin" tricks, lookin" to curl up on us."

"I asked around," said Jabril. "Nobody" s seen even one. Not on the main deck, not up here, not on the orlop. Not even in the bilges. You keepin" "em in your cabin?"

"No," said Locke, picturing with perfect clarity the sight of eight cats (including Caldris's kitten) lounging contentedly in an empty armoury shack above their private bay back at the Sword Marina. Eight cats sparring and yowling over bowls of cream and plates of cold chicken.

Eight cats who were undoubtedly still lounging in that shack, right where he'd forgotten them, the night of the fateful assault on the Windward Rock. Five days and seven hundred miles behind them.

"Kittens," he said quickly. "I got a pack of kittens for this trip, Jabril. I reckoned a ship with a new name could do with new cats. And I can tell you they're a hell of a shy bunch -1 myself haven't seen one since I dumped them on the orlop. I expect they're just getting used to us. We'll see them soon enough."

"Aye, sir." Locke was surprised at the relief visible on the faces of the three sailors. "That's good to hear. Bad enough we got no women aboard until we get to the Ghostwinds; no cats would be plain awful."

"Couldn't tolerate no such offence," whispered one of the older sailors.

"We'll put out some meat every night," said Jabril. "We'll keep poking around the decks. I'll let you know soon as we find one." "By all means," said Locke.

Seasickness had nothing to do with his sudden urge to throw up over the side the moment they were gone. On the evening of their fifth day out from Tal Verrar, Caldris sat down for a private conversation in Locke's cabin with the door bolted.

"We're doing well," the sailing master said, though Locke could see dark circles like bruises under his eyes. The old man had slept barely four hours a day since thed'r reached the sea, unable to trust the wheel to Locke or Jean's care without supervision. He" d finally cultivated a fairly responsible master's mate, a man called Bald Mazucca, but even he was lacking in lore and could only be trained a little each day, with Caldris's attention so divided.

They continued to be blessed by the behaviour of the rest of the crew. The men were still fresh with vigour for any sort of work following their escape from prison. A half-arsed carpenter and a decent sailmaker had been found, and one of Jabril's friends had been optimistically voted quartermaster, in charge of counting and dividing plunder when it came. The infirm were gaining health with speed, and several had already joined watches. Lastly, the men no longer gathered to stare nervously across the ship's wake, looking for any hint of pursuit on the sea behind them. They seemed to think that they had evaded Stragos" retribution… and of course they could never be told that none would be forthcoming.

"This is your doing," said Locke, patting Caldris on the shoulder. He berated himself for not thinking beforehand of what a strain the voyage would put on the older man. Mazucca would have to be shaped more quickly, and he and Jean would need to pick up whatever slack they could in their inept fashion. "Even with a glassy sea and a fine breeze, there's no way in hell we" d have pulled this off so far without you."

"Strong weather coming, though," said Caldris. "Weather that will test us. Summer's end, like I said, shit blows up that's like to knock you halfway "round the world. Might spend days riding it out with bare poles, throwing up until there ain't a dry spot in the holds." The sailing master sighed, then gave Locke a curious look. "Speaking of holds, I heard the damnedest things the past day or two." "Oh?" Locke tried to sound nonchalant. "Ain't nobody seen a cat, not on any of the decks. Not a one has come up from wherever they are, not for anything, ale or milk or eggs or meat." Sudden suspicion clouded his brow. "There are cats down there… right?"

"Ah," said Locke. His sympathy for Caldris from a moment earlier remained like a weight on his heart. For once, he found himself completely unwilling to lie, and he massaged his eyes with his fingers as he spoke. "Ah. No, the cats are all safe and sound in their shack in the Sword Marina, right where I left them. Sorry."

"You fucking jest," said Caldris in a flat, dead voice. "Come now. Don't bloody lie to me about this."

"I'm not." Locke spread his palms before him and shrugged. "I know you told me it was important. I just… I had a hundred things to do that night. I meant to fetch them, honest."

"Important? I told you it was important} I told you it was fucking critical, is what I told you!" Caldris kept his voice at a whisper, but it was like the sound of water boiling against hot coals. Locke winced. "You have imperilled our souls, Master Kosta, our very gods-damned souls. We have no women and no cats and no proper captain, I remind you, and hard weather sits upon our course." "Sorry, honestly"

"Honestly, indeed. I was a fool to send a land-sucker to fetch cats. I should have sent cats to fetch me a land-sucker! They wouldn't have disappointed me." "Now, surely, when we reach Port Prodigal—"

"When is an audacious assumption, Leocanto, for long before then the crew will cop wise to the fact that our cats are not merely shy, but imaginary. If they decide the cats have died off, they will just assume that we are cursed and abandon the ship when we touch land. If, however, the absence of smelly little bodies leads them to deduce that their fuckin" captain in fact brought none, they will hang you from a yardarm." "Ouch."

"You think I jest? They will mutiny. If we see another sail on that horizon, in any direction, we must give chase. We must bring a fight. You know why? So we can take some of their bloody cats. Before it's too late."

Caldris sighed before continuing, and suddenly looked ten years older. "If it's a summer's-end storm coming up on us," said Caldris, "it'll be moving north and west, faster than we can sail. We'll have to pass through it, for we cannot outrun it by beating up to the east. It'll catch us still, and it'll only catch us tired. I'll do my damnedest, but you" d better pray in your cabin tonight for one thing." "What's that?" "Cats falling from the bloody sky."

16

Of course, no convenient rain of screeching felines was forthcoming that night, and when Locke made his first appearance on the quarterdeck the next morning, there was an ugly ghost-grey haze looming on the southern horizon like the shadow of an angry god. The bright medallion of the sun rising in the otherwise clear sky only made it look more sinister. The starboard heel of the deck was yet more pronounced, and walking to anywhere on the larboard bow felt almost like going up a small hill. Waves slapped the hull and were pulverized to spray, filling the air with the smell and taste of salt.

Jean was drilling a small group of sailors with swords and polearms at the ship's waist, and Locke nodded knowingly, as though he caught every nuance of their practice and approved. He toured the deck of the Red Messenger, greeting sailors by name, and tried to ignore the feeling that Caldris's gaze was burning holes in the back of his tunic.

"A fine morning to you, Captain," muttered the sailing master when Locke approached the wheel. Caldris looked ghoulish in the bright sunlight: his hair and beard washed whiter, his eyes sunken in deeper shadow, every fine on his face newly re-etched by die hand of whatever god claimed him. "Did you sleep last night, Master Caldris?" "I found myself strangely unable, Captain." "You must rest sometime."

"Aye, and the ship must generally stay above the waves, or so I" ve heard it suggested."

Locke sighed, faced the bow and studied the darkening southern sky. "A summer's-end storm, I daresay. Been through enough of them in my time." He spoke loudly and casually. "Soon enough you'll be in one more, Captain."

Locke spent the afternoon counting stores in the main hold with Mai as his scribe, marking little lines on a wax tablet. They ducked and weaved through a forest of salted meat in treated cloth sacks, hung from the beams in the hold and swaying steadily with the increasing motion of the ship. The hold was danker already from constant occupation by the crew; those who had been inclined to sleep in the more open space beneath the forecastle had abandoned it as the promise of hard weather had loomed. Locke was certain he smelled piss; someone was either too lazy or too frightened to crawl out and use the craplines. That could get ugly.

The whole sky was a cataract of haze-grey by the fourth hour of the afternoon. Caldris, slumped against the mast for a brief respite while Bald Mazucca and another sailor held the wheel, ordered sails trimmed and lanterns passed around from the storm-lockers. Jean andjabril led parties belowdecks to ensure that their cargo and equipment was all properly stowed. A weapons locker flying open, or a barrel tumbling around in a rocking ship, would send hapless sailors to meet the gods.

After dinner, at Caldris's whispered insistence, Locke ordered those sailors who'd dipped into the ship's store of tobacco to smoke their last until further notice. Open flames would no longer be tolerated anywhere; alchemical lanterns would provide all of their light and they would use the hearthslab or — more likely — take cold meals. Locke promised an extra half of a wine ration each night if that became necessary.

A premature darkness had infused the sky by the time Locke and Jean could sit down for a quiet drink in the stern cabin. Locke closed the shutters over his stern windows and the compartment felt smaller than ever. Locke regarded the dubious comforts of this symbol of Ravelle's authority: a padded hammock against the larboard bulkhead, a pair of stools, his sword and knives hung on the wall by storm-clasps. Their "table" was a flat wooden board atop Locke's chest. Sad as it was, it was princely compared to the glorified closets claimed by Jean and Caldris, or the way the men burrowed in cargo and canvas matting on the main deck. "I'm so sorry about the cats," said Locke.

"I could have remembered as well," said Jean. Unspoken was the obvious statement that he'd trusted Locke enough not to feel that he needed to concern himself. Jean might be doing his best to stay polite, but guilt twisted in Locke's stomach more sharply for it.

"No sharing this blame," said Locke, sipping his warm ale. "I'm the captain of the bloody ship." "Don't be grandiose." Jean scratched his belly, which had been

J

reduced by his recent activity to a much less dramatic curve than it had once possessed. "We'll think of something. Hell, if we spend a few days ploughing through a storm, the men won't have time to worry about anything except when and how hard to piss their breeches."

"Hmmm. Storm. Fine opportunity for one of us to misstep and look a fool in front of the men. More likely to be me than you."

"Stop brooding."Jean grinned. "Caldris knows what he's doing. He'll haul us through somehow."

There was a sudden heavy impact on the cabin door. Locke and Jean jumped up from their stools in unison and Locke darted for his weapons. Jean shouted, "What passes?"

"Kosta," came a faint voice, followed by a feeble rattling, as though someone was trying and failing to work the latch.

Jean pulled the door open just as Locke finished buckling on his sword-belt. Caldris stood at the bottom of the companionway, clutching the doorframe for support, swaying on his feet. The amber glow of Locke's cabin-lamp revealed wretched details: Caldris's eyes were bloodshot and rolling upward, his mouth hung open and his waxy skin was glazed with sweat.

"Help, Kosta," he whispered, wheezing with a sound that was painful just to hear.

Jean grabbed him and held him up. "Damn," he muttered. "He's not just tired, Leo— Captain. He needs a bloody physiker!"

"Help me… Kosta," moaned the sailing master. He clawed at his left upper arm with his right hand, and then at his left breast. He squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

"Help you?" Locke put a hand beneath Caldris's chin; the man's pulse was wild and erratic. "What do you mean, help you?"

"No." Caldris grimaced with concentration, sucking in a harsh breath between each word. "Help. Me. Kosta!"

"Lay him on the table," said Jean, and together he and Locke pressed the old man down onto his back. "Sweet gods," said Locke, "is it the poison? I don't feel any different."

"Nor I," said Jean. "I think… I think his heart is seizing up. I" ve seen it before. Shit. If we can calm him down, maybe get him to drink something—"

But Caldris moaned again, dug feebly at the left side of his chest with both hands and shuddered. His hands fell limp. One long, strangled exhalation escaped from his throat and Locke, in rising horror, felt frantically around the base of his neck with the fingers of both hands. "His pulse is gone," Locke whispered.

A soft rattle on the cabin roof, gentle at first but quickly rising in tempo, told them that the first drops of rain were beginning to fall on the ship. Caldris's eyes, fixed on the ceiling, were lifeless as glass. "Oh, shit," said Jean.