SIX DAYS AGO. He died WITHOUT ISSUE and without lawful heir! A war of secession is now under way!
“The Canton of EMBERLAIN, easternmost of the Seven Marrows, has EXILED its ruling graf and declared itself to be a SOVEREIGN REPUBLIC! The Konseil of Karthain DECLINES to formally recognize Emberlain at this time, and strongly advises citizens of Karthain to AVOID all travel in the north until the situation stabilizes!”
“Holy hells,” said Locke. “Sabetha was right! The Marrows finally busted up. Gods, what a mess that’s going to be.”
“We won’t be able to pull the Austershalin brandy scam again,” said Jean. “Not for a good long while.”
“There’ll be other opportunities,” said Locke wistfully. “If it’s war, desperate people are going to be moving a lot of valuable things. But come on, we’ve got to move ourselves.”
They spurred their tired mounts down a broad avenue to the west, over a shaking and sighing glass bridge, through the Court of the Divines with its incense haze, and onto the Evening Terrace. It seemed surreal to be back on clean streets, among lush gardens and bubbling fountains, as though Karthain were more of a recurring dream than a real place.
Outside the Sign of the Black Iris, they aroused immediate interest. At least two watchers, unmistakably real, flashed hand signs to dark shapes on roofs. A fleet-footed child darted into the alley beside Sabetha’s headquarters. Locke led their bedraggled horses to a curbside spot more commonly used for carriages, and when he hopped down a cloud of road dust floated off his boots. He wobbled and nearly pitched over before seizing control of himself. His legs felt like prickly jelly. His horse, less than endeared to him, flicked its ears and snapped its teeth.
“These animals are the personal property of Verena Gallante,” Locke said to the anxious-looking footman. “She wants them well looked after.”
“But sir, if you please—”
“I don’t. Get them stabled.” Locke shoved past the man and reached for the door to the foyer, but Jean pushed his hand aside and went first.
Inside were the two alley-hounds Locke had seen last time.
“Oh, hell,” said the closest one. Jean was already inside his guard. A variety of fast, noisy, and painful things happened, none of them to Locke or Jean. As one guard hit the floor, Jean pitched his comrade facefirst through the lobby doors like a battering ram. Then the Gentlemen Bastards followed.
Here was Vordratha, impeccably dressed and with a fresh black iris pinned to his jacket, backed by four guards with truncheons in hand. Better-dressed people scattered for the doors and staircases behind them.
“Gentlemen,” said the majordomo, peering at the guard who’d just landed at his feet, “this is a members- only establishment with firm rules against rendering the help unconscious.”
“Your game now, Lazari,” said Jean.
“Thanks.” Locke put his hands up to show they were empty. “Please take us to Mistress Gallante immediately.”
“Now how can I do that, gentlemen, when you’ll be headed out the alley door presently with bruises on your skulls?”
“We’d really like to see her.” Before the guards could crowd in, Locke moved up to Vordratha, reached down to the man’s breeches, grabbed his balls through the silk, and gave them a considerable twist. “Or we’d like to see your physiker’s face when he gets a look at the bruises from this.”
Vordratha moaned, and his face turned shades of a color rarely seen outside of vineyards at harvest time. The guards edged forward, but Locke held up his free hand.
“Call your friends off,” said Locke. “I’m not a strong man, but I don’t have to be, do I? I’ll twist this thing so tight you’ll piss corkscrews for the next twenty years!”
“Do as he says, gods damn you,” gasped Vordratha.
“Simply take us to Verena,” said Locke, watching as the guards slowly backed away, “and I’ll return your valuable property to you without lasting damage.”
It was an awkward shuffle, with Vordratha stumbling backward and Locke maintaining his tight, twisted grip on the majordomo’s hopes of procreation, but it did the job of keeping the guards at bay.
“Well, how now, asshole?” said Locke. “No little quips for us? I’ve never steered a fellow along by his loot sack before. Sort of like steering a boat by the tiller.”
“Camorri dog … your mother … sucked—”
“If you finish that thought,” said Locke, “I’ll wind your precious bits tighter than a bowstring.”
Vordratha led Locke and Jean up a flight of stairs to the private dining hall where they’d met Sabetha before. The guards maintained a respectful distance, but followed en masse. Vordratha bumped the door to the hall open with his backside, and Locke saw that Sabetha was already waiting for them.
She was dressed sensibly for anything from signing papers to diving out windows, in black breeches, a short brown jacket, and riding boots. Her hair was wound around lacquered pins; doubtless they contained tricks or weapons or both. Behind her were three more guards, armed with coshes and bucklers.
“Hello again, Verena,” said Locke. “We were in the neighborhood and thought we’d investigate persistent rumors that Master Vordratha has no balls.”
“Isn’t this a bit crude, even by your relaxed standards?” said Sabetha.
“I suppose having your boot-print embedded in my ass makes me cranky,” said Locke. “Tell your friends to go away.”
“Oh, that sounds lovely! Shall I tie myself up for you as well?”
“We just want to talk.”
“Release Vordratha and we’ll talk as long as you like.”
“The instant I release Vordratha, all hell’s going to break loose. I’m not stupid. For a change.”
“I promise—”
“HA,” shouted Locke. “Please.”
“We have no basis for trust, then.”
“
“This is getting personal.” Sabetha glared at him with real irritation. She was always less in control of herself when pushed, a hot anger in direct contrast to Jean’s cold fury. Locke had spent years desperately straining to read her, and he saw now that she had no clever plan for ending this standoff. His own position—his safety assured only so long as he could keep a grip on another man’s privates—suddenly struck him as painfully ridiculous.
“I want to speak to you,” he said, slowly. “Nothing more. I won’t harm you or try to take you from this place. I swear it absolutely on the souls of two men we both loved.”
“What could you—”
With his free hand, Locke made two of the old private signals.
Sabetha stared at him; then something broke behind her eyes. Relief? At any rate, she nodded.
“Everyone out,” she said. “Nobody lays a hand on these men without my orders. Release Vordratha.”
Locke did. The majordomo slumped to the ground and curled up in a half-moon of misery. Sabetha’s guards slowly backed out of the room behind her, and Jean crouched over Vordratha.
“I’ll get him out of here,” he said. “I think you two want some privacy.”
In a moment, Jean had carried the slender Vadran out the way they’d come, and Locke was once again facing Sabetha in an empty room.
“We can’t just use those names as magic words every time we find ourselves at cross-purposes,” she said.
“I know. But it’s not my fault I even had to—”
“Spare me.”
“NO!” Locke trembled with hunger, adrenaline, and emotion. “I will not be shrugged off! I will not have my feelings pushed aside for the convenience of whatever pose you think you’re adopting here.”
“Your
“You used me.”
