“Ah, damn everything,” Locke muttered, crumpling the parchment and stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “Gods damn everything.” He collapsed back into his chair, brows knit, and let his gaze wander aimlessly over the wall. The most awkward sort of silence settled over the room, until Jean cleared his throat.
“Well, ah, Nikoros. You look like you’ve been thrashed by devils,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Business, sir, business. So much of it. And I … I … forgive me, I’m going without … the substance we’ve discussed.”
“You’re weaning yourself from that wretched dust.” Jean clapped Nikoros by the shoulders, a gesture that made the smaller man wobble like aspic. “Good! You were murdering yourself, you know.”
“The way my head feels, I half wish I’d succeeded,” said Nikoros.
Locke’s curiosity drew him back to the present, and he studied Nikoros. The Karthani was on the come- down from black alchemy for sure; Locke had seen it a hundred times. The misery would shake Nikoros for days like a cat playing with a toy. It might be wise to cut the poor fellow’s duties … or even to chain him to a wall.
“Lazari,” said Jean, “now, if that letter’s what I think it is … Is it, shall we say, a finality? Or just an interruption?”
“It’s a knife to the guts,” said Locke. “But I suppose … well, I suppose I can view it as more an interruption.”
“Good,” said Jean. “Good!”
“I suppose,” muttered Locke. Then, feeling an old familiar heat stirring in his breast: “Yes, I really do suppose! By the gods, I need noise and mischief. I need fuss and fuckery until I can’t see straight! Nikoros! What have you been doing all night?”
“Uh, well, I just came back from surveying the big mess,” said Nikoros. “Big and getting worse. Not just for us, I mean. For the whole city.”
“I’m losing my ability to tell one mess from another around here,” said Locke.
“Oh! I mean at the north gate, sirs, and the Court of Dust. All the refugees out of the north.”
“Oh. OH! Gods, the bloody war,” said Locke. “I’d half forgotten. What kind of refugees?”
“At this point, the sort with money, mostly. The ones that fled before the fighting gets anywhere near. And their guards, servants, and the like. All stacking up at inns until they can plead for residence—”
“Refugees with money, you say,” interrupted Jean. “Looking for new homes. Which is to say,
“Hells yes,” shouted Locke. “Horses, Nikoros! Three of them, now! Have a scribe and a solicitor follow us. We scoop up anyone who can pay for enfranchisement; then we find them permanent accommodations in districts where we most need the votes!”
“And they’ll be Deep Roots for life,” said Jean with a grin. “Or at least the next couple of weeks, which is all we give a damn about.”
“I, uh … I will come, sirs, I just …” Nikoros gulped and wrung his hands together. “I need a few minutes of privacy, first, if I might. I’ll, uh, meet you downstairs.”
4
THE NIGHT was cool. They rode through pale wisps of fog coiling off cobblestones like unquiet spirits, past black banners and green banners fluttering limply from balconies, through stately quiet until they reached the Court of Dust. There they found the mess Nikoros had promised.
Bluecoats were out in force, and Locke saw at once how nervous they were, how unaccustomed they must be to real surprises. Wagons were lined up haphazardly, horses snorting and flicking their tails while teamsters and stable attendants haggled. Lamps were lit in every inn and tavern bordering the court; knots of conversation and argument stood out everywhere in the uneasy crowds.
“Where the hells are we meant to go, then?” shouted a long-coated carriage hand at a tired-looking hostler. His Therin was fair, but his accent was obvious. “All these taverns are full up, now you tell me this bloody Josten’s place is closed off for your damn—”
“Your pardon, my good man,” said Locke, reining in beside the fracas. “If you have persons of quality seeking accommodations, I can be of immediate assistance.”
“Really? Who the devils might you be, then?”
“Lazari is my name.
“Oh, bless the waters deep and shallow,” answered the carriage hand in the same tongue. “I serve the honorable Irina Varosz of Stovak. We’ve been five days on the road since—”
“You’re all but home,” said Locke. “Josten’s is the place for you. Josten’s Comprehensive. I can arrange chambers; pay no heed to what you’ve been told. My man Nikoros will handle the details.”
Nikoros, barely in control of his skittish horse, approached at the snap of Locke’s fingers.
“I’m, uh, not entirely sure where I’m meant to put them,” he whispered.
“Use the chambers I’ve kept empty for security reasons,” said Locke. “We can find other places for them after a few days. Rack your brains for anyone in the party who’s got empty rooms on their hands. Hell, there’s one manor up in Vel Verda that springs to mind immediately. Might as well get some joy out of the damn place.”
Jean was already off plying his own friendly Vadran to other guards, other footmen, other curious and well-dressed strangers with road dust on their cloaks. For perhaps twenty minutes he and Locke worked together smoothly, directing minor cousins of nobility and merchants of assorted quality to Nikoros and thence to Josten’s and the bosom of the Deep Roots party.
There was a fresh stir at the southern edge of the Court of Dust. Massed hooves rang on the cobbles as some two dozen men and women in black livery rode in, led by Vordratha and a few of the bravos Locke had seen hanging around the Sign of the Black Iris.
“That’s a pain in the precious bits,” muttered Locke to Nikoros. “I was hoping for a little more time alone to make new friends. Who told these assholes to get out of bed?”
“Oh, uh, I’m sure it was only a, uh, matter of time,” coughed Nikoros.
“You’re probably right.” Locke cracked his knuckles. “Well, now we play suitors in earnest. Here come that scribe and solicitor I wanted, at least. You ride like hell back to Josten’s and help him stack our friends from the north like books on shelves!”
5
IT WAS past the ninth hour of the morning when Jean’s nagging sense of duty pulled him back to the waking world, feeling like dough just barely baked long enough to resemble bread. He made his toilet indifferently, merely taming and oiling his hair before donning a fresh Morenna Sisters ensemble. Optics in place, nose plaster adjusted, he used his suite’s little mirror to affirm that his powerful need for coffee was plainly visible. Alas. They’d
