…”
Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working facade seemed plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid having his wits plastered over.
Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced unself-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of coffee.
“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest things just now.”
Jean passed him the papers from Dexa and explained the situation as succinctly as possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:
“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that to me. I’ve got to hit back.”
He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors to lean in closer to him.
“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond the feathers in their own nest?”
“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.
“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial or otherwise.”
“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”
“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”
“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods know where that came from. He’s got no real politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil seat often attracts.”
“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest I go about it?”
“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates. Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the
“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his empty mug. “I have my next mission.”
6
THREE DAYS later, a lean and scruffy man in a paint-spattered tunic emerged from the misty greenways of the Mara Karthani, where hanging lanterns swayed in the rain and Therin Throne statues in crumbling alcoves gave themselves up slowly to the elements.
Abutting the centuries-old park on its eastern side was the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris, Black Iris Konseil representative for the Bursadi District. The scruffy man knocked at the tradesfolk entrance and was let in by a dark-skinned hillock of a woman, gray-haired but dangerously light on her feet. The scuffed witchwood baton swinging from the woman’s belt looked as though it had met some skulls in its time.
She led the newcomer, still dripping wet, through the richly furnished passages of the house to a small, high-ceilinged chamber where warm yellow light fell like a benediction. This illumination had nothing to do with the natural sky, of course—it was an arc of alchemical lamps above stained glass engraved with common symbols of the Twelve.
The woman shoved the lean man up against one wall of the chamber, and for an instant he feared treachery. Then her strong, capable hands were sliding down his sides in a familiar fashion. Her search for weapons was thorough, but she was obviously unacquainted with the old Camorri trick of the hiltless stiletto dangled at the small of the back from a necklace chain.
Locke had no illusions of kicking down doors and leaving a swath of dead foes in his wake if complications arose, but even a nail-scraping of an arsenal was a reassuring thing to have on hand.
“He’s not armed,” said the woman, smiling for the first time. “Nor any threat if he were.”
A middle-aged Therin man with pale hair and a seamy pink face entered the room. He and the woman traded places as smoothly as stage actors, and she eased the door shut on her way out.
“You can remove that nonsense on your head,” said the man. “At least, I presume it’s nonsense, if you’re who you ought to be.”
Locke pulled off his sopping wig of black curls and his ornamental optics, thick as the bottoms of alchemists’ jars. He set them down on the room’s only table, which had but one chair, on Lovaris’ side.
“Sebastian Lazari,” said Lovaris as he sat down with a soft grunt. “Lashani prodigy with no genuine history in Lashain. Doctor without accreditation. Solicitor without offices or former clients.”
“The backtrail’s not up to my usual standards,” said Locke. “No loss to admit it, since I didn’t do the work myself.”
“You and your bigger friend are interesting counterparts to the lovely Mistress Gallante,” said Lovaris. “Though obviously not from the same place.”
“Obviously,” said Locke.
“I think you’ve come north from your usual habitations, Master Lazari. I heard rumors a few months ago, when the Archon of Tal Verrar took that long fall off a narrow pedestal. Word was a few captains of intelligence managed to duck the noose and get misplaced in the shuffle.”
“My compliments,” said Locke. “But, ah, you might as well know I didn’t leave anyone behind me interested enough to chase me down, even if your … entertaining theory were to reach the proper ears.”
“Nor shall I waste my time contacting them. The election will be past before a letter could even reach Tal Verrar. No, nothing we say here will be heard by anyone else, save my forebears.” Lovaris gestured at the ornately carved nooks and drawers decorating the walls of the chamber. “This is my family’s memorial vault. Seven hundred years in Karthain. We predate the Presence. As for you, well, I’ve brought you here in answer to your interesting note because I wish to inconvenience you.”
“I’m sure your line hasn’t survived for seven centuries by refusing to carefully examine fresh opportunities,” said Locke. “My note asked for nothing but this meeting. You have no idea what I’m about to offer you.”
“Oh, but I do.” Lovaris smiled without showing teeth. “You want me to consider a turn of the coat. Specifically, you want me to wait until all the votes are safely counted and I’m back in for the Black Iris. Then and only then would I announce that my conscience had forced me to join ranks with the Deep Roots. I understand you’ve promised to invent a convincing story, but you haven’t told anyone else what it is yet.”
Locke wanted to scream. Instead he pretended to study the nails of his right hand and disguised his next deep, calming breath as a bored sigh.
“I’ll have a passable excuse for you,” he said. “And you would find the experience personally enriching.”
“So I hear,” said Lovaris. “Ten thousand ducats in gleaming gold. I supply a chest; you fill it before my eyes. On election night, the chest is to be kept at an allegedly neutral countinghouse by an equal number of my
