“I was as surprised as you. Seems he’s equally dedicated to his children and his career as a professional asshole. Please don’t actually hurt him again.”
“My oath to the Crooked Warden,” said Jean. He pulled an envelope from within his coat. “Now, to why I came. This— Well, I don’t want to speak for him. But you ought to know it’s taken him a few nights to finish this. Much lost sleep and many false starts.”
“As it was in the beginning, I suppose.” She took the envelope with a hand that shook just enough for Jean to notice, then slipped it into her coat. “And … is that it, then?”
Had the question sounded tired, Jean would have taken it for a dismissal, but Sabetha sounded wistful, almost hurt. He cleared his throat.
“Diplomacy and curiosity don’t always mix,” he said. “We’re not strangers, Jean.”
Jean slipped off his optics and made a show of polishing them against a coat sleeve while he considered his words.
“All I can see,” he said at last, “is two people I care for being divided and ruled by the words of a stranger. This bullshit of Patience’s! I’m sorry. I didn’t come to lecture you. But surely you can—”
“You delivered his letter,” said Sabetha. “Now you’re inquiring into his business. Is Jean even here right now? Jean I could speak to, but Locke’s … legate to my court, that man’s business is dispensed with and the door is open.”
“Again, I’m sorry.” Jean realized that their physical situation had the look and feel of a standoff; so long as they both remained on their feet informality and relaxation would be difficult to kindle. He eased himself into a chair. “You know that I worry about him. I worry about the pair of you. And I regret that I haven’t, ah, exactly paid you a social call since our return. When you first invited us here, I was a little cold.”
“You were preoccupied.”
“That’s kind of you to suggest.”
“And then I dropped twenty hirelings on your head and packed you off to sea.” Sabetha sat down and crossed her legs. “It couldn’t have helped. I hope you don’t think I was pleased you broke your nose.”
“You provided us with a comfortable ship,” said Jean. “Leaving it in the middle of the night was our decision. I was annoyed at the time, but I know it was just business.”
“Maybe there’s been a little too much ‘just business.’ ” Sabetha fussed self-consciously with her gloves. “I kept your hatchets as a sort of assurance, and then as a sort of joke, and then I handed them to Locke like you were some kind of … hireling. I would not have desired to give that impression.”
“Gods, Sabetha, I’m not made of porcelain! Look, we’re not— We haven’t been
“Now who’s being kind?” she said. “I’ve missed you. Personally and professionally.”
“I’ve missed you,” said Jean. “Sharp edges and all. Life was always better with you around. Everyone around you catches your light. We’re doing it now, even across the city, working against you. I haven’t seen him like this … well, not for a long while. Sick with worry and totally exhilarated.”
“The conversation turns to our mutual friend again.”
“Yes. I mean— Look. Let me say this much, please.” Jean took a deep breath and pushed on before she could interrupt. “He and I had a dangerous misunderstanding in Tal Verrar. We both looked at the same thing, and we both made bad assumptions that led us in opposite directions. We got lucky, but bad assumptions … they’re a possibility to be aware of, you see?”
“Jean.” She spoke haltingly, each word crisp and fragile. “You must trust … do I seem at ease to you? Do I seem wholly myself? You must trust that I have reasons,
“Stop.” Jean raised his hands placatingly. “Sabetha, however damned foolish I think you’re being, you do have a right to your own judgment. I don’t like the judgment, but I’ll respect the right, all the way to my grave. I’ve said my piece.”
“Thank you,” she said, and her smile warmed him like a fire. “It seems you and he have both grown more diplomatic since we parted.”
“We’ve made second careers out of finding excuses not to murder one another. It’s had a salutary effect on our manners.” Jean found his feet again and held out his hand. “Sister Bastard, I’d like to detain you longer and make my job that much easier, but I imagine we’re being watched. We can’t afford to try the patience of our employers.”
“Brother Bastard.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “I wish I didn’t have to agree. Thank you for talking to me.”
“I hope we get to do it again.”
“One day at a time,” she said, softly. “Until we find out what’s waiting at the end of all this. But hope is a good word. I hope you’re right. About everything.”
“Is there any message I can take back for you?”
“No,” she said. “Whatever there is to say, I’ll say it myself, in my own time.”
They embraced, and Jean swept her off her feet. She laughed, and he turned the sweep into a complete twirl that ended with her elegantly set down atop a table. He bowed.
“I return madam to the pedestal on which she usually resides.”
“You cheeky lump! And here I was almost feeling sorry about trouncing the bright red fuck out of you in the election.”
“Tsk. Whatever you are, you’re not the least bit sorry,” said Jean, waving as he let himself out. “As you said … we’re not strangers.”
11
THE ROOM, so warmly lit, so invitingly decorated, felt cold after the door closed behind Jean. Strange how the empty seats and unused tables suddenly contrived to give the place the air of a deserted temple. Sabetha had never felt so isolated here before.
She leapt off the table and landed softly on the toes of her boots, scarf and coat rustling. The envelope was out of her pocket before she knew it, hands moving faster than the thoughts that usually ruled them.
“Of course I’m not alone,” she said. “You’re here.”
The room was still. The bustle of Black Iris business could be heard only faintly through the floor.
“I am a grown woman having a conversation with an envelope,” she muttered several heartbeats later.
He was there like smoke, like a ghost in the room, like a scent in her clothing. It had been so long that she had forgotten the actual scent, only that she remembered carrying it. Remembered wanting it, then not wanting it, then wanting it again despite herself.
There were two Lockes, she thought, turning the envelope back and forth in her hands. Two real Lockes under all the faces he wore in the course of his games. One of them put such a sweet sharp ache in her heart she could scarcely believe that a younger, softer Sabetha had sealed the feeling away and managed to leave. That man broke all the patterns of law and custom and dared the world to damn him for it.
The other Locke … that man was bound tight to those patterns, their absolute prisoner. He would do
Even his eyes seemed different, when he was that second man. And that was a problem.
If there were two, might there not be three? Patterns behind the patterns, secrets behind the secrets, new strings to dance on, and these ones leading all the way back to the Bondsmagi of Karthain. Another Locke, unknown even to himself. What would become of the Lockes she knew if that stranger inside them was real? If he woke up?
