The rooftop tapestry of moonlight and shadows and softly curling chimney smoke comforted her, but it had no answers to give.
12
TWO NIGHTS later, Locke and Jean sat together in the Deep Roots gallery at Josten’s, dining on birds-a- bed (large morsels of several kinds of fowl on flaked pastry mattresses stuffed with spiced rice and leeks, then given “covers” of onion and sour cream sauce). To wash this down they had flagons of sharp ale and piles of the usual notes and reports, which they discussed between bites.
Less than a week remained, and the situation was spiraling appealingly out of control. Offices were being vandalized on both sides, party functionaries harassed or arrested by bluecoats on laughable pretexts, speakers and pamphleteers having shouting matches in the streets. Locke had dispatched a team of black-clad functionaries to hand out commemorative Black Iris treacle tarts in several marketplaces. The alchemical laxative mixed into the treacle was slow-acting but ultimately quite forceful, and many of the recipients had publicly expressed their lack of appreciation for the largesse of the Black Iris.
Despite this, the odds commonly given remained eleven to eight in the Black Iris’ favor. However much Locke would have liked to shift this as far as possible with childish prankery, there was, realistically, nobody left in the city yet willing to accept baked sweets from a stranger.
“Oh, sirs, sirs!” Nikoros appeared, still looking like a man fresh from a sleepless week on the road. “I have … I am so sorry to intrude on your dinner, but I have some unfortunate news.”
“First time for everything,” said Locke lightly. “Go on, then, shock us.”
“It’s the, ah, the chandlery, Master Lazari. The one that you asked me to secure … in the Vel Vespala, and the one where you and Master Callas packed away all the, ah, you know, alchemical items. Two hours ago, stevedores in Black Iris livery entered the place and cleaned it out. They hauled everything away on drays to a location I haven’t yet discovered.”
Locke’s fork hung in the air halfway to his lips. He stared at Nikoros for a second, then shared a brief, significant gaze with Jean. “Ah, damn,” he said at last, and took his bite of chicken. “Mmmm. Damn. That’s a fairly expensive loss. And a fine trick yanked right out of my sleeve.”
“My most sincere apologies, Master Lazari.”
“Bah. It’s none of your doing,” said Locke, wondering just what had made thoroughly subservient eager- puppy Nikoros, of all people, turn coat. Something to do with Akkadris withdrawal? Some failure of Bondsmagi sorcery? Poor old Falconer, tongueless and fingerless and comatose, was something of an argument against their infallibility.
“Still,” Locke continued, “the opposition seems to have a damnable grasp of where we’re hiding our good toys these days. I want you to secure us a boat.”
“Ah, a boat, Master Lazari?”
“Yes. Something respectable. A barge, maybe a small pleasure yacht if a party member has one available.”
“Very, uh, likely. May I ask to what end?”
“We took something from one of the Black Iris Konseil members,” said Jean. “Family heirlooms of significant … sentimental value. We’ll return them after he’s done us a favor.”
“And we need the items in question to be absolutely secure until after election night,” said Locke. “I’m not sure I can trust our current bolt-holes, so let’s try putting them on the water, in something that can move.”
“I’ll get on it immediately,” said Nikoros.
“Good man,” said Locke, forking another bite of chicken. “Minimal crew, trusted sorts. They won’t need to know what the boat is carrying. Master Callas and I will load the items ourselves.”
Nikoros hurried away.
“I wasn’t expecting it to be him,” whispered Jean.
“Nor me,” said Locke. “And I’m dead curious to find out how she did it. But at least we know. And now we pin our hopes on the boat.”
“To the boat,” said Jean. They raised their ale flagons and drained them.
13
THE NIGHT before the election, Locke leaned on a wall high atop the northernmost embankment of the Plaza Gandolo, looking out across the softly rippling water of the river and the lantern-lights running across it like a hundred splashes of color on a drunken artist’s canvas.
To his left loomed the Skyvault Span, swaying and singing suspension bridge, its four anchor towers uniquely crowned with balconies and sealed doors. Those doors were invisible from Locke’s position hundreds of feet below, but he’d listened to Josten describe them not an hour before.
According to the innkeeper, the doors were as impervious to human arts as most Eldren legacies, but a team of scholars and workers had once erected a climbing scaffold and tried to study them closely.
“Hundred and fifty years ago, maybe. Eight folk went up,” Josten had muttered after looking around the bar. “Six came down. No bodies were ever found, and none of the survivors could say what had happened. For the rest of their lives, they had dreams.
“Bloody charming,” muttered Locke, staring up at the elegant dark silhouettes blotting out stars and clouds. Gods, he was reciting horror stories to himself. Hardly suave and collected behavior. He needed to calm down, and he hadn’t had the foresight to bring a quarter-cask of strong wine.
Footsteps scuffed the stones behind him, and he whirled, neither suave nor collected.
Sabetha was alone. She wore a dark scarlet jacket over chocolate-brown skirts, and her hair was tightly bound around her lacquered pins.
“You look as though you’ve been listening to the stories about this bridge,” she said.
“My, ah, tavern master,” said Locke. “When I got your note, I asked him if he knew anything about the spot you picked.”
“Seems it’s not a popular corner of the district.” She smiled and moved closer. “I thought we could do with a bit of privacy.”
“Haunted Eldren detritus does tend to secure that. Sly woman! I would have gone with something like a private chamber at a fine dining establishment, but I suppose I’m hopelessly conventional.” A carriage rattled past, onto the creaking deck of the bridge. “What’s on your mind?”
“I appreciated your letter,” she said, gliding closer with that seemingly effortless dancer’s step that made it look as though a wind had just nudged her along. “And I don’t mean that as the usual oatmeal-tongued sort of polite acknowledgment; I
“Well, ah, even if drugging me and putting me on a ship was something of a personal misstep, I think we can agree it was a valid approach from a professional perspective.”
“I admire that equanimity.” She was within arm’s reach now, and her hands were around his waist. He couldn’t have defended himself if he’d wanted to. “I’m not … uneasy with you, you know. It’s not you, it’s …”
“I know,” said Locke. “Believe me, I understand. You don’t have to—”
She slipped her right hand up behind his neck and pulled him so close there wasn’t room for a knife blade to pass between them. Next came the sort of kiss that banished the world to distant background noise and seemed to last a month.
“Well,
