and the dagger they’d taken from it the night before.
“Seems a damn shame to waste such a fine blade,” said Galdo.
“Be an even bigger shame to waste a fine pair of Sanza twins,” whispered his brother. “Ugh, his fingers are swelling. I need some help shoving his signet ring where it ought to be.”
Feeling like an idiot, Locke assisted as well as anyone could, until the baron’s signet ring was at least plausibly close to the right place.
“Now then, boys,” said Mistress Gloriano, “if you’re quite finished decorating him, open this oil-vase for me and give him a good soak. I daresay I’m quite prepared to light a match on this motherfucker.”
A few minutes later, orange flames were roaring against the black Esparan night, and all those members of the company that hadn’t run to fetch help were filling water buckets with every outward sign of haste and sincerity.
11
“THIS IS not how I had envisioned passing the small hours of the night,” said Baroness Ezrintaim, now dressed in boots, lightweight skirt, dark jacket, and visible sword.
Locke and Sabetha, still soot-grimed from fighting the fire, stood at nervous attention in one of Mistress Gloriano’s rooms, appropriated for a private talk. It was after midnight. Constables and soldiers in equal number had the place sewn up tight, and the remnants of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company under guard in the common room. Ezrintaim had been summoned by a watch commander when the identity of the charred corpse had become generally known.
Sabetha wore what Locke thought was an excellent expression of sorrow and resignation.
“Is it … are we so certain it’s him?” she said. “The body was …”
“The body was a lump of coal, girl, but we have the signet and the dagger. We know very well it’s Gennaro lying out there. I realize it can’t be easy for you.” Ezrintaim rubbed her eyes. “Still, it’s reality, dead under a sheet.”
“Let me help you look for Moncraine,” said Locke, who’d decided that a show of belligerence was a good contrast to Sabetha’s shock. “Me and all my men. If I find the bastard—”
“This isn’t Camorr, and you are
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Locke. “I only meant to offer all possible assistance.”
“The best assistance will be to follow my explicit directions,” said Ezrintaim. “Jasmer Moncraine has murdered an Esparan peer, and he is an Esparan problem to pursue. Gods and saints, this is going to be a ten- years’ wonder even if it doesn’t get any worse.”
She paced the room several times, staring at them.
“I expect you to leave the city,” she said at last. “Yes, I think that would be for the best. I’ll secure your safe passage out and have you placed with a caravan. You’re welcome to return to Espara as your proper selves, after a few years have passed, but never again as players. Or any other low station!”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Locke.
“And what of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company?” said Sabetha.
“What do you expect, Verena? Boulidazi is dead and Moncraine might as well be. There’ll be no more performances, of course. Everything with Moncraine’s stink on it will need to be swept under a rug.”
“I meant the players,” said Sabetha. “They’ve been … most accommodating. That bastard Moncraine has put them in a very difficult position.”
“It’s the difficult position of Gennaro Boulidazi that will most concern the countess,” said Ezrintaim. “But as far as I’m concerned, Moncraine’s guilt blazes to the skies. As long as their stories are consistent and my men don’t find anything interesting in this rooming house, your associates will live. But the company will be broken up, have no doubt.”
“Most will end up in chains for debt once the solicitors have finished holding their feet to the fire,” said Sabetha.
“What’s it to me, my dear?”
“They have given us good service while we’ve been in Espara,” said Locke. “We feel obligated to plead on their behalf.”
“I see.” Ezrintaim sighed and tapped her fingers against the hilt of her rapier. “Well, Lord Boulidazi died without heir. No relations beyond Espara that we’re bound to respect, either. So the countess will absorb his estates and his countinghouse assets. They’re a pretty enough windfall. I suppose my mistress can afford to be generous. The company will
“Entirely, my lady,” said Sabetha, bowing her head.
“Good. You’ve been foolish and lucky in equal measure, Verena, and I hope you’ll remember that you’ve benefited much from a series of diplomatic courtesies extended on behalf of all Espara.”
“Within the family,” said Locke, “we’ll be absolutely forthright about your invaluable assistance. Given the chance, we shall remember you to the duke.”
“That would be a pleasing gesture,” said Ezrintaim. “Now, do clean yourselves up and make ready to leave my city so I can begin dealing with this damnable collection of headaches.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: RETURNS
1
DARK CLOUDS WERE rolling in from the north, masking the stars. The Karthenium, palace of the long- deposed dukes and duchesses of Karthain, rose above the manicured gardens and broken walls of the Casta Gravina, a dome of rippling jade Elderglass like a jewel in a setting of human stone and mortar. The late-autumn wind flowed past crenellations and etchings on the face of the glass, and the eerie music of a lost race sighed into the night, its meaning unguessable.
Green and black banners fluttered at the edges of every path and courtyard, and a river of torch and lantern light flowed through the gates of the Karthenium, into the Grand Salon, where seemingly endless black iron stairs and walkways spiraled up the underside of the jade dome. Chandeliers the size of carriages blazed, tended by men and women dangling in harness from anchor points on the walkways.
The murmur of the crowd was like the wash and rumble of the sea within a coastal cave. Locke and Jean moved warily through the affair, their green ribbons no protection against being jostled by knots of conversationalists, enthusiasts, and drunks. Black Iris and Deep Roots supporters mingled freely and argued freely in a sprawling pageant of Karthain’s rich and exalted.
In the center of the Grand Salon a raised platform held a number of slate boards and nineteen black iron posts, each topped by an unlit frosted glass lamp. The stairs to the platform were guarded by bluecoats, each sweating under the added weight of a white cloak and mantle trimmed with silver ribbons.
It was the ninth hour of the evening. The last ballots had been cast hours before, and now the verified and sealed reports from each district were on their way to the Karthenium.
“Master Lazari! Master Callas!” Damned Superstition Dexa appeared, dragging a muddled platoon of
