“That all?”
“That’s all the conversation I have in me, friend.”
“Then wake Jean up.”
“He’ll stop daydreaming once I’ve gone.”
“Too chickenshit to say this sort of thing in front of him?”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you,” said the mage, “that the
“I …”
“I’m not without my sympathies, Lamora. They just don’t necessarily reside with
With a wave of his hand he was gone. Locke swung his arms around the empty air where the mage had been standing, then patted the nearby wall, then checked to make sure the door was still tightly closed. He gave a grunt of disgusted resignation and massaged his neck.
“Locke? Did you say something?”
Jean was back on his feet, looking hale.
“Uh, no, Jean, I’m sorry. I just … uh, coughed.”
“Are you all right?” Jean peered at him over the rims of his optics. “You’re sweating like mad. Did something happen?”
“It’s just … nothing.” Gods above, the red-coated bastard was right. Jean didn’t need another reminder of how casually the magi could make a puppet of him. With Locke barely started on the path to recovery, he needed all of Jean’s confidence and energy, without distraction. “I’m sure it’s just all this walking about. I’ll get used to it again soon enough.”
“Well, then, let’s have Nikoros take us to our lodgings,” said Jean. “We’ve got clothes; we’re in funds. Let’s see to your comfort before we start the good fight on behalf of Patience and her cohorts.”
“Right,” said Locke, reaching for the lever that would open the cell door. “Last people in the world I’d want to disappoint.”
7
“NIKOROS, WHO the hell votes in this place, anyway?” asked Locke as the carriage bobbed and weaved its way across one of the Elderglass suspension bridges, headed northwest for somewhere Nikoros had called the Palanta District.
“Well, there’s, uh, three ways to earn the right. You can show title to property worth at least sixty ducats. You can serve in the constabulary for twenty-five years. Or you can be enfranchised for a lump sum of one hundred and fifty, at any time except the actual day of an election.”
“Hmmm,” said Locke. “Sounds like an eminently corruptible process. That might be useful. So how many people in Karthain, and how many can vote?”
“About seventy thousand in the city,” said Nikoros, who was sitting awkwardly indeed, protecting the stack of parcels with one hand and gently waving a still-drying sheet of parchment with the other. “Five thousand with voting rights, more or less. I’ll have more precise figures as the election goes on.”
“That’s what, about two hundred and fifty voters per Konseil seat?” said Jean. “Or am I wrong?”
“Close enough. You’re allowed to choose one of the two final candidates in whatever district you live in. Ballots are in writing and you’ve got to be able to sign your name, too.”
“So, as far as voting goes, we’re not really looking at one big fight, but nineteen smaller ones.”
“Indeed. I, ah, if I may, I believe this list is dry—”
Jean took it. He scanned the columns of chicken-scratch handwriting (no wonder Nikoros had a long- standing relationship with a trustworthy scribe), a short list of businesses, and a longer list of names. “These people make the Black Iris party tick?”
“Our counterparts, yes. They call themselves the Trust. We always refer to ourselves as the Committee.”
“When can we meet this Committee?” said Jean.
“Well, actually, I had hoped you wouldn’t mind a bit of a get-together this evening. Just the Committee and select Deep Roots supporters—”
“How many?”
“Not above a hundred and fifty.”
“Gods below,” said Locke. “I suppose we’ll have to do it sooner or later, though. Where did you want to hold this mess?”
“At your lodgings. Josten’s Comprehensive Accommodations. I’m eager for you to see it. It’s the best place in the city, our temple for Deep Roots affairs.”
A temple it could have been, given its size. They pulled up before Josten’s just as the sun was reaching its mild zenith in a sky that was gradually graying over with clouds. Porters scrambled from the building’s shaded front entrance and took packages under Nikoros’ direction. Jean hopped out of the carriage before Locke did, and studied the structure.
It was a sprawling, gabled, three-story affair with at least nine visible chimneys and several dozen windows. A dozen carriages could have lined up before it with room to spare.
“Hell of an inn,” said Locke as his shoes hit the cobbles.
“Not just an inn,” said Nikoros. “A fine dining establishment, a complete bar, a coffeehouse. Paradise on earth for merchants and traders with party sympathies. A quarter of the city’s commerce gets hashed out here.”
The interior lived up to Nikoros’ enthusiasm. At least five dozen men and women drank and conversed at long tables amidst solid, darkly varnished wooden pillars. An entire clothier’s shop worth of hats and coats hung from nearly every surface, and waiters in black jackets and breeches bustled about with the haste of siege engineers preparing an attack. To Jean’s eye the place looked like Meraggio’s turned inside-out, with the dining and drinking made a centerpiece of business affairs rather than a concealed luxury.
“Up there,” said Nikoros, gesturing toward raised galleries with polished brass rails, “you’ll find the reserved sections. One for the biggest syndicates, the ones I write for. Another for the scribes and solicitors; they pay the house a ransom to stay close to the action. And there’s a gallery for Deep Roots business.”
Jean sensed a number of eyes upon him, and although Nikoros drew waves and nods from onlookers, it was obvious that the two Gentlemen Bastards had become objects of curiosity merely by walking in with him. Jean sighed inwardly, thinking that a back-door entrance might have been wiser, but the die was cast. If Sabetha hadn’t already known they were loose on the streets of Karthain, it was inconceivable that at least one person here wasn’t in her employ, watching for their arrival.
Behind the well-furnished bar on the far side of the room was a tall black man, thin as a hat rack, wearing a more expensive version of the waiter’s uniform under a billowing white cravat and leather apron. The instant he caught sight of Nikoros, he set down the ledger he was reading and crossed the room, dodging waiters.
“Welcome, sirs, welcome, to Josten’s Comprehensive, the Hall Inclusive!” The man bowed at the waist before Locke and Jean. “Diligence Josten, gentlemen, master of the house. You’re expected. How can I make your life easier?”
“I’d do public murder for a cup of coffee,” said Jean.
“You’ve come to the only house in Karthain with coffee worth murdering for. We have seven distinct blends, from the aromatic Syresti dry to the thick—”
“I’ll take the kind I don’t have to think about.”
“The very best kind of all.” Josten snapped his fingers, and a nearby waiter hurried off. “Now, your rooms. They’re in the west wing, second floor, a pair of joined suites, and I’ll have your things—”
“Yes, yes,” said Locke. “Forgive me, I require a moment.” He grabbed Jean and Nikoros by their lapels and dragged them into a private huddle.
“This innkeeper,” whispered Locke, “how far can we trust him, Nikoros?”
