disguises?”
“Quit gaping, Jean. Let’s move fast,” said Sabetha sweetly. “We need horses sold, horses stabled, Moncraine freed, money changed, and rooms. And that’s just off the top of my head.”
“Mistress Gloriano,” Locke yelled, turning back toward her, “we don’t mean to put you to any trouble, but we need rooms in a hurry so we can unload our wagon.”
“You’re really staying, then?”
“Of course,” said Locke. “And keep a tab separate from the rest of the company. We’ll pay actual money.”
“Well,” said Mistress Gloriano, as though coming out of a trance. “I’ve no shortage of rooms.”
“Giacomo,” shouted Sabetha, “Castellano!”
Calo and Galdo came at a near-run and skidded to a halt in front of Sylvanus.
“These are the Asino brothers,” said Sabetha. “You two, find out where Mistress Gloriano’s putting us, and get our things heaved out of the wagon as quick as you can.”
“What, first we’re the bloody wagon guards, now we’re fuckin’ stevedores?” said Calo. “You want a foot massage and some chilled wine while you watch us work?”
“We’ve all got jobs,” said Sabetha, “and if you touch my feet I’ll cut your ears off.
The next fifteen minutes were a blur of activity for everyone except Sylvanus, for whom they were merely a blur. Jean took a moment to pitch a little tent over the prostrate actor using the wagon tarp and some sticks, and then the Gentlemen Bastards heaved their possessions into two rooms selected by Mistress Gloriano. These were fine examples of how middle age, while charming in some humans, is less endearing in wood-panel construction and unpreserved wall tapestries. The twins claimed one room, Locke and Jean the other, and Sabetha accepted Jenora’s invitation to share her room down the corridor.
Once the wagon was emptied, Jean selected the less healthy pair of horses and with Jenora’s aid got them stabled. Alondo claimed to have a cousin working as a hostler near the Jalaan Gate, so Jean enlisted the young actor to help walk the best two horses back to the caravan staging area for resale.
“Now,” Locke said to Mistress Gloriano, “we need Jasmer back. For that I think we’ll need a solicitor.”
“I suppose it can’t be helped,” she said. “I’ve given Jasmer so much slack these past few years in the hope my investment might find its way home again.”
“Let him have a bit more,” said Locke. “We’re here now, for what it’s worth. And we
“I had wondered at the nature of your devotion. Jasmer’s a Syresti, you know. Capricious and moody. Barely reliable! Not an even-tempered Okanti like myself or Jenora. Let me tell you, boy, if I knew then what a hole I’d be throwing my money down—”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re quite right,” said Locke in a placating tone of voice. “But a solicitor …?”
“There is a fellow,” said Mistress Gloriano, “back up the avenue the way you came. Stay-Awake Salvard, he’s called, on account of his peculiar hours. He’s done papers for me. I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse him of being a gentleman. Works for a lot of … colorful sorts.”
“That’s good,” said Locke. “That’s great. We’re colorful sorts.”
2
“ETIENNE DELANCARRE Domingo Salvard,” said Sabetha, reading out loud from the lantern-lit plaque beside the building’s street entrance. “Master solicitor, bonded law-scribe, authorized notary, executor of wills and estates, Vadran translator and transcriber. Fortunes assured, justice delivered, enemies confounded. Reasonable rates.”
Locke and Sabetha alone had come on this errand, after washing the smell of the road from their more accessible parts and swapping their filthy caravan clothes for less offensive outfits. Salvard’s office was perched on the edge of the increasing desolation that led to Solace Hill, a way station between the couth and uncouth districts of the city.
The comfortless wooden furniture and empty walls inside seemed, to Locke’s eye, to indicate a certain desire to avoid giving rowdy clientele any objects for vandalism. A thin man with slicked-back hair sat behind a little podium, and near the stairs on the far side of the room lounged an uncommonly large woman. Her quilted black tunic had obvious armor panels behind the facing.
“Evening,” said the thin man. “Appointment?”
“Do we really need one?” said Sabetha. “We’re on urgent business.”
“Two coppins consultation fee,” said the thin man, “plus one for expedited consideration.”
“We’re just in from Camorr,” said Locke. “We haven’t changed our money yet.”
“Camorri barons accepted,” said the thin man. “One-for-one basis, plus one for changing fee.”
Locke shook four copper coins out of his purse. The clerk inked a quill and began scrawling on a card.
“Names?”
“Verena Gallante,” said Sabetha, “and Lucaza de Barra.”
“Camorri subjects?”
“Yes.”
The clerk set down his quill, slid open a hatch in the wall behind him, placed the card within this compartment, and turned a hand crank. A miniature dumbwaiter went up, and a minute later the muffled jingling of a bell could be heard from within the shaft.
“Weapons not allowed upstairs,” said the clerk, rapping his knuckles on the surface of his podium. “Cheerfully guarded here. Arms out for search.”
The big woman gave them both a thorough pat-down. A garrote or a fruit-paring blade might have slipped through, but Etienne Delancarre Domingo Salvard clearly had strong feelings about allowing anything more conveniently deadly into his presence.
“They’re clean,” said the woman, with a half-smile. “Of weapons, that is.”
“Proceed,” said the clerk, pointing to the stairs. “Pleasant consultation.”
Stay-Awake Salvard sat behind a desk that completely bisected the floor of his office, ensuring that anyone attempting to leap at him would have one final obstacle to surmount while he escaped or armed himself. Locke wondered if it was the nature of his clients or the quality of his advice that had made him such a cautious fellow.
“Have a seat. You two are a bit young to be caught up in the grasping tentacles of the law, aren’t you?” Salvard was a wiry man in his forties with a leonine mane of graying hair, swept back as though he’d just spent twenty minutes on a galloping horse. His nose was built to support the weight of optics much heavier than the dainty piece actually perched there. Two pipes rested in wooden cradles on his cluttered desk, framing him in gray pillars of aromatic smoke. “Or is it some matter of a marriage, perhaps?”
“Certainly not,” said Sabetha. “We have a friend in trouble.”
“Supply the details.”
“He struck a gentleman above his station,” said Sabetha.
“Is your friend taken? Or has he fled?”
“They put him in something called the Weeping Tower,” said Locke.
“Tricky. I’m afraid the weight of the law is against him, and he should expect to be trimmed like a hedge,” said Salvard. “But these incidents can sometimes be portrayed in a sympathetic light. What else should I know?”
“He’s a bit of a drunkard,” said Locke.
“Many of my clients have crawled inside a bottle for solace. It’s no unusual challenge.”
“And he’s a member of a night-skinned race,” said Locke. “A black Syresti.”
“A noble people, as ancient as our own, with many admirers at court.”
