“ALONDO’S COUSIN was as good as promised,” said Jean. He waved at a young man, a bearded and heavier version of Alondo, who was sitting against the wall at the back of Gloriano’s common room, accompanied by Alondo, Sylvanus, the Sanzas, and several half-empty bottles. Nobody else new or unknown was in the room. “He got us just over a royal apiece for the horses. All it cost us was a couple bottles of wine. And, ah, I promised we’d give him a part in the play.”
“What?”
“No lines. He just wants to dress up and get stabbed, he says.”
“Just as long as he doesn’t expect to get paid,” said Sabetha.
“Not in anything except hangovers,” said Jean. “I do notice you haven’t dragged a large Syresti impresario back with you.”
“That game’s afoot,” said Locke. “Come spill your purse. Asino brothers! On your feet a moment, we’d have a word concerning finance.”
“Oh let them stay,” said Sylvanus. “This is the fun side of the room, and our young hostler was about to take hoof for more wine.”
“You’re not finished with the three bottles you have,” said Locke.
“They’re writing farewell notes to their families,” said Sylvanus. “Their holes are already dug in the ground. Oh, I suppose I really must get up before I piss, mustn’t I?” He rolled sideways in the vague direction of the door that led back to the soaked inn-yard. “Give us a hand, hostler, give us a hand. I shall go on all fours to make use of your expertise.”
“Marvelous,” said Locke, pulling Calo and Galdo to their feet. “Lovely. Are you two following Sylvanus down the vomit-strewn path?”
“We may be sociably fuzzed,” said Calo.
“A little blurry at the edges,” said Galdo.
“That’s probably for the best. I need you to come over here and dump out your purses.”
“You need us to do what now?”
“We need a flash bag,” said Sabetha.
“What the hell’s a flash bag?” said Jenora, wandering by at a moment precisely calculated to overhear what the huddled Gentlemen Bastards were up to.
“Since you ask,” said Jean, “it’s a purse of coins you throw together to make it look like you’re used to carrying around big fat sums.”
“Oh,” she said. “That must be a nice thing to have.”
Using a spare table, the five Camorri dumped out their personal funds, to which Jean added the take from the horses and Locke mixed in the remnants of the purse Chains had given them. Camorri barons, tyrins, and solons clattered against Esparan fifths and coppins.
“Get all the coppers out of the pile,” said Locke. “They’re as useless as an Asino brother.”
“Suck vinegar from my ass-crack,” said Calo.
Five pairs of hands sifted through the coins, pulling coppers aside, leaving a diminished but gleaming mass in the center.
“Copper gets split five ways so everyone’s got something,” said Locke. “Gold and silver goes in the purse.”
“Do you want Auntie to change any of that Camorri stuff for you?” said Jenora, peering over Jean’s right shoulder.
“No,” said Locke. “For the moment, it’s actually a point in our favor. What’s the flash count?”
“Five crowns, two tyrins,” said Sabetha. “And two royals, one fifth.”
“That’s more money than any of Auntie’s customers have seen in a
“It’s shy of what I want,” said Locke. “But it might be convincing. No journeyman actor carries around a year and a half’s pay.”
“Unless they’re not getting paid a damn thing,” said Jenora.
“We’ll deal with that tomorrow,” said Locke as he cinched the flash bag tightly closed. “Hopefully with Moncraine listening very attentively.”
“Where are you going now?” said Jean.
“To see Moncraine’s punching bag,” said Sabetha. “And if that Syresti son of a bitch can teach us better acting than what we’ll need to pull
“Want an escort?” said Jean.
“Based on what you’ve seen tonight,” muttered Locke, “who needs it more, Sabetha and me or the twins?”
“Good point.” Jean polished his optics against the collar of his tunic and readjusted them on his nose. “I’ll keep them out of trouble, and see if I can trick Sylvanus into sleeping indoors.”
“Where’s Palazzo Corsala?” said Sabetha to Jenora.
“That’s on the north side, the swell district. Can’t miss it. Clean streets, beautiful houses, people like Sylvanus and Jasmer beaten on sight.”
“We’ll spring for a hired coach,” said Locke. “We won’t look respectable enough without one.”
“Shall we go call on Baron Boulidazi, then?” said Sabetha.
“Yes,” said Locke. “
7
“TRADESFOLK ENTRANCE is around back,” growled the tree trunk of a man who opened Boulidazi’s front door. “Tradesfolk hours are—”
“What kind of tradesman hires a coach-and-four to make his rounds?” said Locke, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Their hired carriage was waiting beyond the rows of alchemically miniaturized olive trees that screened Boulidazi’s manor from the street. The driver hadn’t liked their clothes, but their silver had vouched for them quite adequately.
“Pray give your master this,” said Sabetha, holding out a small white card. This had been scrounged from the office of Stay-Awake Salvard, who had bemusedly agreed to charge them a few coppins for it and some ink.
The servant glanced at the card, glared at them, then glanced at the card again. “Wait here,” he said, and closed the door.
Several minutes went by. The slow drip of water from the canvas awning above their head became a soft, steady drumbeat as the rain picked up again. At last, the door creaked open and a rectangle of golden light from inside the house fell over them.
“Come,” said the bulky servant. Two more men waited behind him, and for an instant Locke feared an ambush. However, these servants wielded nothing more threatening than towels, which they used to wipe Locke and Sabetha’s shoes dry.
Baron Boulidazi’s house was unexceptional, among those of its type that Locke had seen. It was comfortable enough, furnished to show off disposable wealth, but there was no grand and special something, no “hall-piece” as they were often called, to evoke wonder from freshly arrived guests.
The servant took them out of the foyer, through a sitting hall, and into a warmly lit room with felt-padded walls. A blandly handsome man of about twenty, with neck-length black hair and close-set dark eyes, was leaning against a billiards table with a stick in his hands. The white card was on the table.
“The Honorable Verena Botallio and companion,” said the servant without enthusiasm. He left the room immediately.
“Of the Isla Zantara?” said Boulidazi, more warmly. “I’ve just read your card. Isn’t that part of the Alcegrante?”
“It is, Lord Boulidazi,” said Sabetha, giving the slight nod and half-curtsy that was usual in Camorr for an
