Red Seas Under Red Skies (19 page)

“As per my intentions. But you do get around, Leocanto. Just what
would
the archon of Tal Verrar want with you and Jerome? In the middle of the night, no less? On the very night we had such an
interesting
conversation ourselves?”

Locke sighed to buy himself a few seconds to think. “I can tell you,” he said when he'd hesitated as long as was prudent, “but I doubt you're going to like it.”

“Of course I won't like it. Let's have it anyway.”

Locke sighed. Headfirst into a lie, or headfirst out the window.

“Stragos is the one who's been paying Jerome and myself. The fronts we've been dealing with are his agents.
He's
the man who's so keen to see your vault looking like a larder after a banquet. He thought it was time to crack the whip on us.”

Faint lines appeared on Requin's face as he ground his teeth together, and he put his hands behind his back. “You heard that from his own mouth?”

“Yes.”

“What an astonishing regard he must feel for you, to give you a personal briefing on his affairs. And your proof?”

“Well, you know, I did ask for a signed affidavit concerning his intentions to rake you over the coals, and he was happy to provide me with one, but clumsy me…I lost it on my way over here tonight!” Locke turned to his left and scowled. He could see that Selendri was watching him keenly, with her flesh hand resting on something under her jacket. “For fuck's sake, if you don't believe me I can jump out the window right now and save us all a great deal of time.”

“No…no need to paint the cobblestones with your brains just yet.” Requin held up one hand. “It is, however, unusual for someone in Stragos' position to deal directly with agents that must be, ah, somewhat lowly placed within his hierarchy, and in his regard. No offense.”

“None taken. If I might hazard a guess, I think Stragos is impatient for some reason. I suspect he wants faster results. And…I'm fairly sure that Jerome and myself are no longer intended to outlive any success we achieve on his behalf. It's the only reasonable presumption.”

“And it would save him a fair bit of money, I'd guess. Stragos' sort are ever more parsimonious with gold than they are with lives.” Requin cracked his knuckles beneath his thin leather gloves. “The damnable thing is, this all makes a great deal of sense. I have a rule of thumb—if you have a puzzle and the answers are elegant and simple, it means someone is trying to fuck you over.”

“My only remaining question,” said Selendri, “is why Stragos would deal with you
personally
, knowing full well you could now implicate him if put to…persuasion.”

“There is one thing I hadn't thought to mention,” said Locke, looking abashed. “It is…a matter of great embarrassment to Jerome and myself. Stragos gave us cider to drink during our audience. Not daring to be inhospitable, we drank quite a bit of it. He claims to have laced it with a poison, something subtle and latent. Something that will require Jerome and I to take an antidote from his hand at regular intervals, or else die unpleasantly. So now he has us by the hip, and if we want the antidote, we must be his good little creatures.”

“An old trick,” said Requin. “Old and reliable.”

“I said we were duly embarrassed. And so you see,” said Locke, “he already has a means to dispose of us when we've served his purpose. I'm sure he feels very confident of our loyalty for the time being.”

“And yet you still wish to turn against him?”

“Be honest, Requin. If you were Stragos, would you give us the antidote and send us on our merry way? We're already dead to him. So now I have the burden of two revenges to carry out before I die. Even if I do succumb to Stragos' damn cider, I want my last moment with Jerome. And I want the archon to suffer.
You
are still the best means I have to either end.”

“A reasonable presumption,” purred Requin, growing slightly warmer in his manner.

“I'm glad you think so, because apparently I know less about the politics of this city than I thought I did. What the hell is going on, Requin?”

“The archon and the Priori are gnashing their teeth at one another again. Now, half the Priori store large portions of their personal fortunes in my vault, making it impossible for the archon's spies to know the true extent of their resources. Emptying my vault would not only strip them of funds, but put me in their bad graces. Right now, Stragos could
never
put me out of business without major provocation, for fear of initiating a civil war. But sponsoring an apparent third party to hit my vault…oh yes, that'd do the trick nicely. I'd be busy hunting you and Jerome, the Priori would be busy trying to have me drawn and quartered, and
then
Stragos could simply…”

Requin illustrated what the archon could do by placing a balled fist inside an open palm and squeezing hard.

“I was under the impression,” said Locke, “that the archon was subordinate to the Priori council.”

“Technically, he is. The Priori have a lovely piece of parchment that says so. Stragos has an army and a navy that afford him a dissenting opinion.”

“Great. So now what do we do?”

“Good question. No more suggestions from you, no more schemes, no more card tricks, Master Kosta?”

Locke decided it was a good time to make Leocanto Kosta a bit more human. “Look,” he said. “When my employer was just an anonymous someone who sent a bag of coins every month, I knew exactly what I was doing. But now something else is happening, knives are coming out, and you can see all the angles that I don't. So tell me what to do and I'll do it.”

“Hmmmm. Stragos. Did he ask about the conversation you and I had?”

“He didn't even mention it. I don't think he knew about it. I think Jerome and I were scheduled to get picked up and brought in that night regardless.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm as sure as I can be.”

“Tell me something, Leocanto. If Stragos had revealed himself to you before you'd had a chance to perform your card tricks for me…if you'd known it was him you were betraying, would you still have done it?”

“Well…” Locke pretended to think. “I can't say what I might think if I actually liked him, or trusted him. Maybe I'd just give Jerome a knife in the back and work for him if I did. But…we're rats to Stragos, aren't we? We're fucking insects. Stragos is one presumptuous son of a bitch. He thinks he knows Jerome and me. I just…don't like him, not a bit, even without the poison to consider.”

“He must have spoken to you at length, to inspire such distaste,” said Requin with a smile. “So be it. If you want to buy your way into my organization, there will be a price. That price is Stragos.”

“Oh, gods. What the hell does
that
mean?”

“When Stragos is either verifiably dead or in my custody, you may have what you ask. A place at the Sinspire assisting with my games. A salary. All the assistance I can offer you with his poison. And Jerome de Ferra crying under your knife. Is that agreeable?”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don't want you to do it all yourself. But Maxilan has clearly ruled long enough. Assist me in enabling his retirement by any means you can, or any means I order. Then I suppose I'll have a new floor boss.”

“Best thing I've heard in a long while. And the, ah, money in my account, locked away by your command?”

“Will remain locked away, lost by your own actions. I am not a man of charity, Leocanto. Remember that, if you would serve me.”

“Of course. Of course. But now indulge me, please, in a question of my own. Why aren't you worried that I might be double-timing you for Stragos? That I might run back and tell him all this?”

“Why do you presume that
I'm
not playing
you
falsely on that very presumption?” Requin smiled, broadly, in genuine amusement.

“All these possibilities make my head hurt,” said Locke. “I prefer cardsharping to intrigue. If you're not on the up-and-up, logically, I might as well go home and hang myself tonight.”

“Yes. But I'll give you a better answer. What could you possibly tell Stragos? That I dislike him, bank for his enemies, and wish him dead? So he'd have confirmation of my hostility? No point. He
knows
I'm hostile. He knows the underworld of Tal Verrar is an impediment to him if he wants to assert his power. My
felantozzi
prefer the rule of the guilds to the possibility of rule by uniforms and spears; there's less money in dictatorship by arms.”

Felantozzi
was a Throne Therin term for foot soldiers; Locke had heard it used to refer to criminals a few times before, but he'd never heard them using it among themselves.

“All that remains,” said Requin, “is for your other judge to concur that you are still a risk worth taking.”

“Other judge?”

Requin gestured toward Selendri. “You've heard everything, my dear. Do we put Leocanto out the window, or do we send him back down to where you fetched him from?”

Locke met her gaze, folded his arms, and smiled in what he hoped was his most agreeable harmless-puppy fashion. She scowled inscrutably for a few moments, then sighed.

“There's so much to distrust here. But if there's a chance to place a turncoat relatively close to the archon…I suppose it costs us little enough. We may as well take it.”

“There, Master Kosta.” Requin stepped over and placed a hand on Locke's shoulder. “How's that for a ringing endorsement of your character?”

“I'll take what I can get.” Locke tried not to let too much of his genuine relief show.

“Then for the time being, your task will be to keep the archon happy. And, presumably, feeding you your antidote.”

“I shall, gods willing.” Locke scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I'll have to let him know that we've made our personal acquaintance; he must have other eyes in your spire who'll figure it out sooner or later. Best have it explained sooner.”

“Of course. Is he likely to bring you back to the Mon Magisteria soon?”

“I don't know how soon, but yes. Very much more than likely.”

“Good. That means he might blather on about his plans again. Now, let's get you back down to Master de Ferra and your evening's business. Cheating anyone tonight?”

“We'd only just arrived. We were taking in the cage spectacle.”

“Oh, the wasps. Quite a windfall, those monsters.”

“Dangerous property.”

“Yes, a Jeremite captain had a seed hive and a queen he was trying to sell. My people tipped off customs, had him executed, burnt the queen, and the rest vanished into my keeping after they were impounded. I knew I'd find some sort of use for them.”

“And the young man facing them?”

“Some eighth son of a titled nobody with sand for brains and debts to the 'Spire. He said he'd cover his markers or die trying, and I took him at his word.”

“Well. I've got a hundred solari on him, so I hope he lives to cover those markers.” He turned back toward Selendri. “The climbing closet again?”

“Only to the sixth floor. You can walk back down from there.” She smirked slightly. “By yourself.”

4

WHEN LOCKE
managed to elbow his way back down to the second floor at last, the young man in the cage was limping, bleeding, and wobbling on his feet. Half a dozen stiletto wasps were free in the enclosure, hovering and darting around him. Locke sighed as he pushed through the crowd.

“Master Kosta! Returned to us just in time for the issue to be settled, I believe.”

Madam Durenna smiled over the top of her drink, some milky orange liquor in a slender glass vessel nearly a foot high. Jean was sipping from a smaller tumbler of something pale brown, and he passed an identical glass to Locke, who took it up with a grateful nod. Honeyed rum—hard enough to avoid Durenna's scorn, but not quite powerful enough to start beating anyone's better judgment down for the evening.

“Is it about that time? My apologies for my absence. Silly little business.”

“Silly? With one of the Priori involved?”

“I made the mistake of showing him a card trick last week,” said Locke. “Now he's making arrangements for me to perform the same trick for, ah, a friend of his.”

“It must be an impressive trick, then. More impressive than what you usually do at a card table?”

“I doubt it, madam.” Locke took a long sip from his drink. “For one thing, I don't have to worry about such excellent opposition when I'm performing a card trick.”

“Has anyone ever tried to cut out that disgustingly silver tongue of yours, Master Kosta?”

“It's become a traditional pastime in several cities I could mention.”

In the cage, the mad buzzing of the wasps grew louder as more of them exploded from their cells: two, three, four…. Locke shuddered and watched helplessly as the blurry dark shapes hurtled around the meshed cage. The young man tried to stand his ground, then panicked and began to flail wildly. One wasp met his glove and was slapped to the floor, but another alighted on his lower back and drove its body down. The boy howled, slapped at it, and arched his back. The crowd grew deadly silent in mingled horror and anticipation.

It was fast, but Locke would never have called it merciful. The wasps swarmed the young man, darting and stinging, digging their clawed legs into his blood-soaked shirt. One on his chest, one on his arm, its abdomen pulsing madly up and down…one fluttered about his hair, and another drove its sting home into the nape of his neck. The boy's wild screams became wet choking noises. Foam trickled from his mouth, blood ran in rivulets down his face and chest, and at last he fell over, twitching wildly. The wasps buzzed and stalked atop his body, looking horribly like blood-colored ants as they went about their business, still stinging and biting.