Red Seas Under Red Skies (33 page)

“I…well. That's…I had no idea.”

“The things you don't know, Master Kosta. The things you simply
do not
know…”

Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own
strat péti
for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time they'd been this close. Did everyone in this damn city have a little game?

“Selendri,” he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, “I have never desired anything more than to be a friend to you.”

“As you're a friend to Jerome de Ferra?”

“If you knew what he'd done to me, you'd understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt your secrets, I think I'll just keep a few of my own.”

“Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be a great deal more
final
than your opinion of me.”

Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and she squeezed past him into the light of Requin's office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri led Locke across the floor; Requin's optics were tucked into the collar of his black tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment.

“Kosta,” he said. “This is timely. I need some explanation from you.”

“And you're certainly going to get it,” said Locke. Shit, he thought, I hope he hasn't found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is. “May I sit?”

“Grab your own chair.”

Locke selected one from against the wall and set it down before Requin's desk. He surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down. Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then stared at Locke.

“You've had some sun,” he said.

“Today,” said Locke. “Jerome and I were sailing in the harbor.”

“Pleasant exercise?”

“Not particularly.”

“A pity. But it seems you were on the harbor several nights ago. You were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited to bring the events of that visit to my attention?”

“Ah.” Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn't know there was any relevant link between Jean, himself, and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin wasn't all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. “I presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us here for a conversation.”

“You should make a little list, Kosta, titled
People It's Safe for Me to Antagonize
. My name will not appear on it.”

“Sorry. It wasn't exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that
does
have something to do with Stragos' plans.”

At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.

“Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta's chairs brought up from the courtyard.”

“Do so,” said Requin. “Selendri mentioned these. What's this, then?”

“I know it's going to look more crass than it really is,” said Locke, “but you'd be doing me a favor, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands.”

“Take them off your…oh my.”

A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke's chairs before him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.

“Talathri Baroque,” he said. “Surely, it's Talathri Baroque…you, there. Put those in the center of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed.”

Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin's floor, and then retreated back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over its lacquered surface.

“Reproduction…,” he said slowly. “Beyond any doubt…but absolutely beautiful.” He returned his attention to Locke. “I wasn't aware that you were familiar with the styles I collect.”

“I'm not,” said Locke. “Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before now. A few months ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was…strained, so I agreed to accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They've been in storage ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the things you keep up here in your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I'm glad they suit. Like I said, you're the one doing me a favor if you take them.”

“Astonishing,” said Requin. “I've always thought about having a suite of furniture crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with.”

“They're wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair, as far as I know. Just be careful with them. For some reason, they're shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to sit in, but don't abuse them.”

“This is…most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you.” Requin returned, with obvious reluctance, to his chair behind his desk. “This doesn't slip you out of your need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation.” The smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.

“Of course not. But, concerning that…look, Stragos has a jar of fire oil up his ass about something. He's sending Jerome and I away for a bit, on business.”

“Away?” The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered in a flat, dangerous whisper.

Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.

“To sea,” said Locke. “To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand.”

“Strange. I don't recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal.”

“It relates to that.” But how? “We're…after something.” Shit. Not nearly good enough. “Someone, actually. Have you ever…ah, ever…”

“Ever
what?
”

“Ever heard of…a man named…Calo…Callas?”

“No. Why?”

“He's, ah…well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you'd have heard about him. I don't know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall tale. You're
sure
you don't recall hearing the name before?”

“Certain. Selendri?”

“The name means nothing,” she said.

“Who is he supposed to be, then?” Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.

“He's…” What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we're here to break the vault? Oh…Crooked Warden, of course! “…a lockbreaker. Stragos' spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he's the best, or he was, back in his day. An artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault.”

“What's a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?”

“Hiding, I imagine.” Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. “Stragos says that the Artificers have tried to kill him several times. He's their antithesis. If he's real, he's the gods-damned anti-artificer.”

“Strange that I've never heard of him,” said Requin, “or been asked to find and remove him.”

“If you were the Artificers,” said Locke, “would you want to spread knowledge of his capabilities to someone in a position to make the best possible use of them?”

“Hmmm.”

“Hell.” Locke scratched his chin and feigned distracted consideration. “Maybe someone
did
ask you to find him and remove him. Just not by that name, and not with that description of his skills, you know?”

“But why, of all his agents, would you and Jerome—”

“Who else is guaranteed to come back or die trying?”

“The alleged poison. Ah.”

“We have two months, maybe less.” Locke sighed. “Stragos warned us not to dally. We're not back by then, we get to find out how skilled his personal alchemist is.”

“The service of the archon seems a complicated life, Leocanto.”

“Fucking tell me about it. I liked him much better when he was just our unknown paymaster.” Locke rolled his shoulders and felt some of his sore back muscles protest. “We leave inside the month. That's what the day-sailing is about. We'll slip in with the crew of an independent trader once we've had some training, so we don't stand out as the land-huggers we are. No more late nights gaming for us, until we get back.”

“You expect to succeed?”

“No, but one way or another, I'm damn well coming back. Maybe Jerome can even have an ‘accident' on the voyage. Anyhow, we'll be storing our wardrobes at the Villa Candessa. And we'll be leaving every centira we currently have on your ledgers right where they are. My money and Jerome's. Hostage against my return, as it were.”

“And if you do return,” said Selendri, “you might bring back a man who can genuinely aid the archon's design.”

“
If
he's there,” said Locke, “I'll be bringing him straight back here first. I expect you'll want to have a frank discussion with him about the health benefits of accepting a counteroffer.”

“Assuredly,” said Requin.

“This Callas,” said Locke, letting excitement rise in his voice, “he could be our key to getting Stragos over the coals. He could be an even
better
turncoat than I am.”

“Why, Master Kosta,” said Selendri, “I doubt that anyone could be a more enthusiastic turncoat than you.”

“You know damn well what I'm enthusiastic about,” said Locke. “But that's that. Stragos hasn't told us anything else at the moment. I just wanted to get rid of those damn chairs and let you know we'd be leaving for a while. I assure you, I'll be back. If it's in my power at all, I'll be back.”

“Such assurances,” mused Requin. “Such earnest assurances.”

“If I wanted to cut and run,” said Locke, “I would have done it already. Why come tell you all this first?”

“Obvious,” said Requin, smiling gently. “If this is a ploy, it could buy you a two-month head start during which I wouldn't think to go looking for you.”

“Ah. An excellent point,” said Locke. “Except that I'd expect to start dying horribly around then, head start or no.”

“So you claim.”

“Look. I'm deceiving the archon of Tal Verrar on your behalf. I'm deceiving Jerome gods-damned de Ferra. I need allies if I'm going to get out of this shit. I don't
care
if you two trust me; I
have
to trust you. I am showing you my hand. No bluff. Now, again, you tell me how we proceed.”

Requin casually riffled the edges of the parchment pile on his desk, then matched gazes with Locke. “I expect to hear the archon's further plans for you immediately. No delays. Make me wonder where you are again, and I'll have you fetched. With finality.”

“Understood.” Locke made a show of swallowing and wringing his hands together. “I'm sure we'll be seeing him again before we leave. I'll be here the night after any meeting, no later.”

“Good.” Requin pointed in the direction of the climbing closet. “Leave. Find this Calo Callas, if he exists, and bring him to me. But I
don't
want dear Jerome slipping over a rail while you're out at sea. Understand? Until Stragos is in hand, that privilege is mine to deny.”

“I…”

“No ‘accidents' for Master de Ferra. You satisfy that grudge on my sufferance. That's the bargain.”

“If you put it that way, understood, of course.”

“Stragos has his promised antidote.” Requin took up a quill and returned his attention to his parchments. “I want my own assurance of your enthusiastic return to my fair city. You want to slaughter your calf, you tend him for a few months first. Tend him
very well
.”

“Of…of course.”

“Selendri will show you out.”

5

“HONESTLY, IT
could have gone much worse,” said Jean as he and Locke pulled at their oars the next morning. They were out in the main harbor, clipping over the gentle swells near the Merchants' Crescent. The sun had not yet reached its noon height, but the day was already hotter than its predecessor. The two thieves were sweat-drenched.

“Sudden miserable death is indeed much worse,” said Locke. He stifled a groan; today, the exercise was troubling not only his back and shoulder but the old wounds that covered a substantial portion of his left arm. “But I think that's the last dregs of Requin's patience. Any more strangeness or complication…Well, hopefully, this is as odd as Stragos' plans are going to get.”

“Can't move the boat by flapping your mouths,” yelled Caldris.

“Unless you want to chain us to these oars and beat a drum,” said Locke, “we converse as we please. And unless you wish us to drop dead, you should consider an early lunch.”

“Oh dear! Does the splendid young gentleman not find the working life agreeable?” Caldris was sitting in the bow with his legs stretched out toward the mast. On his stomach, the kitten was curled into a dark ball of sleeping contentment. “The first mate here wants me to remind you that where we're going, the sea don't wait on your pleasure. You might be up twenty hours straight. You might be up
forty
. You might be on deck. You might be working a pump. Time comes to do what's necessary, you'll fucking well do it, and you'll do it until you drop. So we're gonna row, every day, until your expectations are right where they should be. And today we're gonna take a late lunch, not an early one. Hard a-larboard!”