The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (252 page)

Jean and Allaine exchanged the quickest possible courtesies; then she continued:

“Master Via Lupa sent us out an hour before sunrise, five of us on horseback, north
from the Court of Dust. We were supposed to spot Vadran swells on the road. Introduce
ourselves, make our offers, get them in the bag for the Deep Roots before they even
hit the city.” She pulled her leather gloves off and slapped them against her leg.
“We planned to be out until midafternoon, but just after sunup we were overridden
by bluecoats, lots of them, not sparing their horses.

“They said they had an emergency directive from the Commission for Public Order. No
Karthani citizens allowed more than a hundred yards north on the road, because of
‘unsettled conditions.’ They said we could either ride back under escort or walk back
under arrest. So that’s it, and here I am again.”

“Are you sure they were real constables?” said Jean.

“No foolery there,” said Allaine. “They had the papers from the Commission, and I
recognized a few of them.”

“You did well,” said Jean. “If you’d tried to argue you’d probably be trudging back
home under guard right now. You and your fellows get some breakfast, and leave this
with us.” Jean watched her depart, then turned to Nikoros. “The Commission for Public
Order?”

“A trio of Konseil members. Chosen by majority vote of the larger body. A sort of
committee to run the constabulary.”

“Shit. I suppose it’d be silly of me to ask what party those three belong to.”

“It would,” said Nikoros. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“We’ll just have to continue our diplomatic efforts within the city gates,” said Jean.
“No worries. I’ll send Allaine and her crew out to join that party once they’ve eaten.
As for you: bed. Don’t say anything, just go to your chambers and go to bed, or I’ll
throw you off this balcony. You and Master Lazari both need it. I can call the tune
for this dance for a few hours.”

After Nikoros crept gratefully off to his rest, Jean sifted the papers he’d left,
noting new developments as well as familiar problems. He wrote orders of his own,
passed them to couriers, received routine inquiries, and drank several different varieties
of coffee, all freshly boiled and scalding, while the pale fingers of autumn light
from the windows swung across the room.

Just after noon, the front doors banged open. Damned Superstition Dexa and Firstson
Epitalus swept through the crowd and up the stairs, trailed by an unusually large
bevy of attendants. Jean set down his coffee and paperwork, then rose to greet them.

“You!” hissed Dexa as she crested the last step, striding forcefully toward Jean.
“You and Lazari have rashly placed us in a position of the most profound and untenable
embarrassment!”

Jean squared his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and spread his hands disarmingly.

“I can see we have a misunderstanding in progress,” he said. “Well, I’m here to instruct
and condole. Everyone who isn’t a member of the Konseil is dismissed.”

Some of the attendants looked uncertain, but Jean took a step forward, smiling, and
shooed them off, as though dealing with children. In a moment he and the two Konseillors
were alone on the private balcony, and Jean’s smile vanished.

“You will never again address me in that fashion,” he said, his voice low and even
but not even remotely polite.

“On the contrary,” said Dexa, “I intend to take your skin off by means of verbal vitriol.
Now—”

“Damned Superstition Dexa,” said Jean, stepping in to loom over her without subtlety,
“you will lower your voice. You will not create a scene. You will not confuse and
demoralize the party members below. You will not allow our opponents the satisfaction
of hearing about any disarray or dissension
here
!”

She glared at him, but then, through the force of argument or sorcerous conditioning
or both, she caught hold of her temper and nodded, grudgingly.

“Now,” said Jean. “I will listen to anything, even the most vicious chastisement,
so long as it is delivered quietly and we preserve our outward show of amity.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’re entirely correct. But you and Lazari have loaded our
credibility on a barge and sunk it in the lake with this business of collecting strays!”

“Wealthy, well-connected strays,” said Jean. “All of whom will be grateful for their
places here, and will show their gratitude by voting—”

“That’s just it,” interrupted Firstson Epitalus, “they won’t. Show it to him, Dexa.”

“We were summoned to an emergency meeting of the Konseil just over an hour ago,” said
Dexa, taking several folded sheets of paper out of her jacket and passing them to
Jean. “The Black Iris convened it and barely managed to scrape the letter of the law
in sending out notices. They pushed an emergency directive through by simple majority
vote.”

“In light of unforeseen developments,” muttered Jean out loud as he read the tightly
scripted legal pronouncements, “and the influx of desperate and diverse refugees …
steps necessary to secure the sanctity of the Karthani electoral process …
urgently and immediately bar all such refugees from enfranchisement as voting citizens …
period of three years!
Oh, those cheeky sacks of donkey shit!”

“Quite,” said Dexa. “Now, proceed to the fine details.”

“All constables empowered …” Jean read, skimming irrelevancies and flourishes, “… therefore
this directive shall be considered in effect … noon! Noon today! A few damn minutes
ago.”

“Yes,” said Epitalus. “Seems it wasn’t quite such an urgent and immediate
need that they didn’t want to be sure all of
their own
Vadran newcomers were registered first.”

“Hells,” said Jean. “I only sent off about half a dozen of ours. We thought we’d have
all day! How many new voters did they buy?”

“Our sources say forty,” said Dexa. “So for all your galloping about in the middle
of the night, you’ve earned us six votes and the opposition forty, and now we have
six dozen of our cousins from the north to store like useless clothes! How do you
propose we get rid of them?”

“I don’t.”

“But that’s simply—”

“We made promises to aid and shelter them in the name of the Deep Roots party,” said
Jean. “Do you know what happens when that sort of promise goes unkept? How willing
do you think Karthani voters will be to put their trust in us if we’re seen kicking
respectable refugees back out into the cold before the eyes of the whole city?”

“Point taken,” sighed Dexa.

“If we can’t use them as voters,” said Jean, “we can still take their money in exchange
for our help. And we can use them to grow sympathy. We’ll circulate some exaggerations
about these people being chased out of their homes. Families murdered, houses burned,
inheritances usurped—all that sort of thing. We’re good with stories, Lazari and me.”

“Oh yes, quite,” said Dexa, all the fight leaving her voice at last. “I wager you
must know best, after all.”

Jean frowned. This sort of sudden lassitude had to be some sort of friction between
Dexa’s conditioning and her natural inclinations. Now it was time to put her and Epitalus
back together.

“You wouldn’t have hired us if you hadn’t wanted the best in a very unusual business,”
said Jean. “Now, if you’ve got no further plans for the moment, I could use your advice
on some of these situations around the city.…”

Actually, he hadn’t needed anything of the sort, but after a few minutes of smooth
fakery he found some genuine questions to apply their nattering to, and after a few
more minutes he summoned a stream of coffee, brandy, and tobacco that flowed for the
rest of the afternoon. Soon enough any cracks in their working façade seemed
plastered over, and Jean found himself practicing dipsomantic sleight-of-hand to avoid
having his wits plastered over.

Around the third hour of the afternoon Locke appeared, looking significantly less
close to death. He wore a fresh green-trimmed black coat and gnawed with practiced
unself-consciousness at a pile of biscuits and meat balanced daintily atop a mug of
coffee.

“Hello, fellow Roots,” he said around a mouthful of food. “I’ve been hearing the damnedest
things just now.”

Jean passed him the papers from Dexa and explained the situation as succinctly as
possible. Locke ate with dexterous voracity, so that he was dunking his last biscuit
in his coffee as Jean finished his report with innocuous hand signals:

These two were upset. Fixed now. Used argument and drink. More of latter
.

“Alas,” said Locke, “it was a grand old scheme we cooked up, but all we can do now
is leave flowers on the grave and move along to the next one. Our Black Iris friends
seem to be either sharper or luckier than usual these past few days. Well, leave that
to me. I’ve got to hit back.”

He drained his coffee in one long gulp, then motioned for Jean and the two Konseillors
to lean in closer to him.

“Dexa,” he said quietly, “Epitalus, you two must know all the other Konseil members
fairly well. Which Black Iris Konseillor would you say has the most … mercenary sort
of self-interest? The least attachment to politics or ideology or anything beyond
the feathers in their own nest?”

“The most aptly suited to bribery?” said Epitalus.

“Let’s say the most open to clandestine persuasion,” said Locke, “by means financial
or otherwise.”

“It would have to be a vault-filling sort of persuasion in any case,” said Dexa. “Rats
don’t tend to desert a ship that isn’t sinking. Forgive that impression of the Black
Iris, Master Lazari, but that’s as I see it.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Locke. “But is there anyone?”

“If I had to wager something on the question,” said Dexa, “I’d put my money on Lovaris.”

“Secondson Lovaris,” said Epitalus, nodding. “Also called ‘Perspicacity,’ though gods
know where that came from. He’s got no real
politics at all, near as I can tell. He loves the sound of his own voice. Loves being
one of the selected few. Thoroughly adores the opportunities for … enrichment a Konseil
seat often attracts.”

“I’m an opportunity for enrichment,” said Locke with a smile. “I need to meet this
piece of work privately, as soon as I can, and as secretly. How would you suggest
I go about it?”

“Through Nikoros,” said Dexa. “Him and his underwriting for transport syndicates.
Lovaris holds part interest in a ship called the
Lady Emerald
. If one of Nikoros’ contacts carried him a sealed letter on some boring point of
nautical business, you’d have his attention and you wouldn’t need to fly Deep Roots
colors anywhere near him.”

“That sounds damned superlative, Damned Superstition.” Locke saluted her with his
empty mug. “I have my next mission.”

THREE DAYS
later, a lean and scruffy man in a paint-spattered tunic emerged from the misty greenways
of the Mara Karthani, where hanging lanterns swayed in the rain and Therin Throne
statues in crumbling alcoves gave themselves up slowly to the elements.

Abutting the centuries-old park on its eastern side was the manse of Perspicacity
Lovaris, Black Iris Konseil representative for the Bursadi District. The scruffy man
knocked at the tradesfolk entrance and was let in by a dark-skinned hillock of a woman,
gray-haired but dangerously light on her feet. The scuffed witchwood baton swinging
from the woman’s belt looked as though it had met some skulls in its time.

She led the newcomer, still dripping wet, through the richly furnished passages of
the house to a small, high-ceilinged chamber where warm yellow light fell like a benediction.
This illumination had nothing to do with the natural sky, of course—it was an arc
of alchemical lamps above stained glass engraved with common symbols of the Twelve.

The woman shoved the lean man up against one wall of the chamber, and for an instant
he feared treachery. Then her strong, capable hands were sliding down his sides in
a familiar fashion. Her search for weapons was thorough, but she was obviously unacquainted
with the
old Camorri trick of the hiltless stiletto dangled at the small of the back from a
necklace chain.

Locke had no illusions of kicking down doors and leaving a swath of dead foes in his
wake if complications arose, but even a nail-scraping of an arsenal was a reassuring
thing to have on hand.

“He’s not armed,” said the woman, smiling for the first time. “Nor any threat if he
were.”

A middle-aged Therin man with pale hair and a seamy pink face entered the room. He
and the woman traded places as smoothly as stage actors, and she eased the door shut
on her way out.

“You can remove that nonsense on your head,” said the man. “At least, I presume it’s
nonsense, if you’re who you ought to be.”

Locke pulled off his sopping wig of black curls and his ornamental optics, thick as
the bottoms of alchemists’ jars. He set them down on the room’s only table, which
had but one chair, on Lovaris’ side.

“Sebastian Lazari,” said Lovaris as he sat down with a soft grunt. “Lashani prodigy
with no genuine history in Lashain. Doctor without accreditation. Solicitor without
offices or former clients.”

“The backtrail’s not up to my usual standards,” said Locke. “No loss to admit it,
since I didn’t do the work myself.”

“You and your bigger friend are interesting counterparts to the lovely Mistress Gallante,”
said Lovaris. “Though obviously not from the same place.”

“Obviously,” said Locke.

“I think you’ve come north from your usual habitations, Master Lazari. I heard rumors
a few months ago, when the Archon of Tal Verrar took that long fall off a narrow pedestal.
Word was a few captains of intelligence managed to duck the noose and get misplaced
in the shuffle.”

“My compliments,” said Locke. “But, ah, you might as well know I didn’t leave anyone
behind me interested enough to chase me down, even if your … entertaining theory were
to reach the proper ears.”