The Gentleman Bastard Series (13 page)

The devilfish’s tentacles were twelve feet long—the same length as its undulating gray-and-black striped body. The creature was confined within a sixty-foot circle of cages and platforms, along with a number of screaming, flailing, water-treading men—most of whom had long since dropped their slender little daggers into the water. Nervous guards armed with crossbows and pikes patrolled the platform, shoving prisoners back into the water if they tried to scramble out. Occasionally, the devilfish would roll over in the churning red waters and Locke would catch a glimpse of one lidless black eye the size of a soup bowl—not unlike the bowl currently held in his hands.

“More, Master Fehrwight?” Conté hovered nearby with the silver tureen of chilled soup cradled in his hands; white-fleshed Iron Sea prawns floated in a heavy red tomato base seasoned with peppers and onions. Don and Doña Salvara were a peculiar sort of droll.

“No, Conté, most kind, but I’m well satisfied for the time being.” Locke set his soup bowl down beside the broached cask of “559” (actually a bottle
of lowly fifty-crown 550 liberally mixed with the roughest overpriced rum Jean had been able to get his hands on) and took a sip of the amber liquor from his snifter. Even mixed with crap, the counterfeit was delicious. Graumann stood attentively behind Locke’s hosts, who were seated opposite Locke at the intimate little table of oiled silverwood. Doña Sofia toyed unself-consciously with a subtlety of gelled orange slices, paper-thin and arranged in whorls to form edible tulip blossoms. Don Lorenzo stared down at the snifter of brandy in his hands, his eyes still wide.

“It seems almost … sacrilegious!” Despite this sentiment, the don took a deep gulp of the stuff, satisfaction well evident in the lines of his face. In the distance behind him, something that might have been a severed torso flew up into the air and came back down with a splash; the crowd roared approval.

Austershalin brandy was famously aged for a minimum of seven years after distillation and blending; it was impossible for outsiders to get their hands on a cask any sooner than that. The House of bel Auster’s factors were forbidden even to speak of the batches that were not yet on sale; the location of the vintner’s aging-houses was a secret that was reportedly guarded by assassination when necessary. Don Lorenzo had been struck stupid when Locke had casually offered up a cask of 559; he had nearly thrown up when Locke had just as casually opened the seal and suggested they share it with lunch.

“It is.” Locke chuckled. “The brandy
is
the religion of my House. So many rules, so many rituals, so many penalties!” No longer smiling, he drew a quick finger across his throat. “It’s possible we’re the only people in history to have an unaged sample with a lunch of soup. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I am!” The don swirled the liquor in his glass and stared at it, as though hypnotized by the soft caramel-colored translucence. “And I’m dead curious about what sort of scheme you’ve got up your sleeve, Lukas.”

“Well.” Locke swirled his own drink theatrically. “There have been three invasions of Emberlain in the past two hundred and fifty years. Let’s be frank; the succession rites of the Kingdom of the Marrows always involve armies and blood before they involve blessings and banquets. When the Grafs quarrel, the Austershalin mountains are our only landward barrier, and the site of heavy fighting. This fighting inevitably spills down the eastern slopes of the mountains. Right through the vineyards of the House of bel Auster. How could it be different this time? Thousands of men and horses coming over the passes. Trampling the vineyards. Sacking
everything in sight. It might even be worse, now that we have fire-oil. Our vineyards could be ashes half a year from now.”

“You can’t exactly pack your vineyards up and take them with you if you … jump ship,” said Don Lorenzo.

“No.” Locke sighed. “It’s the Austershalin soils, in part, that make Austershalin brandy. If we lose those vineyards, it will be just as it was before—an interruption in growth and distillation. Ten, twenty, maybe even thirty years. Or more. And it gets worse. Our position is terrible. The Graf can’t let Emberlain’s ports and revenue go if the Marrows are coming to civil war. He and his allies will storm the place as fast as possible. They’ll likely put the Black Table to the sword, impound their goods and properties, nationalize their funds. The House of bel Auster won’t be spared.

“At the moment, the Black Table is acting quietly but firmly. Grau and I sailed five days ago, just twelve hours before we knew the port would be sealed off. No Emberlain-flagged ships are being allowed out; they’re all being docked and secured for ‘repairs’ or ‘quarantine.’ Nobles still loyal to the Graf are under house arrest by now, their guards disarmed. Our funds, in various lending houses of Emberlain, have been temporarily frozen. All the Black Table merchant houses have consented to do this to one another. It makes it impossible for any house to flee en masse, with its gold and its goods. Currently, Grau and I are operating on our local credit line, established at Meraggio’s years ago. My House … well, we simply didn’t keep our funds outside Emberlain. Just a bit here and there for emergencies.”

Locke watched the Salvaras very closely for their reaction; his news from Emberlain was as fresh and specific as possible, but the don might have sources of intelligence the Gentlemen Bastards hadn’t spotted in their weeks of surveillance and preparation. The parts about the Black Table and the impending civil war were solid, educated speculation; the part about a sudden port closure and house arrests was pure homespun bullshit. In Locke’s estimation, the real mess in Emberlain wouldn’t start for a few months. If the don was wise to this, the game might be blown. Conté might be trying to pin Locke to the table with his daggers in just a few seconds. And then Jean would pull out the hatchets he had concealed down the back of his vest, and everyone in the little group beneath the silk awning would get very, very uncomfortable.

But the Salvaras said nothing; they merely continued to stare at him with eyes that plainly invited him to go on. Emboldened, he continued: “This situation is unbearable. We will neither be hostages to a cause that
we barely profess, nor victims for the Graf’s vengeance upon his inevitable return. We choose a … somewhat risky alternative. One that would require substantial aid from a noble of Camorr. You, Don Salvara, if it is within your means.”

The don and his wife had clasped hands under the table; he waved his hand at Locke excitedly.

“We can surrender our funds. By taking no steps to secure them, we buy ourselves more time to act. And we are quite confident that replacing those funds will merely be a matter of time and effort. We can even abandon”—Locke gritted his teeth—“we can even abandon our vineyards. We will completely burn them ourselves, leaving nothing to anyone else. After all, we enhance the soil ourselves, alchemically. And the secret of that enhancement is kept only in the hearts of our Planting Masters.”

“The Austershalin Process,” Sofia breathed, betrayed by her own rising excitement.

“Of course, you’ve heard of it. Well, there are only three Planting Masters at any given time. And the Process is complex enough to defy soil examination—even by someone with talents such as yours, my lady. Many of the compounds our alchemists use are inert, and intended only to confuse the matter. So that’s that.

“The one thing we
cannot
abandon is our stock of aging blends; the last six years, batched in their casks. And certain rare vintages and special experiments. We store the Austershalin in thirty-two gallon casks; there are nearly six
thousand
such casks in our possession. We have to get them out of Emberlain. We have to do it in the next few weeks, before the Black Table imposes harsher control measures and before the Graf begins laying siege to his canton. And now our ships are under guard, and all of our funds are untouchable.”

“You want … you want to get all of these casks out of Emberlain? All of them?” The don actually gulped.

“As many as possible,” said Locke.

“And for this you would involve us how?” Doña Sofia was fidgeting.

“Emberlain-flagged ships can no longer leave port, nor enter if they wish to escape again. But—a small flotilla of
Camorr
-flagged ships, with Camorri crews, financed by a Camorri noble …” Locke set his glass of brandy down and spread both his hands in the air.

“You wish me to provide … a naval expedition?”

“Two or three of your larger galleons should do it. We’re looking at a thousand tons of cargo—casks and brandy alike. Minimal crew, say fifty
or sixty men a ship. We can take our pick of the docks and get sober, trustworthy captains. Six or seven days beating north, plus however long it takes to scratch the crews and ships together. I guess less than a week. Do you concur?”

“A week … yes, but … you’re asking me to finance
all
of this?”

“In exchange for a most handsome recompense, I assure you.”

“Provided everything goes well, yes, and we’ll come to the matter of recompense in a moment. But just the rapid acqusition of two galleons, good captains, and very reliable crews—”

“Plus,” said Locke, “something to stick in the hold for the trip north. Cheap grain, dried cheese, low-grade fresh fruit. Nothing special. But Emberlain will shortly be under siege; the Black Table will be happy to have a cache of extra supplies offloaded. Emberlain’s position is too tenuous to fail to respect the sovereign neutrality of Camorr; that’s what my masters are counting on to get the ships in and out. But added insurance cannot hurt.”

“Yes,” said Don Lorenzo, tugging on his lower lip. “Two galleons, crews, officers, cheap cargo. A small crew of mercenaries, ten or twelve a ship. There are always some hanging around the Viscount’s Gate this time of year. I’d want a hard corps of armed men on each ship to discourage … complications.”

Locke nodded.

“So, how exactly would we go about removing the casks from your aging-houses and transporting them to the docks?”

“A very simple ruse,” said Locke. “We maintain several breweries and storehouses for small beer; it’s a sideline, a sort of hobby for some of our Blending Masters. Our beer is stored in casks, and the location of these warehouses is public knowledge. Slowly, carefully, while Grau and I sailed south, my masters have been moving casks of Austershalin brandy to the beer warehouses and relabeling them. They will continue to do so while we prepare here, and until our ships appear in the harbor of Emberlain.”

“So you won’t be loading brandy in secret.” Doña Sofia clapped her hands together. “As far as anyone knows, you’ll be loading beer in the open!”

“Exactly, my lady. Even a large export of beer won’t be anywhere near as suspicious as a movement of the unaged brandy. It’ll be looked on as a commercial coup; we’ll be the first to dodge the interdict on Emberlain-flagged vessels. We’ll bring in a pile of supplies for the coming siege and a fine apparent profit for ourselves. Then, once we’ve got all the brandy
loaded, we’ll put out to sea, bringing sixty or seventy bel Auster family and employees to form the nucleus of our new business operations in Camorr. Discovery after that will be immaterial.”

“All of this to be thrown together on short notice.” Don Lorenzo was deep in thought. “Fifteen thousand crowns, I’d say. Perhaps twenty.”

“I concur, my lord. Count on an additional five thousand or so, for bribes and other arrangements.” Locke shrugged. “Certain men are going to have to look the other way for us to do our job when we reach Emberlain, warehouse ruse or no.”

“Twenty-five thousand crowns, then. Damn.” Lorenzo downed the last of the brandy in his glass, set it down, and folded his hands together on the table before him. “You’re asking me for more than half of my fortune. I like you, Lukas, but now it’s time to discuss the other side of the proposal.”

“Of course.” Lukas stopped to offer the don another dash of the counterfeit “unaged”; the don began to wave him off, but his taste buds prevailed over his better judgment, and he held out his glass. Doña Sofia did so as well, and Jean hurried over to pass her glass between her and Locke. When he’d served the Salvaras, Locke poured a companionably large amount into his own snifter. “First, you have to understand what the House of bel Auster is and is not offering.

“You will never have the Austershalin Process. It will continue to be passed down, verbally, and strictly within the House. We can offer you no properties as collateral or in payment; we expect to forfeit them upon fleeing Emberlain. Resecuring the vineyards at a future date is our own problem.

“Any effort on your part to pry into the Austershalin Process, to suborn any bel Auster men or women, will be regarded as an absolute breach of trust.” Locke sipped brandy. “I have no idea what specific penalties we could levy to express our displeasure, but it
would
be fully expressed. I am instructed to be entirely clear on this point.”

“And so you are.” Doña Sofia placed one hand on her husband’s left shoulder. “But these limitations are not yet an offer.”

“Forgive me, gracious Doña Sofia, for speaking to you like this. But you must understand—this is the most important thing the House of bel Auster has ever contemplated. Grau and I hold the future of our combine in our rather vulnerable hands. At this moment, I
can’t
speak to you just as your luncheon guest Lukas Fehrwight. I am the House of bel Auster. You have to understand that some things are not on the table, not even by the most remote implication.”

The Salvaras nodded as one, Sofia just a bit more slowly than Lorenzo.

“Now. Consider the situation. War is coming to Emberlain. Our vineyards and our properties are as good as lost. And without those vineyards, there will be no Austershalin actually produced for only the Marrows know how long. Ten years? A generation? Even when we have the vineyards back, the soil will need years to recover. This is the way it has been, three times before. For many, many years to come, the only new Austershalin available is going to come from whatever portion of those six thousand casks we can move out of Emberlain, like thieves in the night. Imagine the
demand
. The price escalation.”