“So I don’t have to—”
“Obey the Secret Peace? Be a good little pezon? Only for pretend, Locke. Only to keep the wolves from the door. Unless your eyes and ears have been stitched shut with rawhide these past two days, by now you must have realized that I intend you and Calo and Galdo and Sabetha to be nothing less,” Chains confided through a feral grin, “than a fucking ballista bolt right through the heart of Vencarlo’s precious Secret Peace.”
“Uh…” Locke collected his thoughts for several moments. “Why?”
“Heh. It’s…complicated. It has to do with what I am, and what I hope you’ll someday be. A priest in the sworn service of the Crooked Warden.”
“Is the Capa doing something wrong?”
“Well,” said Chains, “well, lad, now there’s a question. Is he doing right by the Right People? Gods, yes—the Secret Peace tames the city watch, calms everyone down, gets less of us hung.
“Still, every priesthood has what we call mandates: laws handed down by the gods themselves to those who serve them. In most temples, these are complex, messy, annoying things. In the priesthood of the Benefactor, things are easy. We only have two. The first one is thieves prosper. Simple as that. We’re ordered to aid one another, hide one another, make peace whenever possible, and see to it that our kind flourishes, by hook or by crook. Barsavi’s got that mandate covered, never doubt that.
“But the second mandate,” said Chains, lowering his voice and glancing around into the fog to make doubly sure that they were not overheard, “is this—the rich remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That they’re not invincible. That locks can be picked and treasures can be stolen. Nara, Mistress of Ubiquitous Maladies, may Her hand be stayed, sends disease among men so that men will never forget that they are not gods. We’re sort of like that, for the rich and powerful. We’re the stone in their shoe, the thorn in their side, a little bit of reciprocity this side of divine judgment. That’s our second mandate, and it’s as important as the first.”
“And…the Secret Peace protects the nobles, and so you don’t like it?”
“It’s not that I don’t like it.” Chains mulled his next few words over before he let them out. “Barsavi’s not a priest of the Thirteenth. He’s not sworn to the mandates like I am; he’s got to be practical. And while I can accept that, I can’t just let it go. It’s my divine duty to see that the blue bloods with their pretty titles get a little bit of what life hands the rest of us as a matter of routine—a nice, sharp jab in the ass every now and again.”
“And, Barsavi…doesn’t need to know about this?”
“Bleeding shits, no. As I see it, if Barsavi takes care of thieves prosper and I look after the rich remember, this’ll be one holy, holy city in the eyes of the Crooked Warden.”
6
“WHY DO they bear it? I know they get paid, but the defaults! Gods…er, Holy Marrows, why do they come here and put up with it? Humiliated, beaten, stoned, befouled…to what end?”
Locke paced agitatedly around the Baumondain family’s workshop, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was the afternoon of his fourth day in Salon Corbeau.
“As you said, they get paid, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris Baumondain rested one hand gently on the back of the half-finished chair Locke had come in to see. With the other she stroked poor motionless Lively, tucked away inside a pocket of her apron. “If you’re selected for a game, you get a copper centira. If you’re given a default, you get a silver volani. There’s also a random drawing; one person per war, one in eighty, gets a gold solari.”
“They must be desperate,” said Locke.
“Farms fail. Businesses fail. Tenant lands get repossessed. Plagues knock all the money and health out of cities. When they’ve got nowhere else to come, they come here. There’s a roof to sleep under, meals, hope of gold or silver. All you have to do is go out there often enough and…amuse them.”
“It’s perverse. It’s infamous.”
“You have a soft heart, for what you’re spending on just four chairs, Master Fehrwight.” Lauris looked down and wrung her hands together. “Forgive me. I spoke well out of turn.”
“Speak as you will. I’m not a rich man, Lauris. I’m just my master’s servant. But even he…We’re frugal people, damn it. Frugal and fair. We might be eccentric, but we’re not cruel.”
“I’ve seen nobles from the Marrows at the Amusement War many times, Master Fehrwight.”
“We’re not nobles. We’re merchants…merchants of Emberlain. I can’t speak for our nobles, and often don’t want to. Look, I’ve seen many cities. I know how people live. I’ve seen gladiatorial fights, executions, misery and poverty and desperation. But I’ve never seen anything like that—the faces of those spectators. The way they watched and cheered. Like jackals, like crows, like something…something so very wrong.”
“There are no laws here but Lady Saljesca’s laws,” said Lauris. “Here they can behave however they choose. At the Amusement War they can do exactly what they want to do to the poor folk and the simple folk. Things forbidden elsewhere. All you’re seeing is what they look like when they stop pretending they give a damn about anything. Where do you think Lively came from? I saw a noblewoman having kittens Gentled so her sons could torture them with knives. Because they were bored at tea. So welcome to Salon Corbeau, Master Fehrwight. I’m sorry it’s not the paradise it looks like from a distance. Does our work on the chairs meet with your approval?”
“Yes,” said Locke slowly. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“If I were to presume to give you advice,” said Lauris, “I’d suggest that you stay away from the Amusement War for the rest of your stay. Do what the rest of us here do. Ignore it. Paint a great cloud of fog over it in your mind’s eye and pretend that it’s not there.”
“As you say, Madam Baumondain.” Locke sighed. “I might just do so.”
7
BUT LOCKE could not stay away. Morning, afternoon, and evening, he found himself in the public gallery, standing alone, eating and drinking nothing. He saw crowd after crowd, war after war, humiliation after humiliation. The Demons made gruesome mistakes on several occasions; beatings and stranglings got out of control. Those aspirants who were accidentally roughed up beyond hope of recovery had their skulls crushed on the spot, to the polite applause of the crowd. It would not do to be unmerciful.
“Crooked Warden,” Locke muttered to himself the first time it happened. “They don’t even have a priest…not a single one….”
He realized, dimly, what he was doing to himself. He felt the stirring within, as though his conscience were a deep, still lake with a beast struggling to rise to its surface. Each brutal humiliation, each painful default excitedly decreed by some spoiled noble child while their parents laughed in appreciation, gave strength to that beast as it beat itself against his better judgment, his cold calculation, his willingness to stick to the plan.
He was trying to make himself angry enough to give in.
The Thorn of Camorr had been a mask he’d halfheartedly worn as a game. Now it was almost a separate entity, a hungry thing, an increasingly insistent ghost prying at his resolve to stand up for the mandate of his faith.
Let me out, it whispered. Let me out. The rich must remember. By the gods, I can make damn sure they never forget.
“I hope you’ll pardon my intrusion if I observe that you don’t seem to be enjoying yourself!”
Locke was snapped out of his brooding by the appearance of another man in the free gallery. The stranger was tanned and fit-looking, perhaps five or six years older than Locke, with brown curls down to his collar and a precisely trimmed goatee. His long velvet coat was lined with cloth-of-silver, and he held a gold-topped cane behind his back with both hands.
“But forgive me. Fernand Genrusa, peer of the Third, of Lashain.”
Peer of the third order—a baron—a purchased Lashani patent of nobility, just as Locke and Jean had toyed with poss
ibly acquiring. Locke bent slightly at the waist and inclined his head. “Mordavi Fehrwight, m’lord. Of Emberlain.”
“A merchant, then? You must be doing well for yourself, Master Fehrwight, to take your leisure here. So what’s behind your long face?”
“What makes you think I’m displeased?”
“You stand here alone, taking no refreshment, and you watch each new war with such an expression on your face…as though someone were slipping hot coals into your breechclout. I’ve seen you several times from my own gallery. Are you losing money? I might be able to share some insights I’ve cultivated on how to best place wagers at the Amusement War.”
“I have no wagers outstanding, m’lord. I am merely…unable to stop watching.”
“Curious. Yet it does not please you.”
“No.” Locke turned slightly toward Baron Genrusa and swallowed nervously. Etiquette demanded that a lowborn like Mordavi Fehrwight, and a Vadran at that, should defer even to a banknote baron like Genrusa and offer no unpleasant conversation, but Genrusa seemed to be inviting explanation. Locke wondered how much he might get away with. “Have you ever seen a carriage accident, m’lord, or a man run over by a team of horses? Seen the blood and wreckage and been completely unable to take your eyes off the spectacle?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“There I would beg to differ. You have a private gallery to see it three times a day if you wish. M’lord.”
“Ahhhh. So you find the Amusement War, what, undecorous?”
“Cruel, m’lord Genrusa. Most uncommonly cruel.”
“Cruel? Compared to what? War? Times of plague? Have you ever seen Camorr, by chance? Now there’s a basis for comparison that might have you thinking more soundly, Master Fehrwight.”
“Even in Camorr,” said Locke, “I don’t believe anyone is allowed to beat old women in broad daylight on a whim. Or tear their clothes off, stone them, rape them, slash their hair off, splash them with alchemical caustics…. It’s like…like children tearing off an insect’s wings. So they might watch and laugh.”
“Who forced them to come here, Fehrwight? Who put a sword to their backs and made them march all the way to Salon Corbeau along those hot, empty roads? That pilgrimage takes days from anywhere worthy of note.”
“What choice do they have, m’lord? They’re only here because they’re desperate. Because they could not sustain themselves where they were. Farms fail, businesses fail…it’s desperation, is all. They cannot simply decide not to eat.”
“Farms fail, businesses fail, ships sink, empires fall.” Genrusa brought his cane out from behind his back and punctuated his statements by gesturing at Locke with the gold head. “That’s life, under the gods, by the will of the gods. Perhaps if they’d prayed harder, or saved more, or been less thoughtless with what they had, they wouldn’t need to come crawling here for Saljesca’s charity. Seems only fair that she should require most of them to earn it.”
“Charity?”
“They have a roof over their heads, food to eat, and the chance of money. Those that earn the gold prizes seem to have no trouble taking their coin and leaving.”
“One in eighty wins a solari, m’lord. No doubt more money than they’ve ever seen at once in their lives. And for the other seventy-nine that gold is just a promise, holding them here day after day, week after week, default after default. And those that die because the Demons get out of hand? What good is gold or the promise of gold to them? Anywhere else, it would be plain murder.”
“It’s Aza Guilla that takes them from the arena floor, not you or I or anyone mortal, Fehrwight.” Genrusa’s brows were furrowed and his cheeks were reddening. “And yes, anywhere else, it might be plain murder. But this is Salon Corbeau, and they’re here of their own free will. As are you and I. They could simply choose not to come—”
“And starve and die elsewhere.”
“Please. I have seen the world, Master Fehrwight. I might recommend it to you for perspective. Certainly, some of them must be down on their luck. But I wager you’d find that most of them are just hungry for gold, hoping for an easy break. Look out at those on the arena floor now…quite a few young and healthy ones, aren’t there?”
“Who else might be expected to make the journey here on foot without extraordinary luck, m’lord Genrusa?”
“I can see there’s no talking sense to sentiment, Master Fehrwight. I’d thought you coin-kissers from Emberlain were a harder lot than this.”
“Hard perhaps, but not vulgar.”
“Now mind yourself, Master Fehrwight. I wanted a word because I was genuinely curious about your disposition; I think I can see now what it stems from. A bit of advice: Salon Corbeau might not be the healthiest place to harbor your sort of resentment.”
“My business here will be…shortly concluded.”
“All for the better, then. But perhaps your business at the Amusement War might be curtailed even sooner. I’m not the only one who’s taken an interest in you. Lady Saljesca’s guards are…sensitive about discontent. Above the arena floor as well as on it.”
I could leave you penniless and sobbing, whispered the voice in Locke’s head. I could have you pawning your piss-buckets to keep your creditors from slitting your throat.
“Forgive me, my lord. I will take what you say most seriously,” muttered Locke. “I doubt…that I shall trouble anyone here again.”
8
ON THE morning of Locke’s ninth day in Salon Corbeau, the Baumondains were finished with his chairs.
“They look magnificent,” said Locke, running his fingers lightly over the lacquered wood and padded leather. “Very fine, as fine as I had reason to hope. And the…additional features?”
“Built to your specifications, Master Fehrwight. Exactly to your specifications.” Lauris stood beside her father in the Baumondain workshop while ten-year-old Parnella was struggling to brew tea over an alchemical hearthstone, at a corner table covered in unidentifiable tools and half-empty jars of woodworking oils. Locke made a mental note to smell any tea offered to him very carefully before drinking.
“You have outdone yourselves, all of you.”
“We were, ah, financially inspired, Master Fehrwight,” said the elder Baumondain.
“I like building weird things,” Parnella added from the corner.
“Heh. Yes, I suppose these would qualify.” Locke stared at his suite of four matching chairs and sighed in mingled relief and aggravation. “Well, then. If you’d be so kind as to ready them for transport, I shall hire two carriages and take my leave this afternoon.”
“In that much of a hurry to leave?”
“I hope you’ll forgive me if I say that every unnecessary moment I spend in this place weighs on me. Salon Corbeau and I do not agree.” Locke removed a leather purse from his coat pocket and tossed it to Master Baumondain. “An additional twenty solari. For your silence, and for these chairs to never have existed. Is this clear?”
“I…well, I’m sure we can accommodate your request…. I must say, your generosity is—”
“A subject that needs no further discussion. Humor me, now. I’ll be gone soon enough.”
So that’s all, said the voice in Locke’s head. Stick to the plan. Leave this all behind, and do nothing, and return to Tal Verrar with my tail between my legs.
While he and Jean enriched themselves at Requin’s expense and cheated their way up the luxurious floors of the Sinspire, on the stone floor of Lady Saljesca’s arena the defaults would go on, and the faces of the spectators would be the same, day after day. Children tearing the wings from insects to laugh at how they flailed and bled…and stepping on one every now and again.
“Thieves prosper,” muttered Locke under his breath. He tightened his neck-cloths and prepared to go summon his carriages, feeling sick to his stomach.
CHAPTER FIVE
ON A CLOCKWORK RIVER
1
THE GLASS-FRONTED TRANSPORT BOX erupted out of the Mon Magisteri
a’s waterfall once again and slid home with a lurch just inside the palace. Water hissed through iron pipes, the high gates behind the box slammed shut, and the attendants pushed the front doors open for Locke, Jean, and Merrain.
A dozen Eyes of the Archon were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They fell in wordlessly on either side of Locke and Jean as Merrain led them forward.
Though not to the same office as before, it seemed. Locke glanced around from time to time as they passed through dimly lit halls and up twisting staircases. The Mon Magisteria was truly more fortress than palace; the walls outside the grand hall were devoid of decoration, and the air smelled mainly of humidity, sweat, leather, and weapon oils. Water rumbled through unseen channels behind the walls. Occasionally they would troop past servants, who would stand with their backs to the wall and their heads bowed toward their feet until the Eyes were past.
Merrain led them to an iron-reinforced door in a nondescript corridor several floors up from the entrance. Faint silver moonlight could be seen rippling through an arched window at the far end of the hall…. Locke squinted and realized that a stream of water from the palace’s circling aqueducts was falling down the glass.
Merrain pounded on the door three times. When it opened with a click, allowing a crack of soft yellow light into the hall, she dismissed the Eyes with a wave of her hand. As they marched away down the corridor, she pushed the door open slightly and pointed toward it with her other hand.
“At last. I might have hoped to see you sooner. You must have been away from your usual haunts when Merrain found you.” Stragos looked up from where he sat, on one of only two chairs in the small, bare room, and shuffled the papers he’d been examining. His bald attendant sat on the other with several files in hand, saying nothing.
“They were having a bit of trouble on the inner docks of the Great Gallery,” said Merrain as she closed the door behind Locke and Jean. “A pair of fairly motivated assassins.”
“Really?” Stragos seemed genuinely annoyed. “What business might that be in relation to?”
“I only wish we knew,” said Locke. “Our chance for an interrogation took a crossbow bolt in the chest when Merrain showed up.”