The two Gentlemen Bastards decided to correct his attitude in a traditional Camorri fashion. Locke doubled the amount of his proposed bribe while Jean picked Bilezzo up by his lapels, scraped the ceiling with his head, and cheerfully offered to nail his tongue to the back of a carriage and whip the horses around the city.

No middle-aged civil servant in a comfortable position could easily refuse such entreaties, and they parted with a mutually satisfactory arrangement. Bilezzo’s men would continue (for appearance’s sake) to carry out the pointless fumigation of Nikoros’ building, Locke would conjure piles of gold to ensure it didn’t happen again, or anywhere else of value to the Deep Roots party, and Jean would spare Bilezzo the unwanted carriage ride.

Nikoros came away from the meeting having learned several new words, as well as some novel hyphenations of familiar ones, and a fascinating twist to the art of negotiation that his education had previously neglected.

5

LOCKE RETURNED alone to Josten’s just before the second hour of the afternoon with the autumn air cool against his freshly shaved face, chewing on the last of the half-dozen sweet cakes he’d picked up for lunch.

The place was in a fine state of near-pandemonium, with locksmiths performing surgery on at least three visible doors, while the customary crowd of businessfolk bustled about eating, shouting, negotiating, or simply trying to maintain airs of importance. At the same time, the ordinary and legitimate business of the Deep Roots party went on. Locke and Jean had agreed that there was no need for them to oversee every last detail of the Committee’s business, lest they go mad while driving everyone around them mad into the bargain.

Unusual events and setbacks, however, were very much their business, and Locke hadn’t taken five steps past the front doors before a small pack of Nikoros’ messengers and assistants descended on him waving scraps of paper. Locke flipped through them as he walked through the crowd and made his way up toward the party’s private gallery.

Constables had detained several important party supporters for public drunkenness. A district organizer had dumped his life’s savings into a bag and fled the city just before dawn for reasons unknown. A candidate for the seat in the Isas Vadrasta was going to fight a duel tomorrow, and there was no quality replacement if he ended up full of holes. Locke sighed. Casualty reports, by all the gods, like some captain on a battlefield! Sabetha’s hand could be in any of it, or none of it. No doubt the lists of complications would only get longer as the weeks wore on.

“Here’s Master Lazari now,” said Jean as Locke ascended the final step to the private gallery. Jean and Nikoros were standing before a group of eight men. Most of them looked capable to Locke’s eye—city bruisers, obvious ex-constables, and a few with the deep tans and weather-worn faces of caravan guards. They all nodded or muttered greetings.

“We’ve got a lead on some women, too,” said Jean, whispering into Locke’s ear. “Bodyguards. Nikoros found them; he’ll bring them in tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Locke. He waved the slips of paper at Jean. “Seen these?”

“If those are the notes on today’s pains in the ass, yes. You got anything to tell our new friends?”

“We want you content,” said Locke, addressing the men. “We want you to feel that you’re being treated fairly. If you’re not, bring it to us. If anyone threatens you, or makes you an offer—you know the sort of thing I’m talking about—bring it to us. Quietly. I guaranteewe’ll come up with a better deal.”

There was no point in mentioning consequences or making threats; gods, no. Doing that in public was a sure sign of insecurity. Threats, when needed, would be a private affair. If these men had real quality they would appreciate not being treated like idiots.

“Go find Josten,” said Jean. “Have yourselves a bite. I’ll have shift assignments once you’ve eaten.”

As the men left the gallery, Jean turned to Locke. “Where’d you go to get your shave, back to Lashain?”

“I didn’t mean to be out so long. I, uh, just thought I’d have my driver take me around some of the Black Iris places Nikoros listed for us. See if there was anything interesting going on.”

“You were looking for her, weren’t you?”

“Uh … yes. Didn’t spot her on any street, though.” Locke ran a hand over his chin for the twentieth time. “How does it look?”

“What?”

“The shave.”

“Like a shave. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“For Perelandro’s sake. You got peach fuzz scraped off with a razor; you didn’t commission a bust of yourself in marble.”

Locke crumpled the notes he’d been handed and put them in a coat pocket. “Well, look, if you’ve got the new bruisers in hand and you’ve already heard the news, I’m, uh, going up to the room … to get ready.”

“You’ve got at least four hours before we have to leave.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t start my nervous pacing now, I’ll never have it all done in time.”

6

“HOW’S IT look?”

Almost precisely four hours later, Locke was standing before a full-length mirror in their suite, showing off a slight variation in the tying of his black neck-cloth.

“It looks like clothing,” said Jean, who’d been dressed for the better part of an hour and was now lounging in a high-backed chair, ominously juggling a hatchet in one hand.

“Too prissy? Too eastern?”

“You do realize you’ve pushed that damn thing around at least a dozen times now?”

“Just doesn’t seem right.”

“You do realize that you didn’t even ownany of these outfits until yesterday? Why are you fretting about the deeper meaning of clothes that are newer than some of the crap digesting in that meager gut of yours?”

“Because,” said Locke, “I can’t help myself, and I know I can’t help myself, and it doesn’t help, you get it?”

“I do get it,” said Jean softly. “All too well. But I can’t be of service by patting you on the back for being nervous. You’ve got to stick your chin out and call yourself ready sometime.”

“Nervous,” said Locke. “I wish I was nervous! Nervous is when armed people try to kill me. This is something else. Gods, it’s been five years. She could … I just … I don’t even …” He closed his eyes and leaned against the mirror’s frame.

“You might as well practice finishing your sentences,” said Jean. “I hear that women find it irresistible.”

“Five years,” said Locke. He looked up, and the haunted expression in the mirror seemed like a self-accusation. “I’m going to have to tell her about Calo and Galdo.”

“She may already know.”

“I doubt it,” said Locke. “She was playing with us this morning. I just don’t think … that she would have done so. I wouldn’t have, in her place.”

“Five years apart, and you imagine that the two of you match moods so closely? Did you even do that when you were together?”

“Well—”

“You and I are lucky to be aliveto even see her,” said Jean. “Remember that. As for what happened while she was gone, it was as much her decision to leave as it was ours to stay.”

“I know,” said Locke. “In my head. The message hasn’t reached my gut just yet. There seems to be a tiny man in there attacking me with feathers. Now … jewelry. I should—”

“Gods above,” said Jean, rising from his chair. “Do you think she’s going to fling herself out a window if your shoes have too many buckles?”

“Her fashion sense might have grown more extreme since we last met.”

“Quit making such a yammering twit out of yourself. Find your way to the door.”

Step by step out of the room, into the main hall, past the bar and the tables full of Nikoros’ people with their lists and plans and dull assignments. Gods, he was really on his way! His knees seemed to be made of wet cotton; his pulse was like the sound of the ocean in his ears.