“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I must inform you that my father died several years ago.”

“Oh,” said Boulidazi, visibly relaxing. “Forgive me. I must have been thinking of someone else. But why didn’t the pair of you simply give the name of the count when you—”

“Noble cousin,” said Sabetha, shifting instantly into her excellent Throne Therin, “the name of Blackspear commands instant attention in Camorr, but surely you wouldn’t think us so vulgar as to try and awe you with it in Espara, as the freshest of acquaintances, as guests in your house?”

“Oh—vulgar, oh no, never!” said Boulidazi in the same language. Anyone of breeding was expected to endure years of tutelage in it, and he’d clearly done his time in the purgatory of conjugation and tenses. “I didn’t mean that I expected anything uncouth of you!”

“Lord Boulidazi,” said Locke, returning the conversation to plain Therin, “we’re the ones who should be apologizing, for imposing ourselves upon you in our present state. We have our reasons, but you needn’t regret being cautious.”

“I’m glad you understand,” said the baron. “Tymon!”

The large servant, who must have been lurking just past the door, stepped inside.

“It’s all right, Tymon,” said the baron. “I think our guests will be staying for a while. Let’s have some chairs.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the servant, relaxing out of his cold and intimidating aspect as easily as removing a hat.

“I hope you don’t mind if we talk in here,” said Boulidazi. “My parents … well, it was just last year. I can’t really think of the study as myroom quite yet.”

“I know how it is,” said Locke. “You inherit the memories of a house as well as its stones. I didn’t touch anything in my father’s library for months.”

“I suppose I should call you Don and Dona Botallio, then?” said the baron.

“Only if you want to flatter us,” said Locke with a smile.

“While Grandfather still holds the title,” said Sabetha, “my father, as direct heir, is called Don. But since we’re two steps removed, we are, at present, just a pair of Honorables.”

Tymon returned, along with the shoe-towelers, and three high-backed chairs were set down next to the billiards table.

Boulidazi seemed reasonably convinced of their authenticity now, and Locke felt a pang of mingled awe and anxiety. Here was a lord of the city, capable of putting them in prison (or worse) with a word, opening to their false-facing like any common shopkeeper, guard, or functionary. Chains was right. Their training hadgiven them a remarkable freedom of action.

Still, it seemed wise to seal the affair as tightly as possible.

“Gods above,” said Locke. “What a boor I’ve been! Lord Boulidazi, forgive me. Is it usual in Espara to give a consideration to house servants— damn!”

Locke pulled out his purse and made what he thought was an excellent show of stumbling toward the withdrawing Tymon. He fell against the billiards table, and a stream of clinking gold and silver just happened to scatter across the felt surface.

“Are you all right?” The baron was at Locke’s side in an instant, helping him up, and Locke was satisfied that Boulidazi had a full view of the coins.

“Fine, thank you. I’m such a clumsy ass. You can see all the grace in the family wound up on Verena’s side.” Locke swept the coins back into the purse. “Sorry about your game.”

“It was just a solitary diversion,” said Boulidazi, as he helped Sabetha into a chair. “And yes, on holidays, we do give gratuities to the help, but there’s a little ceremony and some temple nonsense. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Well, we’re obliged to you,” said Locke, relieved that he could escape without surrendering any of the flash bag funds. All Boulidazi had to do was believethat money was no real object to them.

“Now,” said Sabetha, “I suppose you’d like to find out why we’ve come to you.”

“Of course,” said Boulidazi. “But first, why not tell me what it would please you to be called, if not Dona Botallio?”

“That’s easy,” said Sabetha, flashing a smile that hit Locke like a boot to the chest even though he wasn’t positioned to catch its full effect. “You should call me Verena.”

“Verena,” said the baron. “Then I beg that you’ll call me Gennaro, and let no more ‘Lord Boulidazis’ clutter the air between us.”

“With pleasure,” said Sabetha.

“Gennaro,” said Locke, “we’re here to discuss the situation of a man named Jasmer Moncraine.”

“What?”

“To put it even more plainly,” said Sabetha, “we’ve come to ask that you decline to state your charges against him.”

“You want me to forgivehim?”

“Or appear to,” said Sabetha sweetly.

“That arrogant piss-ant struck me before witnesses,” said Boulidazi. “With the backof his hand! You can’t expect me to believe that a Camorriwould bear such a thing, were either of you in my place!”

“If I had nothing to win by a display of mercy,” said Locke, “I’d have whipped the stupid bastard’s face into bloody mince. And if none of us stood to gain right now, I’d go to court with you merely for the pleasure of hearing the sentence read.”

“We’re not strangers to Moncraine,” said Sabetha. “We’ve been to see him at the Weeping Tower—”

“Why?”

“Please,” said Sabetha, “just listen. We know what a fool he is. We’re not here to discuss the brighter facets of his character, because we know he doesn’t have any, and we’re not asking for mercy for its own sake. We’d like to propose a mutually profitable arrangement.”

“How could I possibly profit,” said Boulidazi, “by accepting disgrace in front of the entire city?”

“First, tell us: Were you serious about wanting to fund Moncraine’s troupe and buy out his debts?” said Locke.

“I was,” said the baron. “I certainly was, until he decided to thank me by lunging at me like an ape.”

“Why did you make the offer?”

“I grew up attending his plays,” said Boulidazi. “Mother loved the theater. Moncraine really used to be something, back before … well, years ago.”

“And you wanted to be a patron,” said Locke.

“All my family money is sitting safe in vaults, gathering dust and shitting interest. I thought I’d do something meaningful for a change. Pick Moncraine up, run things properly, associate my name with something.” Boulidazi drummed his fingers against one arm of his chair. “What the hell can Moncraine possibly mean to you?”

“I came here to be part of his troupe for the summer,” said Sabetha. “I, ah, I have a certain inclination. It’s awkward to talk about myself, though. Lucaza, would you?”

“Of course,” said Locke. “Cousin Verena has always loved the theater, as much of it as she could get in Camorr. Grandfather’s hired players a dozen times for her. But she’s always wanted to be onstage. To act. And that’s just not done.”

“If I’d taken up alchemy,” said Sabetha, “or gardening, or painting, or investment, that’d be fine. I could even ride off to war, if we had ever had any. But noble heirs don’t go onstage, not in Camorr.”

“Not if they want to inherit,” said Locke. “And grandfather won’t be with us forever. After him it’s uncle, and after uncle it’s Verena.”

“Countess Blackspear, eh?” said Boulidazi.

“Whether or not we keep Blackspear is up to the duke; the Five Towers are his to dispose of. But our lands wouldn’t go anywhere. If Blackspear was rescinded, I’d be countess of the old family estates.”

“So you’ve come here posing as an actress to avoid a scandal in Camorr.”

“You understand perfectly,” said Sabetha. “Verena Gallante can have a summer or two onstage in Espara, and then Verena Botallio can go back to being respectable back home. That’s the bargain I struck with Father, also provided Lucaza and a few trusted men came along to keep an eye on me.”

“And that’s the understanding we had with Moncraine,” said Locke. “We’d furnish several actors, and he’d make use of us in a play. Imagine our surprise when we arrived this afternoon to discover the situation.”