So many bodyguards and so many bodies to guard! Rich bodies and faces; people who could afford proper alchemy and physik for their ailments. No weeping sores or sagging facial tumours, no crooked teeth lolling out of bleeding gums, no faces pinched by emaciation. The Sinspire crowd might be more exclusive, but these folk were even more refined, even more pampered. Hired musicians followed some of them, so that even little journeys of thirty or forty yards need not threaten a second of boredom. Rich men and women were haem-orrhaging money all around Locke, to the strains of music. Even a man like Mordavi Fehrwight might spend less to eat for a month than some of them would throw away just to be noticed at breakfast each day.

He" d come to Salon Corbeau because of these folk; not to rob them, for once, but to make use of their privileged existence. Where the rich nested like bright-feathered birds, the providers of the luxuries and services they relied upon followed. Salon Corbeau had a permanent community of tailors, clothiers, instrument-makers, glassbenders, alchemists, caterers, entertainers and carpenters. A small community, to be sure, but one of the highest reputation, fit for aristocratic patronage and priced accordingly.

Almost in the middle of Salon Corbeau's south gallery, Locke found the shop he had come all this way to visit — a rather long, two-storey stone building without windows along its walkway face. The wooden sign above the single door said:

On the door of the Baumondain shop was a scrollwork decoration, the crest of the Saljesca family (as Locke had glimpsed on banners fluttering here and there, and on the cross-belts of Salon Corbeau's guards), implying Lady Vira's personal approval of the work that went on there. Meaningless to Locke, since he knew too little of Saljesca's taste to judge it… but the Baumondain reputation stretched all the way to Tal Verrar.

He would send a messenger first thing in the morning, as was appropriate, and request an appointment to discuss the matter of some peculiar chairs he needed built.

At the second hour of the next afternoon, a warm, soft rain was falling, a weak and wispy thing that hung in the air more like damp gauze than falling water. Vague columns of mist swirled among the plants and atop the valley, and the walkways were for once clear of most of their well-heeled traffic. Grey clouds necklaced the tall, black mountain to the north-west. Locke stood outside the door to the Baumondain shop with water dripping down the back of his neck and rapped sharply three times. The door swung inward immediately; a wiry man of about fifty peered out at Locke through round optics. He wore a simple cotton tunic cinched up above his elbows, revealing guild tattoos in faded green and black on his lean forearms, and a long leather apron with at least six visible pockets on the front. Most of them held tools; one held a grey kitten, with only its little head visible. "Master Fehrwight? Mordavi Fehrwight?"

"So pleased you could make the time for me," began Locke. He spoke with a faint Vadran accent, just enough to suggest an origin in the far north. He" d decided to be lazy, and let this Fehrwight be as fluent in Therin as possible. Locke stretched out his right hand to shake. In his left he carried a black leather satchel with an iron lock upon its flap. "Master Baumondain, I presume?"

"None other. Come in directly, sir, out of the rain. Will you take coffee? Allow me to trade you a cup for your coat."

"With pleasure." The foyer of the Baumondain shop was a high, cosily panelled room lit with little golden lanterns in wall sconces. A counter with one swinging door ran across the rear of the room, and behind it Locke could see shelves piled high with samples of wood, cloth, wax and oils in glass jars. The placed smelled of sanded wood, a sharp and pleasant tang. There was a little sitting area before the counter, where two superbly wrought chairs with black velvet cushions stood upon a floor tapestry.

Locke set his satchel at his feet, turned to allow Baumondain to help him shrug out of his damp black coat, picked up his satchel once again and settled himself in the chair nearest to the door. The carpenter hung Locke's coat on a brass hook on the wall. "Just a moment, if you please," he said, and went behind the counter. From his new vantage point, Locke could see that a canvas-covered door led from behind the counter to what he presumed must be the workshop. Baumondain pushed the canvas flap aside and yelled, "Lauris! The coffee!"

Some muffled reply came back to him from the workshop that he evidently found satisfactory, and he hurried around the counter to take his place in the chair across from Locke, crinkling his seamy face into a welcoming smile. A few moments later, the canvas flew aside once again and out from the workshop came a freckled girl of fifteen or sixteen years, chestnut-haired, slim in the manner of her father but more firmly muscled about the arms and shoulders. She carried a wooden tray before her set with cups and silver pots, and when she stepped through the door in the counter Locke saw the tray had legs like a very small table.

She placed the coffee service between Locke and her father, just to the side, and gave Locke a respectful nod.

"My oldest daughter, Lauris," said Master Baumondain. "Lauris, this is Master Fehrwight, of the House of bel Sarethon, from Emberlain."

"Charmed," said Locke. Lauris was close enough for him to see that her hair was full of curly little wood shavings.

"Your servant, Master Fehrwight." Lauris nodded again, prepared to withdraw, and then caught sight of the grey kitten sticking out of her father's apron pocket. "Father, you" ve forgotten Lively. Surely you didn't mean to have him sit in on the coffee?"

"Have I? Oh dear, I see that I have." Baumondain reached down and eased the kitten out of his apron. Locke was astonished to see how limply it hung in his hands, with its legs and tail drooping and its little head lolling; what self-respecting cat would sleep while plucked up and carried through the air? Then Locke saw the answer as Lauris took Lively in her own hands and turned to go. The kitten's little eyes were wide open, and stark white.

"That creature was Gentled," said Locke in a low voice when Lauris had returned to the workshop. "I'm afraid so," said the carpenter. "I" ve never seen such a thing. What purpose does it serve, in a cat?"

"None, Master Fehrwight, none." Baumondain's smile was gone, replaced by a wary and uncomfortable expression. "And it certainly wasn't my doing. My youngest daughter, Parnella, found him abandoned behind the Villa Verdante." Baumondain referred to the huge luxury inn where the intermediate class of Salon Corbeau's visitors stayed, the wealthy who were not private guests of the Lady Saljesca. Locke himself was rooming there. "Damned strange."

"We call him Lively, as a sort of jest, though he does little. He must be coaxed to eat, and prodded to… to excrete, you see. Parnella thought it would be kinder to smash his skull but Lauris would not hear of it, and so I could not refuse. You must think me weak and doting."

"Not at all," said Locke, shaking his head. "The world is cruel enough without our compounding it; I approve. I meant that it was damned strange that anyone should do such a thing at all."

"Master Fehrwight." The carpenter licked his lips nervously. "You seem a humane man, and you must understand… our position here brings us a steady and lucrative business. My daughters will have quite an inheritance when I turn this shop over to them. There are… there are things about Salon Corbeau, things that go on, that we artisans… do not pry into. Must not. If you take my meaning."