"I do," said Locke, eager to keep the man in a good humour. However, he made a mental note to perhaps poke around in pursuit of whatever was disturbing the carpenter. "I do indeed. So let us speak no more of the matter, and instead look to business."

"Most kind," said Baumondain, with obvious relief. "How do you take your coffee? I have honey and cream." "Honey, please."

Baumondain poured steaming coffee from the silver pot into a thick glass cup and spooned in honey until Locke nodded. Locke sipped at his cup while Baumondain bombarded his own with enough cream to turn it leather-brown. It was quality brew, rich and very hot. "My compliments," Locke mumbled over a slightly scalded tongue.

"It's from Issara. Lady Saljesca's household has an endless thirst for the stuff," said the carpenter. "The rest of us buy pecks and pinches from her sellers when they come around. Now, your messenger said that you wished to discuss a commission that was, in her words, very particular."

"Yes, particular indeed," said Locke, "to a design and an end that may strike you as eccentric. I assure you I am in grave earnest."

Locke set down his coffee and lifted his satchel into his lap, then pulled a small key from his waistcoat pocket to open the lock. He reached inside and drew out a few pieces of folded parchment.

"You must be familiar," Locke continued, "with the style of the last few years of the Therin Throne? The very last few, just before Talathri died in battle against the Bondsmagi?" He passed over one of his sheets of parchment, which Baumondain removed his optics to examine.

"Oh, yes," the carpenter said slowly. "The Talathri Baroque, also called the Last Flowering. Yes, I" ve done pieces in this fashion before… Lauris has as well. You have an interest in this style?"

"I require a suite of chairs," said Locke. "Four of them, leather-backed, lacquered shear-crescent with real gold insets."

"Shear-crescent is a somewhat delicate wood, fit only for occasional use. For more regular sitting I'm sure you" d want witchwood."

"My master," said Locke, "has very exact tastes, however peculiar. He insisted upon shear-crescent, several times, to ensure that his wishes were clear."

"Well, if you wished them carved from marzipan, I suppose I should have to do it… with the clear understanding, of course, that I did warn you against hard use."

"Naturally. I assure you, Master Baumondain, you won't be held liable for anything that happens to these chairs after they leave your workshop."

"Oh, I would never do less than vouch for our work, but I cannot make a soft wood hard, Master Fehrwight. Well, then, I do have some books with excellent illustrations of this style. Your artist has done well to start with, but I'd like to give you more variety to choose from—"

"By all means," said Locke, and he sipped his coffee contentedly as the carpenter rose and returned to the workshop door. "Lauris," Baumondain cried, "my three volumes of Velonetta … yes, those."

He returned a moment later cradling three heavy, leather-bound tomes that smelled of age and some spicy alchemical preservative. "Velonetta," he said as he settled the books on his lap. "You are familiar with her? No? She was the foremost scholar of the Last Flowering. There are only six sets of her work in all the world, as far as I know. Most of these pages are on sculpture, painting, music, alchemy… but there are fine passages on furniture, gems worth mining. If you please…"

They spent half an hour poring over the sketches Locke had provided and the pages Baumondain wished to show him. Together, they hammered out an agreeable compromise on the design of the chairs that "Master Fehrwight" would receive. Baumondain fetched a stylus of his own and scrawled notes in an illegible chicken-scratch. Locke had never before considered how many details might go into something as straightforward as a chair; by the time they had finished their discussion of legs, bracings, cushion-filling, leathers, scrollwork and joinery, Locke's brain was in full revolt.

"Excellent, Master Baumondain, excellent," is nonetheless what he said. "The very thing, in shear-crescent, lacquered black, with gold leaf to gild the incised decorations and the rivets. They must look as though they had been plucked from Emperor Talathri's court just yesterday, new and unburned." "Ah," said the carpenter, "a delicate subject arises, then. Without meaning to give the slightest offence, I must make it clear that these will never pass for originals. They will be exact reconstructions of the style, perfect facsimiles of a quality to match any furnishings in the world — but an expert could tell. They are few and far between, but such a one would never confuse a brilliant reconstruction for even a modest original. They have had centuries to weather; these will be plainly new."

"I take your meaning, Master Baumondain. Never fear; I am ordering these for eccentric purposes, not for deceptive ones. These chairs will never be alleged to be originals, on my word. And the man who will receive them is such an expert, in fact." "Very good, then, very good. Is there anything else?"

"Yes," said Locke, who had withheld two sketch-covered sheets of parchment, and now passed them over. "Now that we've settled on a design for the suite of chairs, this — or something very much like it, subject to your more expert adjustments — must be included in the plans."

As Baumondain absorbed the implications of the sketches, his eyebrows rose steadily until it looked as if they were being drawn up to the fullest possible extent of his forehead's suppleness, and must be flung back down to the floor like crossbow bolts when they reached their zenith.

"This is a prodigious curiosity," he said at last. "A very strange thing to incorporate… I'm not at all sure—"

"It is essential," said Locke. "That, or something very much like it, within the bounds of your own discretion. It is absolutely necessary. My master simply will not place an order for the chairs unless these features are built into them. Cost is no object."

"It's possible," said the carpenter after a few seconds of further contemplation. "Possible, with some adjustments to these designs. I believe I see your intention, but I can improve upon this scheme… must, if the chairs are to function as chairs. May I ask why this is necessary?"

"My master is a dear old fellow, but as you must have gathered, quite eccentric, and morbidly afraid of fire. He fears to be trapped in his study or his library tower by flames. Surely you can see how these mechanisms might help set his mind at ease?"

"I suppose I can," muttered Baumondain, his puzzled reluctance turning to interest in a professional challenge as he spoke. After that, it was merely a matter of haggling, however politely, over finer and finer details, until Locke was finally able to coax a suggested price out of Baumondain. "What coin would you wish to settle in, Master Fehrwight?" "I presumed solari would be convenient."

"Shall we say… six solari per chair?" Baumondain spoke with feigned nonchalance; that was a cheeky initial offer, even for luxury craftsmanship. Locke would be expected to haggle it down. Instead, he smiled and nodded. "If six per chair is what you require, then six you will have."

"Oh," said Baumondain, almost too surprised to be pleased. "Oh. Well then! I should be only too happy to accept your note."

"While that would be fine in ordinary circumstances, let's do something more convenient for both of us." Locke reached inside the satchel and drew out a coin-purse, from which he counted twenty-four gold solari onto the little coffee table while Baumondain watched with growing excitement. "There you are, in advance. I prefer to carry hard coinage when I come to Salon Corbeau. This little city needs a moneylender."