The Gentleman Bastard Series 3-Book Bundle: The Lies of Locke Lamora, Red Seas Under Red Skies, The Republic of Thieves (253 page)

“Nor shall I waste my time contacting them. The election will be past before a letter
could even reach Tal Verrar. No, nothing we say here will be heard by anyone else,
save my forebears.” Lovaris gestured at the ornately carved nooks and drawers decorating
the walls of the chamber. “This is my family’s memorial vault. Seven hundred years
in
Karthain. We predate the Presence. As for you, well, I’ve brought you here in answer
to your interesting note because I wish to inconvenience you.”

“I’m sure your line hasn’t survived for seven centuries by refusing to carefully examine
fresh opportunities,” said Locke. “My note asked for nothing but this meeting. You
have no idea what I’m about to offer you.”

“Oh, but I do.” Lovaris smiled without showing teeth. “You want me to consider a turn
of the coat. Specifically, you want me to wait until all the votes are safely counted
and I’m back in for the Black Iris. Then and only then would I announce that my conscience
had forced me to join ranks with the Deep Roots. I understand you’ve promised to invent
a convincing story, but you haven’t told anyone else what it is yet.”

Locke wanted to scream. Instead he pretended to study the nails of his right hand
and disguised his next deep, calming breath as a bored sigh.

“I’ll have a passable excuse for you,” he said. “And you would find the experience
personally enriching.”

“So I hear,” said Lovaris. “Ten thousand ducats in gleaming gold. I supply a chest;
you fill it before my eyes. On election night, the chest is to be kept at an allegedly
neutral countinghouse by an equal number of my people and yours, until I undertake
my public metamorphosis. Once I do so, your people walk away and leave mine the gold.”

“Elegant, don’t you think?” Locke wanted to punch the wall. This was too much. Lovaris
had information from confidential conversations with Locke’s half-dozen most trusted
associates, information just a day or two old. Still, Locke had stayed calm through
worse. “Come now, Lovaris, we both know you’re no ideologue. The whole city knows
it. Nobody’s going to be particularly surprised or hurt, and ten thousand ducats will
buy an awful lot of
anything
.”

“Do I look like a stranger to money?” said Lovaris.

“You look like a man of a certain age,” said Locke. “How many more pleasant and healthy
years will the gods give you? How much more pleasant and healthy could they be with
that extra ten thousand to ease your way?”

“There is a more practical concern,” said Lovaris. “Accepting a
bribe is technically an amputation offense, perhaps even a capital one if state interest
can be invoked. Nobody pays attention to routine little exchanges, but ten thousand
ducats is a very awkward mass of coin, and it doesn’t fit any of the usual patterns.
If I did this, I would be
hounded
by the Black Iris. I’d be the one man in Karthain to whom the bribery laws would
be applied! The only place that money could vanish to is my cellars. I wouldn’t be
able to join it legally with my countinghouse funds for years, and that’s damned inconvenient.
Nor can I simply take a letter of credit, for even more obvious reasons.”

“If you can assume that I’m good for ten thousand in cold metal,” said Locke, “why
don’t I leave it to you to dictate how I can best conceal the transfer of funds to
you?”

“I think not.” Lovaris rose and stretched. “The most important point to consider is
that your little scheme is only worth the trouble if we Black Iris win the election
by exactly one Konseil seat. If you win, you’ve no need to buy me at all, and if we
win by two seats or more, my turning can’t shift the majority. Frankly, it’s all immaterial,
because I don’t believe you’re going to win. I don’t believe you’re going to lose
by so
little
as one seat. You’re correct that I’m no slave to ideology, but it would be tedious
and stupid to suddenly find myself on the side of the minority.”

“Many interesting things could happen between now and the election,” said Locke.

“A hazy platitude. You might as well be conducting your business in public squares,
Lazari. I’ve revealed how extensive our intelligence is because I want you to understand
that you’re over the barrel.”

“Fair enough,” said Locke. “This, then, is the point in the conversation where I say
‘twenty thousand.’ ”

“Ten thousand would be awkward enough. You expect me to be enthusiastic about trying
to hide twice as much? The money’s only an enticement if it can reach my pockets invisibly,
and if I’m still relevant to Karthani politics after I’ve earned it. No, Master Lazari,
I won’t pretend I’m not ultimately for sale in some fashion, but
you
are not offering any sort of price I’m looking for. Now, before I have you escorted
out, do you want a moment to put your wet disguise back on? For formality’s sake,
if nothing else?”

A LEAN
, scruffy man in a paint-stained tunic left the tradesman’s entrance of the manse
of Perspicacity Lovaris and hurried west, back into the cool green maze of the Mara
Karthani. Subtle signs had been laid since his last passage, knots of brown cloth
tied around hedge branches at knee level, and the man followed them rapidly through
twistings and turnings, through brick arches hung with yellowing vines, to the statuary
niche where Jean Tannen waited.

Jean, clad in a sensible hooded oilcloak, was sitting on a bench beside the likeness
of some forgotten scholar-soldier of the old empire, a stern woman carved in the traditional
mode, carrying the raised lantern of learning in one hand and a clutch of barbed javelins
on the opposite shoulder. Jean pulled out a second oilcloak and swept it over Locke’s
shoulders.

“Thank you,” said Locke, pulling off his wig and optics. “We’ve got a serious hole
in our security. Lovaris knew I was coming.”

“Damn,” said Jean. “Do you want me to roust those grandmothers Sabetha’s got up on
the rooftops after all?”

“Gods, they’re harmless. Just there to taunt us. Our problem is someone inside Josten’s.
Lovaris had full details of my plan and my offer, things I’ve only mentioned to a
handful of people, in privacy, in the past couple of days! Is there any place an eavesdropper
could have their way with the Deep Roots private gallery?”

“I spent hours going over all the cellars, all the bolt-holes,” said Jean. “There’s
nowhere close enough, not above or below. And the noise of the place … no, I’d stake
my life on it. It’d take— Well, it’d take magic.”

“Then I’m off to hunt the rat,” said Locke. “And since my first approach bounced right
off the fatuous fucker’s self-satisfaction, you’ll have to visit Lovaris and try our
second approach.”

“Second approach, right.” Jean rose from the bench. “You sure our budget can bear
the strain?”

“It’ll take us down to the dregs, and an emergency few thousand, and those donations
from our Vadran refugees,” said Locke. “But there’s not much else to spend it on at
this point, is there?”

“So be it,” said Jean. “If he bites, I’ll start visiting jewelers tonight. I’ve picked
some discreet ones.”

“Good. I’d say diamonds and emeralds, mostly, but you’ve got a sharp eye. Trust your
own discretion.”

“And we’ll need a boat,” said Jean.

“Already thinking on it!” Locke tapped his own forehead. “But let’s cover first, second,
third, and fourth things before we go chasing down fifths or sixths, eh?”

“Gods keep you,” said Jean. “Don’t trip over your feet on the way home. What are you
going to do about our rat?”

“Well, since someone we trust is feeding my confidential instructions to Sabetha,”
said Locke, “I reckon I might feed some confidential instructions to all the people
we trust.”

THAT NIGHT
, as a hard rain beat down outside, Locke put his arm around Firstson Epitalus and
drew the old man into a whispered conversation in the Deep Roots private gallery.

“You know more about the Isas Thedra than I do,” said Locke. “I need a quiet, out-of-the-way
place in your district to store some barrels of fire-oil. A shack, a cellar. Somewhere
nobody will disturb, at least not before the election.”

“Fire-oil? What’s this for, Master Lazari?”

“I’m going to see to it that our Black Iris friends have a fairly damaging fire a
few nights before the election at one of their Bursadi District properties. I’ll take
pains to see that nobody gets hurt. I just want them to lose some papers and some
comforts.”

“Capital!” Epitalus thumped his cane on the floor approvingly. “Well, in that case,
there’s an outbuilding on my own estate. The old boathouse. I’m not using it at all.”

“Good. One more thing, Epitalus. This is absolutely, vitally secret. Speak of this
to no one. Am I clear?”

“As an empty glass, Master Lazari.”

The reference left them both thirsty. They toasted the frustration of the Black Iris
with small glasses of cinnamon lemon cordial, and then Jean reappeared from his errand,
shrugging himself out of his
rain-slick oilcloak. Locke waved Epitalus off, then conversed in whispers with Jean.

“We’re on,” said Jean. “I think Lovaris was perversely pleased by the idea of us doing
our part tonight, in the rain.”

“Of course. He’s a miserable sack of smugness. When?”

“Hour before midnight.”

“Not much time if we’re going to be careful.”

“Time enough for me to arm myself with dinner and coffee,” said Jean.

“Then I’ll get the things we need from our rooms,” said Locke. “You plant yourself
in front of a fire and eat— Damn, here come Dexa and Nikoros, just the people I can’t
miss.”

The two Gentlemen Bastards separated, Jean headed for the kitchens and Locke headed
to intercept his targets and guide them up to the private gallery. He begged a moment
alone with Nikoros first.

“Look, uh, Master Lazari, here’s the latest reports,” said Nikoros, fumbling with
his satchel as Locke pushed him toward a quiet corner. “We had a break-in last night
at Cavril’s office in the Ponta Corbessa, nothing major, but I suspect they got away
with some confidential minutes and voter lists. Our delegations to the temples paid
for a public sacrifice for each of the Twelve. A lash and a silver compass for Morgante,
a silk shroud for Aza Guilla, a dove’s heart for Preva—”

“Nikoros,” said Locke, “I’m devout. I know the usual sacrifices. Just tell me there
were no complications.”

“Well, ah, the rain probably cut down on the crowds, but they all went well. The whole
city knows we’ve done our duty to the gods and asked their blessing.”

“If nobody got struck by lightning, I’m content. Now, I need you to get something
for me. A hiding place. A shack, a cellar, a hole, anything, preferably deserted or
disused. Near the Vel Vespala, as close to the Sign of the Black Iris as you can safely
get. Do you know any spots?”

“I, well, let me think.” Nikoros rubbed his eyes and muttered to himself. “There’s
a foreclosed chandlery that doesn’t have a new tenant, about three blocks from the
Sign of the Black Iris. What should I do with it?”

“Just get me the place and I’ll do the work,” said Locke. “I’m going
to repeat my stunt at the Enemy Tavern, smoke it up with harmless alchemy, only this
time it’s going to last hours and it’s going to hit ’em at the worst possible time.
I’ll decide when that is, but I need my fire-oil and powders stored nearby. This chandlery
sounds perfect.”

“As you wish, of course.”

“And Nikoros,” said Locke, “this is the deepest, darkest sort of secret. Don’t write
any notes or take any minutes on it. Keep this between you and me and the gods. Absolutely
nobody else. Understood?”

“Perfectly, Master Lazari.”

“Good. Off on your other business, now, and send Dexa over to me as you go.”

“Master Lazari,” she said, waving her cigar at him. “You look busy. Can’t say I disapprove.
What did you want to see me about?”

“What we’re going to discuss must remain absolutely confidential,” whispered Locke,
leaning in so close he was immersed in tendrils of her smoke. “You know the Isas Mellia
better than anyone. I need you to find me a shack, or a cellar, a bolt-hole of just
about any sort, where I can store a certain quantity of …”

AN HOUR
before midnight the rain flashed down like silver harp-strings against the darkness.
A lean man and a burly man stood beneath a snuffed lantern at the edge of the Mara
Karthani. They watched the manse of Perspicacity Lovaris and shivered under their
oilcloaks.

“There she is,” said Locke.

A heavy dark shape, sensibly dressed like themselves, emerged from the tradesfolk
entrance and walked away from them, north, in the direction of the city streets.

“And if this is a trap?” said Jean.

“I took a precaution.” Locke knelt to lift a light wooden crate onto his shoulders.
Jean picked up another. “There should be a carriage running one green alchemical lamp
about a block north of the manse. Two of our drivers and two of our guards watching
for trouble. If we come running, they’ll snatch us up and get us home.”

“Good thought,” said Jean. “Assuming we can run. I hope this is
the last risky stupidity we dive into before this mess is over. I’m not sure we can
get much less cautious than this.”

“May the Crooked Warden bless us for keeping Him entertained,” said Locke. “Let’s
go. What kind of house-breakers would we be if we didn’t keep our appointment?”

TWO MORE
nights and the weather moderated. The sky took back its rain, and the soft brisk
wind off the Amathel felt like the kiss of cool silk. Milky moonlight spilled down
on the Vel Vespala as Jean Tannen approached the Sign of the Black Iris, calmly and
openly.

The foyer guards, not in the market for fresh concussions, actually held the inner
doors open for him. Then came Vordratha.

“One of us must be dreaming,” he said, halting Jean three paces into the lobby. “And
I’m quite certain I’m awake, so I suggest you sleepwalk your silly ass back to someplace
they don’t mind your smell.”