“My cousin’ll find his feet soon enough,” said Alondo. “And I’ll make damn sure he gets his cut.”
A general air of relief swept the room. Although Locke wasn’t relishing the task of dressing Boulidazi’s corpse, and he knew neither of the Gloriano women would appreciate the only obvious location for an all-consuming accidental fire, the worst was past and the rest could wait for the fall of darkness. Jenora’s aunt set to work roasting long strips of marinated beef in her wood-fire hearth. Sylvanus made the acquaintance of a bottle of plonk, and the others relaxed with cups of ale.
Just after the seventh hour of the evening, Galdo burst into the room, covered in sweat and quite alone.
9
“I’M SORRY,” Galdo gasped, as soon as they’d all moved to the privacy of the room where they’d unveiled Boulidazi’s corpse that morning. “I’m so sorry! He asked me to make sure the carriage was held. He sounded so damned reasonable, like we do, you know? He said that if he had to walk back to the inn he’d strip my hide. He took the box … about fifteen minutes later I lost patience. I went looking for him, and when I asked Salvard’s clerk for Jasmer Moncraine, the man looked at me like I’d been drinking. That’s when I figured it out.”
“Moncraine’s taken the money and buggered us all,” whispered Alondo.
“Beggared us all,” said Jenora. “I can’t even … I don’t know what to say. It’s like all the gods are having a long hard laugh at our expense.”
Sylvanus threw his bottle to the ground and buried his face in his hands. No more eloquent commentary was possible, thought Locke, than that a situation would make Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus waste wine.
“I’m a gods-damned fool,” said Galdo. “I should have known.”
“He’s an actor,” said Sabetha. “More’s the pity, a good one.”
“Let’s get after him,” said Calo. “He can’t be dumb enough to have gone to any of the landward gates, the way they’re guarded! He’d be insane to put himself on the roads knowing an alarm was a few hours behind at best. So where would he go?”
“The docks,” said Chantal.
“Well, then, let’s find him and cut off that damn hand he was scheduled to lose! He’s a big old fellow, how hard can it be?”
“We’ve got no standing here,” said Locke. “Remember? We’ve got no right or call to push anyone around; we are merely actors so long as we’re in Espara.”
“And you’ll never find him,” said Jenora. “Giacomo’s right, Jasmer won’t go by land. The docks are thick with Syresti and Okanti. He’ll get out on his choice of ships and no nightskin will ever breathe a word of it to the constables. The dockworkers have no cause to love the countess’ servants.”
“So we just … we just let him fuck us!” said Bert. “Is that the plan?”
“No,” said Sabetha. “There’s one thing we can do very easily. We can make it look like Jasmer Moncraine killed Lord Boulidazi.”
“I like the sound of that,” said Locke. “It’ll certainly give the story more weight than Lord Boulidazi getting drunk and setting a stable on fire.”
“A stable!” cried Jenora. “You can’t mean—”
“I’m sorry, Jenora, I know I should have said something sooner. But it’s obvious. We can’t burn the inn down, and we can’t just have him spontaneously combust in the yard. Don’t think of it as losing a stable; think of it as not letting your aunt hang.”
“Castellano, what did you tell the carriage driver after you realized Moncraine was gone?” said Jean.
“I gave him two coppins for his trouble and told him I’d decided to stay awhile,” said Galdo. “I didn’t know what to think. I just didn’t want to cause a scene.”
“Well, you’ve saved us by keeping your head,” said Sabetha. “Here’s the new story. After the play, I went with Boulidazi to the bathhouse. Boulidazi received the money from Malloria; she’ll testify to that, and she has her sealed chit to prove it. We claim that we don’t know what Boulidazi did with the money; all we know is that when he came back here to have a talk with Jasmer, he did not have it with him.”
“Simple enough so far,” said Chantal.
“Simple is how it stays,” said Locke, looking at Sabetha. “If I can presume … I think I know where Verena’s going next. We all saw Boulidazi come here. We all saw Moncraine come here. They had a long private conversation, then an argument. They went out to the stables together for some reason.”
“A few minutes later we noticed the stables on fire,” said Sabetha. “Boulidazi dead in the wreckage and Moncraine vanished into the night. His guilt will be clear even to a child.”
“We’ll need to bring Mistress Gloriano in on this,” said Jean. “I’m sorry, Jenora, I know we meant to keep her out of the lies, but she of all people has to tell the constables that Moncraine and Boulidazi were here tonight.”
“There’s no helping it, Jovanno, you’re right.” She put her arm over Jean’s shoulder. “Auntie won’t be best pleased, but I can get her to do anything we need. Don’t worry about her.”
“This is still a miserable mess,” said Chantal. “Boulidazi’s people may yet try to wring every copper they can from us. Maybe even fold the company and take its assets. Hell, that’s assuming the constables don’t just throw us all in the Weeping Tower as assumed accomplices.”
“I think,” said Locke, “that we might just have a friend in a fairly high place. Or, if not a friend, someone with an abiding interest in keeping scandals as subdued as possible.”
“There’s no subduing the fucking murder of an Esparan lord!” said Bert. “Maybe you Camorri will get yourselves off the hook, but the rest of us—”
“No,” said Locke. “We are absolutely not abandoning you, any of you. Haven’t we done enough to convince you of our sincerity? And haven’t we pulled off some amazing things together already?”
“Fair enough,” grumbled Bert.
“Moncraine fucked us, so we’ll all fuck him right back,” said Locke. “And for what he’s done, let me assure you … he’s made an enemy of our master back in Camorr. He must know it. He’s got enough money to live on for a couple of years, but he’ll never be able to stop running. As for the company … I’m sure we can convince our master to lend a hand there as well. He has resources beyond what you’d believe.”
“At this point I’d believe just about anything,” muttered Alondo.
“We’ll rehearse our story together,” said Sabetha. “Almost like a play. After sunset, we’ll dress Boulidazi one last time and arrange the stable fire. Once it’s roaring, members of the company absolutely have to be the ones to go running and fetch the constables. You all have to act surprised and shocked.”
“Shock will be easy,” said Chantal.
At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Calo eased it open, revealing Mistress Gloriano wiping greasy hands on her apron.
“Meat’s done,” she said cheerfully. “And there’s good boiled rice and some apricots … what? Why are you all staring at me like that?”
“You’d better come in and shut the door, Auntie,” said Jenora. “Meat’s not the only thing we’ve got to cook before the night’s over.”
10
“I DON’T believe you Camorri,” muttered Mistress Gloriano as she helped carry the shrouded corpse of Gennaro Boulidazi from the wagon to her stables just after dark. “Assuming this would be the first time I’d ever helped make a body disappear!”
“How the hell were we to know?” grunted Locke.
“I’m in the inn trade in a low part of town, boy. I do like my orderly life, but I’ve had some folk die in my rooms when it really would have been more convenient for them to be found floating in the bay. So a-swimming they went.”
Mistress Gloriano had certainly been upset to learn the truth, but once she’d accepted that Lord Boulidazi had been stabbed by her niece in the middle of an attempted rape, she’d accepted the loss of her stables as a sort of vengeance.
Calo and G
aldo had one end of the corpse, Locke and Gloriano the other. They heaved the heavy parcel into a pile of hay, and Gloriano shook a faint alchemical lamp to life. Jean had moved the wagon and horses to the other side of the courtyard, leaving the structure empty.
“Gods, what a smell,” coughed Galdo as they finished unwinding the dead baron. “Reeking meat and alchemical dust!”
“He has looked prettier,” said Calo. “Damn, he’s stiff. This ought to be fun.”
The three Gentlemen Bastards wrestled with the rigor-bound body, fitting it with the jewelry, the boots, and the dagger they’d taken from it the night before.
“Seems a damn shame to waste such a fine blade,” said Galdo.
“Be an even bigger shame to waste a fine pair of Sanza twins,” whispered his brother. “Ugh, his fingers are swelling. I need some help shoving his signet ring where it ought to be.”
Feeling like an idiot, Locke assisted as well as anyone could, until the baron’s signet ring was at least plausibly close to the right place.
“Now then, boys,” said Mistress Gloriano, “if you’re quite finished decorating him, open this oil-vase for me and give him a good soak. I daresay I’m quite prepared to light a match on this motherfucker.”
A few minutes later, orange flames were roaring against the black Esparan night, and all those members of the company that hadn’t run to fetch help were filling water buckets with every outward sign of haste and sincerity.
11
“THIS IS not how I had envisioned passing the small hours of the night,” said Baroness Ezrintaim, now dressed in boots, lightweight skirt, dark jacket, and visible sword.
Locke and Sabetha, still soot-grimed from fighting the fire, stood at nervous attention in one of Mistress Gloriano’s rooms, appropriated for a private talk. It was after midnight. Constables and soldiers in equal number had the place sewn up tight, and the remnants of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company under guard in the common room. Ezrintaim had been summoned by a watch commander when the identity of the charred corpse had become generally known.
Sabetha wore what Locke thought was an excellent expression of sorrow and resignation.
“Is it … are we so certain it’s him?” she said. “The body was …”
“The body was a lump of coal, girl, but we have the signet and the dagger. We know very well it’s Gennaro lying out there. I realize it can’t be easy for you.” Ezrintaim rubbed her eyes. “Still, it’s reality, dead under a sheet.”
“Let me help you look for Moncraine,” said Locke, who’d decided that a show of belligerence was a good contrast to Sabetha’s shock. “Me and all my men. If I find the bastard—”
“This isn’t Camorr, and you are incognito,” snapped the baroness. “You’ve no right to bear arms or dispense justice, and I’ve no inclination to give you authority I’d have to explain to someone else!”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” said Locke. “I only meant to offer all possible assistance.”
“The best assistance will be to follow my explicit directions,” said Ezrintaim. “Jasmer Moncraine has murdered an Esparan peer, and he is an Esparan problem to pursue. Gods and saints, this is going to be a ten-years’ wonder even if it doesn’t get any worse.”
She paced the room several times, staring at them.
“I expect you to leave the city,” she said at last. “Yes, I think that would be for the best. I’ll secure your safe passage out and have you placed with a caravan. You’re welcome to return to Espara as your proper selves, after a few years have passed, but never again as players. Or any other low station!”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Locke.
“And what of the Moncraine-Boulidazi Company?” said Sabetha.
“What do you expect, Verena? Boulidazi is dead and Moncraine might as well be. There’ll be no more performances, of course. Everything with Moncraine’s stink on it will need to be swept under a rug.”
“I meant the players,” said Sabetha. “They’ve been … most accommodating. That bastard Moncraine has put them in a very difficult position.”
“It’s the difficult position of Gennaro Boulidazi that will most concern the countess,” said Ezrintaim. “But as far as I’m concerned, Moncraine’s guilt blazes to the skies. As long as their stories are consistent and my men don’t find anything interesting in this rooming house, your associates will live. But the company will be broken up, have no doubt.”
“Most will end up in chains for debt once the solicitors have finished holding their feet to the fire,” said Sabetha.
“What’s it to me, my dear?”
“They have given us good service while we’ve been in Espara,” said Locke. “We feel obligated to plead on their behalf.”
“I see.” Ezrintaim sighed and tapped her fingers against the hilt of her rapier. “Well, Lord Boulidazi died without heir. No relations beyond Espara that we’re bound to respect, either. So the countess will absorb his estates and his countinghouse assets. They’re a pretty enough windfall. I suppose my mistress can afford to be generous. The company will absolutely lose its name and its present operating charter, but I believe I can intercede to shield them from anything more drastic. I do hope that will assuage your sense of obligation.”
“Entirely, my lady,” said Sabetha, bowing her head.
“Good. You’ve been foolish and lucky in equal measure, Verena, and I hope you’ll remember that you’ve benefited much from a series of diplomatic courtesies extended on behalf of all Espara.”
“Within the family,” said Locke, “we’ll be absolutely forthright about your invaluable assistance. Given the chance, we shall remember you to the duke.”
“That would be a pleasing gesture,” said Ezrintaim. “Now, do clean yourselves up and make ready to leave my city so I can begin dealing with this damnable collection of headaches.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: RETURNS
1
DARK CLOUDS WERE rolling in from the north, masking the stars. The Karthenium, palace of the long-deposed dukes and duchesses of Karthain, rose above the manicured gardens and broken walls of the Casta Gravina, a dome of rippling jade Elderglass like a jewel in a setting of human stone and mortar. The late-autumn wind flowed past crenellations and etchings on the face of the glass, and the eerie music of a lost race sighed into the night, its meaning unguessable.
Green and black banners fluttered at the edges of every path and courtyard, and a river of torch and lantern light flowed through the gates of the Karthenium, into the Grand Salon, where seemingly endless black iron stairs and walkways spiraled up the underside of the jade dome. Chandeliers the size of carriages blazed, tended by men and women dangling in harness from anchor points on the walkways.
The murmur of the crowd was like the wash and rumble of the sea within a coastal cave. Locke and Jean moved warily through the affair, their green ribbons no protection against being jostled by knots of conversationalists, enthusiasts, and drunks. Black Iris and Deep Roots supporters mingled freely and argued freely in a sprawling pageant of Karthain’s rich and exalted.
In the center of the Grand Salon a raised platform held a number of slate boards and nineteen black iron posts, each topped by an unlit frosted glass lamp. The stairs to the platform were guarded by bluecoats, each sweating under the added weight of a white cloak and mantle trimmed with silver ribbons.
It was the ninth hour of the evening. The last ballots had been cast hours before, and now the verified and sealed reports from each district were on their way to the Karthenium.
“Master Lazari! Master Callas!” Damned Superstition Dexa appeared, dragging a muddled platoon of attendants and sycophants in her wake. Her triple-brimmed hat was topped with a replica of one of Karthain’s Eldren bridges, the towers sculpted from hardened leather, each one flying a tiny green flag. Dexa smoked from a double-bowled pipe, puffing streams of gray-and-emerald smoke from her nose. “Well, my boys, once we’ve gnawed all the meat off the bones of an electio
n it all comes down to this! Count the votes, then count the tears.”
“No tears in your district,” said Locke. “If I’m wrong I’ll buy a hat like yours and eat it.”
“I’d like to see that. But I’d prefer to keep my seat.” Dexa exhaled streamers of jasmine-scented green and spicy gray past Locke. “Will you gentlemen be near the stage? Ringside seats as the returns come in?”
“Somewhere less hectic,” said Locke. “We’ll watch from one of the private galleries, after we’ve had a spin around the floor. Got to make sure everyone’s got their spine straight and their waistcoat buttoned.”
“Very fatherly of you. Well, then, until the cat’s skinned, my regards to our fellow travelers.”
True to Locke’s word, he and Jean bounced around the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs, laughing at bad jokes and offering some of their own, spouting reasoned and logical-sounding analysis on demand. Most of it was bullshit fried in glibness with a side of whatever the listener yearned to hear. What does it matter? thought Locke. One way or another, they were vanishing from Karthain’s political scene tonight and would never be held accountable.
Vast basins of punch made from pale white and bruise-purple wines were being stirred to foam by clockwork paddle mechanisms, operated by impeccably dressed children walking slowly inside gilded treadwheels. Attractive attendants of both sexes worked behind velvet ropes to fill goblets and hand them out. Locke and Jean armed themselves with punch, along with steaming buns stuffed with brined pork and dark vinegar sauce.
Jean spotted Nikoros hovering miserably on the periphery of a pack of Deep Roots notables and pointed him out to Locke. Via Lupa had shaved, which mostly served to highlight his unhealthy pallor and the fresh lines on his visibly leaner face. Unexpected pity stung Locke’s heart. Here was no triumphant traitor, but someone thoroughly roasted on the rack of misery.
Well, what was the use of being able to lie with impunity if you couldn’t use it to take a weight off the shoulders of such a plainly unhappy bastard?