Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Locke Lamora rode into Salon Corbeau on the ninth day of Aurim, in the Seventy-Eighth Year of Nara. A mild westerly winter. A fruitful year (and more) had passed since he and Jean had first set foot in Tal Verrar, and in the armoured strongbox at the rear of Locke's rented carriage rattled a thousand gold solari, stolen at billiards from a certain Lord Landreval of Espara who was unusually sensitive to lemons.

The little harbour that served the demi-city was thick with small craft — yachts and pleasure-barges and coasting galleys with square silk sails. Farther out, upon the open sea, a galleon and a sloop rode at anchor, each flying the pennant of Lashain under family crests and colours Locke didn't recognize. The breeze was slight and the sun was pale, more silver than gold behind the hazy exhalations of the mountain.

"Welcome to Salon Corbeau," said a footman in livery of black and olive-green, with a tall hat of pressed black felt. "How are you styled, and how must you be announced?" A liveried woman placed a wooden block beneath the open door to Locke's carriage and he stepped out, bracing his hands in the small of his back and stretching with relief before hopping to the ground. He wore a drooping black moustache beneath black-rimmed optics and slicked-black hair; his heavy black coat was tight in the chest and shoulders but flared out from waist to knees, fluttering behind him like a cape. He had eschewed the more refined hose and shoes for grey pantaloons tucked into knee-high field boots, dull black beneath a faint layer of road dust.

"I am Mordavi Fehrwight, a merchant of Emberlain," he said. "I doubt that I shall require announcement as I have no title of any consequence."

"Very good, Master Fehrwight," said the footman smoothly. "The Lady Saljesca appreciates your visit to Salon Corbeau and earnestly wishes you good fortune in your affairs."

"Appreciates your visit," noted Locke, rather than "would be most pleased to receive your audience." " Countess Vira Saljesca of Lashain was the absolute ruler of Salon Corbeau; the demi-city was built on one of her estates. Equidistant from Balinel, Tal Verrar and Lashain, just out of convenient rulership by any of them, Salon Corbeau was more or less an autonomous resort state for the wealthy of the Brass Coast.

In addition to the constant arrival of carriages along the coast roads and pleasure-vessels from the sea, Salon Corbeau attracted one other noteworthy form of traffic, which Locke had meditated on in a melancholy fashion during his journey.

Ragged groups of peasants, urban poor and rural wretches alike, trudged wearily along the dusty roads to Lady Saljesca's domain. They came in intermittent but ceaseless streams, flowing to the strange private city beneath the dark heights of the mountain.

Locke imagined that he already knew exactly what they were coming for, but his next few days in Salon Corbeau would prove that understanding to be woefully incomplete.

Locke had originally expected that a sea voyage to Lashain or even Issara might be necessary to secure the final pieces of his Sinspire scheme, but conversation with several wealthier Verrari had convinced him that Salon Corbeau might have exactly what he needed. Picture a seaside valley carved from night-dark stone, perhaps three hundred yards in length and a hundred wide. Its little harbour lies on its western side, with a crescent beach of fine black sand. At its eastern end, an underground stream pours out of a fissure in the rocks, rushing down a stepped arrangement of stones. The headlands above this stream are commanded by Countess Saljesca's residence, a stone manor house above two layers of crenellated walls — a minor fortress.

The valley walls of Salon Corbeau are perhaps twenty yards in height, and for nearly their full length they are terraced with gardens. Thick ferns, twisting vines, blossoming orchids and fruit and olive trees flourish there, a healthy curtain of brown and green in vivid relief against the black, with little water-ducts meandering throughout to keep Saljesca's artificial paradise from growing thirsty.

In the very centre of the valley is a circular stadium, and the gardens on both sides of this stone structure share their walls with several dozen sturdy buildings of polished stone and lacquered wood. A miniature city rests on stilts and platforms and terraces, charmingly enclosed by walkways and stairs at every level.

Locke strolled these walkways on the afternoon of his arrival, looking for his ultimate goal with a stately lack of haste — he expected to be here for many days, perhaps even weeks. Salon Corbeau, like the chance-houses of Tal Verrar, drew the idle rich in large numbers. Locke walked among Verrari merchants and Lashani nobles, among scions of the western Marrows, past Nesse ladies-in-waiting (or perhaps more accurately ladies-weighted-down, in more cloth-of-gold than Locke would have previously thought possible) and the landed families they served. Here and there he was sure he even spotted Camorri, olive-skinned and haughty, though thankfully none were important enough for him to recognize.

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:

M. BAUMONDAIN AND DAUGHTERS

HOUSEHOLD DEVICES AND FINE FURNITURE

BY APPOINTMENT

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?"