Scott Lynch - Red Seas Under Red Skies

Once inside the Sinspire, Selendri gave whispered instructions to the heavyset attendant, then led Locke through the usual busy crowds, up to the service area on the third floor. Soon enough they were locked away inside the darkness of the climbing closet, slowly rising to the ninth floor. Locke was surprised to feel her actually turn toward him.

"Interesting bodyguard you" ve found for yourself, Master Kosta. I didn't know you rated an Eye of the Archon."

"Er, neither did 1.1 suspected, but I didn't know. What makes you so sure?" "Tattoo on the back of her left hand. A lidless eye in the centre of a rose. She's probably not used to going about in common clothes; she should have worn gloves."

"You must have sharp eyes. Eye. Sorry. You know what I mean. I saw it, but I didn't give it much thought."

"Most people aren't familiar with the sigil." She turned away from him once again. "I used to have one just like it on my own left hand." "I… well. That's… I had no idea."

"The things you don't know, Master Kosta. The things you simply do not know…" Gods damn it, Locke thought. She was trying to unnerve him, returning her own strat peti for his effort to engage her sympathy the last time thed'r been this close. Did everyone in this damn city have a little game?

"Selendri," he said, trying to sound earnest and a bit hurt, "I have never desired anything more than to be a friend to you." "As you're a friend to Jerome de Ferra?"

"If you knew what he'd done to me, you" d understand. But as you seem to want to flaunt your secrets, I think I'll just keep a few of my own."

"Please yourself. But you might remember that my opinion of you will ultimately be a great deal more final than your opinion of me."

Then the climbing closet creaked to a halt, and opened to the light of Requin's office. The master of the Sinspire looked up from his desk as Selendri led Locke across the floor; Requin's optics were tucked into the collar of his black tunic, and he was poring over a large pile of parchment. "Kosta," he said. "This is timely. I need some explanation from you."

"And you're certainly going to get it," said Locke. Shit, he thought, / hope he hasn't found out about the assassins on the docks. I have too damn much to explain as is. "May I sit?" "Grab your own chair."

Locke selected one from against the wall and set it before Requin's desk. He surreptitiously rubbed the sweat of his palms away on his breeches as he sat down. Selendri bent over beside Requin and whispered in his ear at length. He nodded, then stared at Locke. "You" ve had some sun," he said. "Today," said Locke. "Jerome and I were sailing in the harbour." "Pleasant exercise?" "Not particularly."

"A pity. But it seems you were on the harbour several nights ago. You were spotted returning from the Mon Magisteria. Why have you waited so long to bring the events of that visit to my attention?"

"Ah." Locke felt a rush of relief. Perhaps Requin simply didn't know there was any relevant link between Jean, himself and the two dead assassins. A reminder that Requin wasn't all-knowing was exactly what Locke needed at that moment, and he smiled. "I presumed that if you wanted to know sooner, one of your gangs would have hauled us here for a conversation."

"You should make a little list, Kosta, titled People it's Safe for Me to Antagonize. My name will not appear on it."

"Sorry. It wasn't exactly by design; Jerome and I have had a need over the past few days to go from sleeping with the sunrise to rising with it. And the reason for that does have something to do with Stragos's plans."

At that moment, a Sinspire attendant appeared at the head of the stairs leading up from the eighth floor. She bowed deeply and cleared her throat.

"Begging your pardon, master and mistress. Mistress ordered Master Kosta's chairs brought up from the courtyard."

"Bring them in," said Requin. "Selendri mentioned these. What's this, then?"

"I know it's going to look more crass than it really is," said Locke, "but you" d be doing me a favour, quite honestly, by agreeing to take them off my hands." "Take them off your… oh my."

A burly Sinspire attendant came up the stairs, carrying one of Locke's chairs before him with obvious caution. Requin rose from his desk and stared.

"Talathri Baroque," he said. "Surely, it's Talathri Baroque… you there — put those in the centre of the floor. Yes, good. Dismissed."

Four attendants deposited four chairs in the middle of Requin's floor and then retreated back down the stairwell, bowing before they left. Requin paid them no heed; he stepped around the desk and was soon examining a chair closely, running a gloved finger over its lacquered surface.

"Reproduction…" he said slowly. "Beyond any doubt… but absolutely beautiful." He returned his attention to Locke. "I wasn't aware that you were familiar with the styles I collect." "I'm not," said Locke. "Never heard of the Talathri Whatever before! now. A few months ago, I played cards with a drunk Lashani. His credit was… strained, so I agreed to accept my winnings in goods. I got four expensive chairs. They" ve been in storage ever since because, honestly, what the hell am I going to do with them? I saw the things you keep up here in your office, and I thought perhaps you might want them. I'm glad they suit. Like I said, you're the one doing me a favour if you take them."

"Astonishing," said Requin. "I" ve always thought about having a suite of furniture crafted in this style. I love the Last Flowering. This is quite a thing to part with."

"They" re wasted on me, Requin. A fancy chair is a fancy chair as far as I'm concerned. Just be careful with them. For some reason, they're shear-crescent wood. Safe enough to sit in, but don't abuse them."

"This is… most unexpected, Master Kosta. I accept. Thank you." Requin returned, with obvious reluctance, to the chair behind his desk. "This doesn't slip you out of your need to deliver on your end of our agreement. Or to continue your explanation." The smile on his face diminished, no longer reaching his eyes.

"Of course not. But concerning that… look, Stragos has a jar of fire-oil up his arse about something. He's sending Jerome and me away for a bit, on business."

"Away?" The guarded courtesy of a moment earlier was gone; the single word was delivered in a flat, dangerous whisper. Here goes. Crooked Warden, throw your dog a scrap.

"To sea," said Locke. "To the Ghostwinds. Port Prodigal. On an errand." "Strange. I don't recall moving my vault to Port Prodigal."

"It relates to that." But how? "We're… after something." Shit. Not nearly good enough. "Someorae, actually. Have you ever… ah, ever—" "Ever what}" "Ever heard of… a man named… Calo… Callas?" "No. Why?"

"He's, ah… well, the thing is, I feel foolish about this. I thought maybe you" d have heard about him. I don't know if he even exists. He might be nothing more than a tall tale. You're sure you don't recall hearing the name before?" "Certain. Selendri?" "The name means nothing," she said.

"Who is he supposed to be, then?" Requin folded his gloved hands tightly together.

"He's…" What would do it? What would sensibly draw us away from this place if we're here to break the vault? Oh… Crooked Warden, of course! "… a lockbreaker. Stragos's spies have a file on him. Supposedly, he's the best, or he was, back in his day. An artist with a pick, some sort of mechanical prodigy. Jerome and I are expected to entice him out of retirement so he can apply himself to the problem of your vault." "What's a man like that doing in Port Prodigal?"

"Hiding, I imagine." Locke felt the corners of his mouth drawing upward and suppressed an old familiar glee; once a Big Lie was let out in the world, it seemed to grow on its own and needed little tending or worry to bend to the situation. "Stragos says that the artificers have tried to kill him several times. He's their antithesis. If he's real, he's the gods-damned anti-artificer."