The Gentleman Bastard Series (209 page)

“Welcome,” said one of the guards to Sabetha, who’d once again donned all her more modest clothing. “First time in Espara?”

“Actually, yes,” she said.

“Might we help you find anything?” said the big watch-sergeant, edging in next to his man.

“Oh, that would be so
very
kind of you,” she said, bubbling with girlish charm. Locke bit his tongue to stifle a snicker. “We’re looking for a man called Jasmer Moncraine. The Moncraine Company, the actors.”

“Why?” said the watch-sergeant. “You creditors?”

All the men behind him burst into laughter.

“Ah, no,” she said. “We’re players, from Camorr, come to join his troupe.”

“They got theaters in Camorr, miss?” said one of the guards. “I thought you was all more about, like, sharks bitin’ women in half.”

“I’d like to see that,” mumbled another watchman.

“There
is
an awful lot of that where we come from,” said Sabetha. “In fact, we spend more time touring than at home. Moncraine’s engaging us for the rest of the summer.”

“Well,” said the watch-sergeant, “in that case, best of luck. You can find some of the Moncraine Company at, uh, what’s that place with the olive tree torn out of its courtyard?”

“Gloriano’s Rooms,” said another guard.

“Right, right. Gloriano’s,” said the sergeant. “Look, you follow this lane straight down to the Temple of Venaportha, and just past it turn left, hear? Take that lane across the river, you’re in a place we call Solace Hill. Gloriano’s Rooms would be on your right. If you find gravestones on three sides, you’ve gone too far.”

“We’re obliged to you,” said Locke, while nursing a faint premonition
that that might not, in the grand scheme of things, turn out to be entirely true.

They parted company with Vireska’s caravan and made their way into Espara, hewing to the watch-sergeant’s directions. It seemed to Locke that they all perked up considerably at finding themselves back in the familiar world of high stone walls, rain-dampened smoke, junk-strewn alleys, and people crammed elbow-to-elbow on the dry portions of the boulevards.

“Three cheers for a proper ale,” said Galdo wistfully. “In a proper tavern, that doesn’t have a fucking palisade built round it to keep out the bloody bog monster.”

“I think this is Solace Hill,” said Jean, as they entered a neighborhood that seemed to regress further from prosperity with every turn of the wagon wheels. The buildings grew lower, the windows became dirtier, and the lights grew fewer. “Look, that’s a graveyard, this Gloriano’s has to be close.”

They found it not a block down, the best-lit structure for some distance in any direction, though the illumination was perhaps unwise given the things it revealed about the condition of walls and roofs. A pair of city watchmen, looking soaked behind the misty glow of their lanterns, were standing in the turn to the inn-yard and impeding the passage of the Gentlemen Bastards’ wagon.

“Is there a problem, Constables?” called Jean.

“You don’t actually mean to turn in here?” said one of the men warily, as though he suspected himself the butt of a joke.

“I think we do,” said Jean.

“But this is the way to Gloriano’s inn-yard,” said the constable, even more warily.

“Pleased to hear it.”

“You delivering something?”

“Just ourselves,” said Jean.

“Gods above, you mean it,” said the constable. “I could tell you ain’t from here, even if I never heard your voice.” He and his companion stepped out of the way with exaggerated courtesy and walked on, shaking their heads.

Locke first heard the shouting as Jean brought them in under a sloping canvas awning that was more holes than fabric, next to a dark
stable that contained only one horse. The animal looked at them as though in hope of rescue.

“What the hells is that noise?” said Sabetha.

It wasn’t any sort of row that Locke recognized. Fisticuffs, theft, murder, domestic quarrel—all of those things had familiar rhythms and notes, sounds he could have identified in a second. This was something stranger, and it seemed to be coming from just around the right-hand corner of the building.

“Jean, Sabetha, come quietly with me,” he said. “Sanzas, mind the horses. If they have any brains they might try to bolt.”

It didn’t occur to him until his boots hit the mud that he’d again done precisely what Sabetha had railed against: presumed leadership without hesitation. But damn it, this wasn’t a time for putting his life under a magnifying lens; it was a time for making sure they weren’t all about to be murdered.

“I shall break you, joint by joint,” bellowed a man with a deep, attention-seizing voice, “and drink your screams like a fine wine, and burn in brighter ecstasy with every … fading … whimper from your coward’s throat!”

“Holy shit,” said Locke. “No, wait. That’s … that’s from a play.”

“
Catalinus, Last Prince of Amor Peth
,” whispered Jean.

Side by side, Locke, Jean, and Sabetha moved carefully around the corner. They found themselves facing a courtyard, the interior of three double-storied wings of the inn, with a vast ugly hole in the middle where something had been torn out of the ground.

A man and a woman sat off to one side, out of the light, watching a third man, who stood on the edge of the muddy hole with a bottle in either hand. This man was a prodigious physical specimen, surpassing Father Chains in girth and breadth, with a rain-slick crown of white hair pasted down around his creased face. He wore a loose gray robe and nothing else.

“I shall grind your bones to
powder
,” he hollered, transfixing the three Gentlemen Bastards with his gleaming eyes. “And with that dust I’ll make cement for paving stones, and for a hundred years to come you’ll have no rest beneath the crush of strange wheels and the tramp of strange boots! Drunkards will make their unclean water upon you,
and I shall laugh to think of it, Catalinus! I shall laugh until I die, and
I
shall die whole in body, wholly revenged upon thee!”

He flung forth his arms, perhaps intentionally, perhaps at random, and when he seemed to realize that he still held bottles in his hands he drank from them.

“Excuse me,” said Locke. Thunder rumbled overhead. The rain grew heavier. “We’re, ah, looking for the Moncraine Company.”

“Moncraine,” yelled the white-haired man, dropping one of his bottles and waving his arms to keep his balance at the edge of the hole. “Moncraine!”

“Are you Jasmer Moncraine?” said Jean.

“I, Jasmer Moncraine?” The man leapt down into the hole, which was about thigh-deep, raising a dark splash of water. He scrambled up the other side and came toward them, now thoroughly be-mucked from the waist down. “I am Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus, the greatest actor in a thousand miles, in a thousand
years
! Jasmer Moncraine wishes … on his best day … that he was worth a single drop … OF MY PISS!”

Sylvanus Olivios Andrassus shambled forward, and put his empty hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Stupid boy,” he said. “I need you to let me have … five royals … just until Penance Day. Oh, gods …”

He went down to one knee and threw up. Jean’s reflexes were sharp enough to save everything except one of his shoes.

“Fuck
me
!” said Jean.

“Oh no, I assure you, that is quite out of the question,” said Sylvanus. He attempted several times to stumble back to his feet, then once again noticed the remaining bottle in his hand, and began to suckle at it contentedly.

“Look, sorry about this,” said the woman who’d been watching, as she emerged from the shadows. She was tall, dark-skinned, and wearing a shawl over her hair. Her fellow spectator was a thin young Therin man just a few years older than the Gentlemen Bastards. “Sylvanus has what you might call rare ambition in the field of self-degradation.”

“Are you the Moncraine Company?” said Locke.

“Who wants to know?” said the woman hesitantly.

“I’m Lucaza de Barra,” said Locke. “This is my cousin, Jovanno de
Barra. And this is our friend Verena Gallante.” When this elicited no response, Locke cleared his throat. “We’re Moncraine’s new players. The ones from Camorr.”

“Oh, sweet gods above,” said the woman. “You’re real.”

“Yeah,” said Locke. “And, uh, wet and confused.”

“We thought— Well, look, we didn’t think you
existed
. We thought Moncraine was making you up!”

“Took ten slow days in a wagon to get here,” said Jean. “Let me assure you, nobody made us up.”

“I’m Jenora,” said the woman. “And this is Alondo—”

“Alondo Razi,” said the young man. “Weren’t there supposed to be more of you?”

“The Asino brothers are minding the wagon, back around the corner,” said Locke. “So, we’re flesh and blood. I guess the next question is, does Jasmer Moncraine exist?”

“Moncraine,” muttered Sylvanus. “Wouldn’t shit on his head to give him … shade from the sun.”

“Moncraine,” said Jenora, “is why Sylvanus is … um … making a clean break from sobriety at the moment.”

“Moncraine’s in the Weeping Tower,” said Alondo.

“What’s that?” said Jean.

“The most secure prison in Espara. It’s Countess’ Dragoons on the doors, not city watch.”

“Aw, hell’s blistered balls,” said Locke. “He already got taken up for debt?”

“Debt?” said Jenora. “No, he never got the chance to be hauled in for all that mess. He decked some pissant lordling across the jaw this morning. He’s up for assaulting someone of noble blood.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE FIVE-YEAR GAME: CHANGE OF VENUE

1

“FOURTHSON VIDALOS,” SAID Josten. “Would that your parents had stopped at their third! How many nights have you spent leaning against my bar, eh? How many times have I brought you in out of the rain for a glass? You two-faced son of a—”

“For the gods’ sakes,” said Vidalos, “do you think I wanted this? It’s my duty!”

“In front of half the Konseil and the entire Deep Roots—”

“Josten,” said Locke, stepping between the innkeeper and Vidalos, “let’s talk. Herald, how do you do? I’m Lazari, an advisor.”

“Whose advisor?”

“Everyone’s advisor. I’m a solicitor from Lashain, retained in a broad capacity. I require a moment in private with Master Josten, to discuss his options.”

“I don’t see that he has any,” said Vidalos.

“Do you have orders to refuse us a few minutes for reflection?” said Locke.

“Of course not.”

“Then I’ll thank you not to enforce orders you haven’t been given.”
Locke put an arm firmly around Josten’s shoulders, turned the sputtering innkeeper away from the herald, and whispered, “Josten, one thing. Are you absolutely certain your license is truly paid up?”

“I have a signed receipt in my papers. I could fetch it now and shove it up this powder-blue pimp’s ass! Until tonight, I would’ve called the bastard a good friend, on my honor. I never would’ve thought—”

“Don’t think,” said Locke. “I’m paid to do that for you. Herald Vidalos isn’t your enemy. It’s whoever summoned him to work and gave him a warrant that
somehow
urgently needed to be served at half past the tenth hour of the evening, do you follow?”

“Ah,” said Josten. “
Ahhhhhhh
.”

“We shouldn’t abuse the poor bastard whose boots are on the pavement,” said Locke. “Our troubles come from higher offices. Nikoros, get over here! Look at this seal and signature.”

“Capability Peralis,” said Nikoros. Sweat ran down his forehead in glistening lines. “Second Clerk, Magistrates’ Court. I’ve heard of her.”

“She wouldn’t need an actual magistrate to sign this?” said Locke.

“No,” said Nikoros, “magistrates only sign off on, uh, arrests.”

“And this,” said Locke, “is just a little sting in the ass. Is she Black Iris? Or any of her superiors?”

“Not according to my lists,” said Nikoros. “Most of the people at the court make a point of not, uh, not declaring for either party.”

“Well, someone got her to perform a favor.” Locke suddenly became aware that most of the party, rank on tipsy rank, were watching closely to see if their mountain of fine liquor was really to be severed from them on the word of a single nervous functionary. “I don’t suppose Konseil members can just order Vidalos to make himself scarce?”

“Magistrates are, ah, co-equal with the Konseil,” said Nikoros. “Their heralds don’t have t-to take orders from anyone else.”

“Well, our drunk friends are going to hang this poor bastard from the rafters if I let this go through.” Locke turned back to Herald Vidalos, grinning broadly. “Everything seems to be perfectly in order!”

“It gives me little satisfaction,” said Vidalos.

“I’d have thought you’d be happy,” said Locke, “since there’s absolutely no need for you to shut down the party.”

“Having delivered the warrant,” said Vidalos, “it pains me to report that I’m bound to carry out my directions therein; I have to observe
that Master Josten has ended this affair and sealed his doors to new customers.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’re not allowed to do anything of the sort,” said Locke. “That’s
premature restraint of trade
, which is forbidden under the Articles of Karthain. Whoever signed this warrant should have known that Josten is entitled, by law, to verification of these charges before a magistrate—”

“But—”

“Prior to interruption of commerce!” continued Locke. “Look, this is fairly basic stuff from that amendment business about, what—twenty years ago.”

“I … really?” Vidalos’ face lost some of its plum color. “Are you quite sure? I’m not entirely familiar with that. And I have served a number of similar—”

“I’m fully bonded for practice in Karthain. Imposition of penalty without proper verification of these charges would expose you to censure for negligence, the penalties for which could be … well, of course
you
know what they could be. Let’s not dwell on them.”

“Um …” said Vidalos. “Uh, of course.”

“So, you’ve served your warrant in front of the most credible body of witnesses the city could hope to produce. I accept the warrant on Josten’s behalf and formally request a magistrate’s verification of its charges. Since we can’t possibly have that until at least tomorrow morning, the party must continue.”