“I think the same,” said Locke. “But I am not employed for philosophical reasons, I am employed to grind my knuckles into powder so Cyril and Vilius can grow old in comfort.”
“Wise lad,” said Vilius. “He’s learned a great deal, having been with us. What’s your yearning then, Szaba?”
“Two cups of that gut-shocking salamander piss you keep in your white wine casks,” said Szaba. “And then something green. Yes, tonight’s a night for something green.”
“White wine.” The note of concern in Vilius’ voice made Locke glance up at him. “But you look like shit, Szaba. You want to wrestle the serpent tonight, I’m betting against you.”
“I’ll be glad to have the action.”
That turned out not to be true. Szaba pledged himself to four glasses again, staking himself with twelve silvers. The betting was heavy against him, with the Measure adjusting the odds several times until finally cutting short the wagering before the numbers broke entirely. Szaba did well enough with the first two glasses, but halfway through the third suffered a complete loss of dignity. Spasming, sobbing, and retching he sank to his knees, and would have sprawled lengthwise on the floor if Locke hadn’t come running to buttress him and haul him out into the alley. The door closed on cheers behind them.
“Why do you do it?” he whispered. “Why do you grind yourself up like this? You’re getting worse at taking that stuff in, not better.”
“To be the center of something,” gasped Szaba, waving for Locke to set him down against a wall. “To be the reason for something. To be in everyone’s eyes, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”
“Everyone thinks you’re a fool. They pay in to see you vomit your guts all over your boots.”
“Who are they, Locke? What are their names, those people at those tables? Name them. What have they done? Could you go round that room now and tell me anything about them, anything true, anything remembered?”
“Do you want a sweaty tavern full of idiots to remember you, or do you want to live?”
“I don’t think I have much longer for the one, so I might as well seek the other.”
“Fucking hells, lay off the green poison. I’ll teach you to play Catch-the-Duke or something.”
“Not my style.” Szaba patted him on the back, and there was shockingly little strength in the gesture. “Go on, now, before you’re missed. You can only get away with dallying in my company on nights when I’m the hero.”
Three nights later, a quiet evening, uncommonly cool, the sort of night the gods might offer in recompense for all the raining fish and flooded cellars, if only to shut mortal whining up for a while. Falselight was going dim when Mazoc Szaba came in through the propped-open door. He was slump-shouldered and discomposed, and when he halted before the counter he seemed to try words out a few times before he found the ones that suited him.
“Here,” he said softly, as he reached under his jacket and handed Locke a thin dagger in a businesslike scabbard, free of ornaments. “That good for one cup of white?”
“Surely you have need of that.”
“I’ve found the last work I’m likely to find, Locke. It’s this or my clothes, so far as my trading posture is concerned. Trust me, the blade smells better.”
Locke was about to take the weapon when he felt that nameless thief-instinct, the self-preserving sense that came from nowhere in the vicinity of danger, and when Locke spotted the danger he felt as though his heart were paper and it had just been folded in half. A shadow loomed by the open door to the back alley, and two similar shadows stood just outside the front door.
The woman who walked in between the shadows killed conversation. Anyone seeing her stopped talking, stopped laughing, set their cups down even if they were mid-sip. Thjs made the people near them look, and swiftly join the silence. She had black feathers braided into her ice-pale hair, black ashes drawn in lines across her ice-pale face, and black mail set into the panels of her long leather coat. A raven tattoo filled the left side of her neck, and by that Locke recognized her. Hanni Iradu, not just a Grave Walker, but
“What the fuck have you done?” whispered Locke.
“I offended the Barsavis once before.” Szaba’s smile didn’t move many of the lines on his face. “They’re not the sort of bank that extends credit a second time.”
“
