do anything….”
“You don’t need to do anything. But if you hope for Master Meraggio to be at all lenient or sympathetic, then by the gods, you fucking confess and you do it in a hurry. No games, remember?”
“O-okay, yes, anything…”
“I shall return very shortly,” said Locke, and he spun on his heel and made for the door. As he left the receiving room, he allowed himself a brief smirk of pleasure; the guards pinning Benjavier now looked almost as frightened of him as the waiter did. It was strange, how readily authority could be conjured with nothing but a bit of strutting jackassery. He made his way through the service passages and kitchens, and back out onto the public floor.
“I say,” said Locke to the first guard he came across, “is Master Meraggio in the members’ galleries?” Locke waved his blank rolled parchment as though it were pressing business.
“Far as I know,” said the guard, “I think he’s up on the third level, taking reports.”
“Many thanks.”
Locke climbed the wide black iron stairs that led up to the first members’ gallery, nodding at the pair of guards at its base. His uniform seemed to be a sufficient guarantee of gallery privileges, but he kept the parchment clutched visibly in both hands, as an added assurance. He scanned the first-floor galleries, found no sign of his quarry, and continued upward.
He found Giancana Meraggio on the third floor, just as the guard had indicated. Meraggio stood staring out at the public gallery, abstractly, as he listened to a pair of finnickers behind him read from wax tablets figures that meant very little to Locke. Meraggio didn’t seem to keep a bodyguard near his person; apparently he felt safe enough within the bounds of his commercial kingdom. So much the better. Locke stepped right up beside him, relishing the arrogance of the gesture, and stood waiting to be noticed.
The finnickers and several nearby gallery members started muttering to themselves; after a few seconds Meraggio turned and let the full power of his storm-lantern glare rest on Locke. It took only a moment for that glare to shift from irritation to suspicion.
“You,” said Meraggio, “do not work for me.”
“I bring greetings from Capa Raza of Camorr,” said Locke, in a quiet and respectful voice. “I have a very serious matter to bring to your attention, Master Meraggio.”
The master of the countinghouse stared at him, then removed his optics and tucked them in a coat pocket. “So it’s true, then. I’d heard Barsavi had gone the way of all flesh…. And now your master sends a lackey. How kind of him. What’s his business?”
“His business is rather congruent with yours, Master Meraggio. I’m here to save your life.”
Meraggio snorted. “My life is hardly in danger, my improperly dressed friend. This is my house, and any guard here would cut your balls off with two words from me. If I were you, I’d start explaining where you got that uniform.”
“I purchased it,” said Locke, “from one of your waiters, a man by the name of Benjavier. I knew he was tractable, because he’s already in on the plot against your life.”
“Ben? Gods damn it—what proof have you?”
“I have several of your guards holding him down by your service entrance, rather half-dressed.”
“What do you mean you have several of my guards holding him? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Capa Raza has given me the job of saving your life, Master Meraggio. I mean exactly what I said. And as for who I am, I happen to be your savior.”
“My guards and my waiters—”
“Are not reliable,” hissed Locke. “Are you blind? I didn’t purchase this at a secondhand clothier; I walked right in through your service entrance, offered a few crowns, and your man Benjavier was out of his uniform like that.” Locke snapped his fingers. “Your guard at the service door slipped me in for much less—just a solon. Your men are not made of stone, Master Meraggio; you presume much concerning their fidelity.”
Meraggio stared at him, color rising in his cheeks; he looked as though he was about to strike Locke. Instead, he coughed and held out his hands, palms up.
“Tell me what you came to tell me,” said Meraggio. “I’ll take my own counsel from there.”
“Your finnickers are crowding me. Dismiss them and give us a bit of privacy.”
“Don’t tell me what to do in my own—”
“I will tell you what to do, gods damn it,” Locke spat. “I am your fucking bodyguard, Master